#he just had an existential crisis that cracked his mind

[sunflowersand-bees]

Just thinking about how, in the book, Stan is the one to cut everyone's hands. Stan is the one who makes them promise.

Thinking about how Stan is the only one who broke his promise.

Thinking about how, in the book, Stan is the glue of the group. He holds them all together.

Thinking about how Stan couldn't hold himself together.

Thinking about how, in the book, Stan was the reason they all returned to Derry. Mike might've made the call, but their memories of Stan and the promise made them return.

Thinking about how Stan was the only one who didn't return.

[kettlefire]

Age is but a Number (DPxDC)

Daniel Fenton was only thirteen months old when he took his first steps. Only fifteen months old when he said his first words. He was two years old when he uttered his first sentence.

Danny could walk back his whole timeline from the moment he opened his eyes into this world. Except, none of those moments counted. They held no true weight for Danny's life.

No, there were certain moments that mattered. That had a clear shift to his life. Not every moment, not every milestone mattered.

Danny was five years old when he first felt the sting of disappointment at his parents missing a school event. He was six years old when the lab door was closed in his face for the first time, but not the last time.

He was eight when his young mind realized who was the one raising him. The one feeding him, waking him up, getting him dressed, and dealing with his tantrums.

Danny was ten when he learned to love and hate his parents for the true first time. Seeing both the good and the bad in them, and still loving them despite it.

He was eleven when he watched his sister crack under the pressure. Stood teary-eyed in the doorframe of her bedroom as he watched her cry and sob. He was twelve when he got into his first real fight with his mother, hiding away at Tucker's place for a few nights.

Danny was fourteen years old when he stepped into his parents' portal. When he accidentally hit the on switch. When a combination of ectoplasm and electricity ruined his life.

He was only fourteen when he experienced death for himself. Felt his life force leave him, and flood him at the same time.

Danny was still only fourteen when his world changed. New powers and abilities appear out of thin air. When a crazed billionaire latched on to him. When Danny had taken the mantel of a hero without meaning to.

He was still just fourteen when his life was filled with constant fighting. Both ghostly and human. Things got more tense between Danny and his mother. School was a weight that Danny wasn't sure he could handle.

Danny was fifteen when he had an existential crisis. The weight of a looming crown he was meant to take on the moment he turned eighteen or died fully. Having witnessed timelines where his family was gone. Having recognized a pattern of repetition in a life that Danny didn't want.

He was still fifteen when he made an impulsive decision. It was stupid and rash. Something expected from an angsty teenage boy, and not from an heir to a throne and a town to protect.

There had been no big fight. No big showdown. His parents still didn't know his secret. Danny hadn't bothered telling Tucker, Sam, or Jazz about his great plan. One moment, Daniel Fenton was in Amity Park. The next moment, he was gone without a trace.

Danny is just a fifteen year old boy, perched on a hill miles away from home. He didn't know what he was doing or what he was going to do. He didn't even know what state he was in.

He had just flown through the sky, a bag of emergency supplies slung over his shoulder. Danny had no intentions of stopping. That was until he stumbled cross a state line, and felt it.

A strong sense of caring and love. A feeling that Danny could only compare to the love he felt from Jazz. There was a strangeness in the air, but also a feeling of home. It drew Danny in like a moth to a flame.

Danny was just fifteen, curled up on a damp hill. Staring up into the night sky, and wishing for things to be different.

Not completely different. He didn't want to get rid of Phantom. Didn't want his life to go back to how it had been. Danny wanted things to get better. He wanted to feel like a kid again, something he realized he hadn't felt in a long time. Despite Jazz's best efforts to shield him.

The first tear had left Danny before he even realized it. A shaking hand wiped the tear away, silently cursing at himself for being such a baby.

Except that wasn't the only tear. It was like a dam, he never knew was there, had broken. Tears streaked down Danny's cheeks faster than he could wipe them away. Choked muffled sounds quickly turned to harsh gasping sobs.

Danny was only fifteen when he finally broke. Curled up on a random hill in a random state in the middle of nowhere. A glowing young teenager whose glow only seemed to dull with each gut-wrenching sob. Yet the stars seemed to twinkle even brighter than ever on this countryside.

So lost in the whirlwind of emotions that Danny was too young to fully decipher, he never noticed the approaching vehicle. Didn't so much as flinch when it came to a stop near him.

Danny's pain radiated with each sound he made. With each tear that left his toxic eyes. There was seemingly no end to it all. Until a single voice managed to pierce through Danny's bubble.

"Oh, dear... It's just a boy. Quick, grab a blanket!"

A small, frail voice was all it took. A voice weathered with age, and a tremble to it. Danny's whole body froze, head lifting to look at the speaker.

Except his vision had been quickly covered for a brief moment as an old flannel blanket was suddenly wrapped around Danny's shoulders. It smelt of dirt, hay, and warmth.

A kind old woman quickly followed to take a seat beside the glowing teenager. A warm, loving smile on her lips as she brought a thermos to Danny. An equally old and warm man seemed to follow behind her.

Danny's sobbing had quieted as quickly as it had started. The teen was completely bewildered, stunned to silence. This old couple, the embodiment of the American dream, didn't so much as blink at the sight a glowing boy crying on their land.

She had called him a boy. She had called him a boy. Danny was just a boy to her. His hands trembled as he accepted the thermos, taking a drink from the still hot coco inside.

Danny's stunned silence must have spoken volumes. The old man had given out a chuckle, moving to stand beside his wife.

"Don't worry, bud. Our son is just as strange as you."

Danny was just fifteen years old when he stumbled onto the Kent farm. When John and Martha Kent stumbled upon a crying glowing boy. When a sweet old couple hadn't cowered in fear but instead embraced Danny. Offering kindness and comfort with no strings attached.

He was only fifteen when he found himself a new home. A new life. One where he didn't have to be anything more than a teenage trying his best. When his powers weren't needed, only appreciated. Never expected.

A life where a warm home-cooked meal and a mother's kiss seemed to greet him every morning and night. Where a father's touch seemed to linger in every tractor lesson, every game of catch, and every time Danny learned more about the farmer lifestyle.

Danny was fifteen when he found his family. When he met the equally kind son of an amazing couple. When he had someone willing to teach him how to handle his powers, but never expected him to.

But Danny was seventeen when his past came back. When a town and people he cared about, all came flooding back in. When the guilt and shame of abandoning them came flooding back in.

When his new picture, perfect life started to crumble around the edges. When he realized life never went well for a Fenton and Fenton-adjacent. The perfect safe bubble had to burst eventual.

And well, that's a story for another day.

[silverzoomies]

Cunning Linguist

pietro maximoff x reader smut

warnings: cunnilingus, porn with (slight) plot, blow jobs, dissociative identity disorder, dissociation, existential crisis, smut, shameless smut, halloween, canon divergence

word count: 3,990

a/n: i meant to finish this ages ago. but i always overthink shit. i rewrote this several times, and it still doesn't feel worth posting. oh well !! just meaningless filth - same old story, different clothing. i wanted to play with the concept of pietro as an alter in ralph's head. again. lol

he's a little ooc here. but i'm blaming the brain fog. i'm running on three hours of sleep every night. fuck it, we ball. also, not including a tag list because tumblr's system kinda sucks for it. sorry !!

Pietro recalled the moment his consciousness came to light.

Agnes waved her spooky hands in his face, as though she were taunting him. She muttered incantations under her breath. The words of which Pietro didn’t recognize as English. After implanting sentimental memories in his mind - based on stories of Wanda’s childhood - she sent him off on his own. Like letting a dog loose, free to roam. 

Pietro’s mission? Find Wanda, have a gabfest or two, extract information. Or something along those lines. Pietro hadn’t paid much attention while Agnes yapped about it. Why focus on that, when the mystery of his own sentience piqued his interest instead?

He was given an easy enough job to do. No problem-o. Pietro had a talent for pestering people til’ they cracked. That’s what Agnes told him, anyway. He wasn’t too sure why she wanted him to play undercover rat. It had something to do with magic. Pietro knew that much. There was some kinda witch-on-witch rivalry in the works. But unfortunately for Agnes - and maybe fortunately for Wanda - she might have to take a raincheck on her duel of the sorceresses.  

Pietro could be a bit of a dipshit. Was he stupid? Not so much. He had brains where it counted. He could be crafty. Even sneaky. But his expert level slyness didn’t make him any less of an idiot. Pietro couldn’t refute that factoid about himself. Around Wanda, he forgot how to function like a normal person. Which he blamed on the fact that he wasn’t a normal person. Being brutally honest with himself; Pietro technically wasn’t even a person at all.

More like a conceptual incarnation of human sentience, really. Simple enough.

No ifs, ands, or buts about it, though - Pietro carried the irksome flaws of a human. Often, he acted thoughtless when he didn’t mean to. Without filtering himself first, Pietro unapologetically spoke his mind. He’d drop fourth-wall breaking quips here or there. Sometimes, his careless habits made for entertaining slip ups. Perfect for sitcom shenanigans. Other times, his blunders resulted in pain. Lotsa pain.

Halloween night, Pietro found himself whisked away by a forceful wave. Conjured by Wanda’s potent magic. The same power Agnes wanted her wiggly witch fingers on. After going aerial in a wild whoosh, Pietro got up close and friendly with some Halloween decorations. But, hey, what’re a few broken bones between pseudo siblings, eh?

Wanda sure had a helluva temper. She quickly banished Pietro from ever setting foot in her house again. Talk about a major bummer. Pietro suffered a huge loss on that front. One part because he’d have no choice but to crash with Agnes again. Ninety nine parts because he’d miss his troublemaking nephews. Those fun, lil scamps.

Tough luck, Quickie. Try and do better next time.

Honestly, he’d prefer if there wasn’t a next time.  If Agnes wanted to make small talk so bad, she could do it on her own. Calling it quits for the night, Pietro wandered off to a Westview bar. To his surprise, he found the place still in operation. And despite Pietro’s memories - vague imagery of Busch beer cans crushed under his fist - he hadn’t had a beer since his consciousness manifested. Shit. Did he even like beer? Whether he cared for it or not, a subconscious instinct drew him to it.

He assumed that instinct was none other than Ralph himself. The poor dude wanted to drown his terror in alcohol. And after all the twisted shit Agnes put Ralph through; who was Pietro to deny him one of life's simplest pleasures?

The mellow atmosphere of the bar oozed Halloween spirit. Kinda unnecessary, in retrospect. Considering Wanda never stopped by for a drink. Why bother sprucing the place up with her wispy magic, if it never saw any use?

The bartender’s clever quips reminded Pietro of Cheers. Another totally bonkers concept. Pietro had memories of watching Cheers, sure. But he couldn’t decipher if they were Ralph’s or not. For all Pietro knew, they might be a part of the ‘dead brother’ package deal. False memories, meant to give Wanda someone to relate to. Making him liable to tear down her defenses when she least expected it. 

But why did Pietro get the sense he was more of a Frasier guy anyway?

Sitting at the bar on a rickety stool, Pietro spun around to satiate his boredom. He cradled a beer, inhaling all of it in a single beat. Superspeed really did have its ups and downs. Consider quick consumption a positive. As far as negatives go…well…inebriation was completely unattainable. Sucks for Ralph. As Pietro flagged down the bartender for another beer, he tuned his ears to a radio broadcast. On a shelf amidst dollar store Halloween decor; a radio droned old fashioned tales of wicked witches. Subtle.

Outside interference interrupted the broadcast. Voices intermingled between buzzes of static. Whispering soft, but panicked mantras of 'Wanda? Wanda, are you there?' Pietro narrowed his beady eyes. His ignorance of the world outside Westview should’ve stayed intact. But whatever the reason, he knew exactly where those voices came from. Why he carried such knowledge was anyone’s guess. Maybe Agnes let too much her own insight slip into his psyche. Whoopsies. Oh well. Shrugging, Pietro flagged down the bartender for another beer. Deja vu.

Bored outta his mind, his thoughts explored elsewhere.

Pietro dreamt of something a little more down to earth. He remembered a cutie-pie neighbor new to Westview. A ‘next door’ kinda type, with a quirky sorta charm. They had no idea why they were in the city to begin with. Pietro knew these details, only because he gathered the what’s what on just about every person in town. It took him all of two seconds to do so. Zip around. Observe. Make mental notes. Report back to Agnes. Spill the deets.

Anyway, about you…

Call it a crush, loneliness, or even instinctive lust; whatever the case, Pietro thought you were cute as could be. You didn’t remember how you got to Westview, or where you even came from. One day, you woke up in town, and found yourself wearing unfamiliar clothes. Threads evocative of decades long past. But hey, it happens to the best of us. Pietro was well-acquainted with feelings of confusion and alienation. That mingled sense of being both lost, and born anew.

For crying out loud, he was the very materialization of sapient awareness itself. Agnes forbade him from that knowledge as well. But again, Pietro credited his oopsies and ding-dongs to her shoddy miracle work.

Whenever you questioned the reality around you, the world only stifled you into silence. The everyday citizens of Westview seemed so content with life as it was. Acting as if you had nothing to worry about. Wanda’s sitcom setup was nothing beyond sunshine, rainbows, and television tropes. But Pietro could see the unspoken terror hidden deep in their eyes. The truth Wanda kept hush hush.

Just thinking about it was enough to give Pietro the heebie jeebies. And if his intuition was anything to go by - it never proved him wrong yet - you had a bad feeling about Westview too. Way to go! You caught on even quicker than he did. Which was kinda nuts, if he thought about it. Wasn’t he supposed to be the fastest at everything? ‘Cuz speed was his middle name or something. Or…well, it wasn’t. But it could be. Who’s to stop him from seizing his own destiny at this point?

Pietro Speed Maximoff.

Eh, maybe not.

In Westview, you had no friends or family. And much like Pietro, on Halloween night; you found yourself at the bar. He caught your curious gaze from down the counter. You were dolled up in a scanty, witch's dress, leaving Pietro to wonder why witches were such a recurring theme in his life. Looking too much like a manchild goober, he spun around a few more times in his seat. His sneakers kicked against the stool’s railing. No matter what, he couldn’t sit still. He thought he might be embarrassing himself. But his antics appeared to make you smile even brighter.

Tilting your head, you shot him a look of familiarity.

You weren’t familiar with him, though. But there was a chance you saw him appearing and disappearing around town. During his impromptu stake outs, more than likely.

Bringing your drink to the seam of your lips, you stifled a playful giggle. It was obvious you were gawking at his costume. Arching a brow, Pietro grinned into the rim of his beer bottle. To be fair, he looked supremely ridiculous. The blue tights under his cut-off jean shorts rode up in the crotch a little too much. He dipped his head, staring at the frayed edges of his shorts. Yeah. It was clear he did the job cutting them himself. A hasty one too. Since he was too eager to pull pranks with his nephews.

Damn. Pietro missed those kids like hell already.

The dirty blond hair/ear-things atop his head bounced every time he knocked his neck back. As Pietro downed yet another beer, he lost track of how many he drank. A dribble of it plummeted into silver. Creating a sheen against the lightning bolt duct taped diagonally down his shirt. Pietro sighed and pursed his lips. 

His outfit was an all blue ensemble. Garnished with a spritz of silver here or there. Quicksilver. His hero name, apparently. Pietro knew he’d never live up to it.

A bit of friendly conversation later, and the air between the two of you shifted. Your playful look morphed into something a little wanton, the more Pietro acted in silly ways. Holy shit. Seriously? He hoped he wasn't misreading your signals. Because really, your attraction was too good to be true. If you honestly wanted him, where should he proceed from here? How much freedom had Agnes even allowed him? And furthermore - if Wanda’s happy, dream town ran on a curated schedule; what if credits rolled just as the two of you finally got handsy?

Maybe sitcom rules didn’t apply to conscious manifestations of witch hocus pocus? Wishful thinking on his part.

Outside the bar - in an alleyway too uncannily clean, like a set straight out of Hollywood - Pietro beckoned you in with kisses. Technically, he played the role of Agnes’s deadbeat husband. And if that were the case, did kissing you count as cheating? Shit…was Pietro committing adultery right now?? In the midst of macking on your sweet lips, he pressed a palm to the wall next to your head. Pietro pretended to do so for balance, as he devoured you with his mouth and tongue. 

But unbeknownst to you, he cracked an eye open. Just to double check for a wedding band.

Nothing there to prove he ever got hitched. Go figure.

You giggled coyly into his lips, letting a soft moan ease through your teeth. Bringing your hands up to the hair/ear-things on his head, you toyed with them. Your pretty voice teased him, as you played with his hair in gentle strokes of your thumbs.

“Ooooh…such a good boy, huh? Fast too.” You cooed, the same way one might praise a puppy.

Oh. Fuck yeah. To hell with sitcom tropes and bogus wives. Agnes scared the ever-loving shit out of Pietro anyway. He had no semblance of a domestic connection to her. Not that she gave much of a damn herself. With how often she threw insults his way. Agnes always used Ralph as her little punching bag, before hijacking his body for her own gain.

No wonder your simple praises got his proverbial tail wagging.

A chuckle hummed in the back of his throat, as Pietro purred into your lips, “Speed’s kinda my middle name, y’know?”

You snorted one of the dorkiest laughs he’d heard since cognisant birth. And with a sudden spark of primal urgency; Pietro felt something else spring into transcendence down below. 

Sifting through Ralph’s sidelined psyche, Pietro came to realize how much of a recluse he was. The guy never seemed to get out much. In fact, Agnes might’ve even been his first partner. If one could classify her as such. So, really, Pietro was doing him a major favor. If Ralph knew he planned on using their body for some frisky fun - on an otherwise lonely Hallow’s eve - surely, he’d give his brain roomie some thanks.

Pietro’s hands were vascular like a wired-up machine, clad in arm-warmer paws. Grabbing hard onto your curvy hips with them, he pulled you in closer. He sought the friction of your crotch against his. And after some seriously sloppy making out, Pietro dropped you an invite to his place.

Or…Agnes’s place.

Uh…or…was it technically Ralph’s? Shit, this sitcom roleplay sure gave way to some mental gymnastics.

You didn’t expect Pietro to zip you off at superspeed. Moving abruptly fast, he brought you straight to his disaster of a man cave. Laying you back on the futon, he gave you little time to adjust over the blankets. The wrinkled fabrics reeked of pot, in desperate need of a wash. You got as comfy as you could on the skunky sheets. Blinking your needy gaze up at him, you tugged his white belt, pulling the band undone. Pietro grinned lazily, colliding his swollen lips into yours. His primal instincts left him wreckless with want. 

Burying his tongue in the cavern of your mouth, he brought with him the flavor of cheap booze. As you tasted him, you moaned, shucking his dumb jorts down his hips. A sizable swelling twitched in his tights, squirming under muted blue. Your eyes bulged in their sockets, cartoonishly wide. The way you whirled your tongue across your lip gave off a vibe of animalistic hunger. As though you were eager for an all dick dinner. With Pietro as the appetizer.

And the main course. And the dessert. He hoped you'd rate him five stars.

Restaurant metaphors aside; this was the very first test of his capabilities as a lover, after all. If he couldn’t live up to his superhero name, maybe he could make a name for himself in other ways.

Pietro Speed Maximoff. Quicksilver. Cunning Linguist.

But first…he really should satiate your hunger.

One, generous tug downward, and Pietro’s - or Ralph’s - slightly above average length sprang out. Bouncing in your face in mesmerizing oscillation, his cock appeared pulsating and roused. Thick veins weaved like threads through his shaft, akin to his vascular hands. His balls bulged in his tights, his jorts hanging halfway down his thighs. Pietro took his blistering cock in hand. Aching for the kind of stimulation Ralph never got, his desire painted him so flush and ruby red. 

Since you looked so delighted at the sight before you; Pietro gave his cock a few strokes. He played with himself for your viewing pleasure. And as his firm grip tugged his shaft, the world pulled suddenly back. It was as though Pietro viewed life through a third person perspective. Metaphorical cameras fixed their lenses on the two of you, in an all too human position of closeness. 

The weight of a cock in Pietro’s hand felt both familiar, yet weirdly foreign. Combine that with the sight of another living, breathing body below him; and his nerves buzzed uncomfortably. Frenzied in such a way that matched the quick pulsing of his heart. Focusing instead on your fluttering eyes, Pietro weaned himself out of dissociation. Your hands braced his hips, thumbs circling the fabric of his tights. The gentle gesture brought chills throughout his body. Inching forward, you teased his bobbing cock with a flick of your tongue.

Wet heat grounded him in reality. Upon racing to the forefront of his own mind; Pietro’s breath hitched with a husky groan. He held your head, massaging his fingers in your soft hair. Cute mewls spilled from your lips as you flitted your eyes shut. Swirling your tongue over his cock’s puffy head, you lapped any tearful pearls of precum. His thickness sank between your plush lips, and Pietro’s own lips parted for breath.

Of all things to happen on Halloween night, getting his dick sucked wasn’t on the docket.

Not that Pietro had any reason to complain. This? Wicked awesome. Ralph was really missing out.

You drew lazily back just to lap his balls over his tights, staining fabric with slick saliva. Rolling the tip of your tongue up the underside of his dick, you giggled in that dorkish way again. Pietro’s teeth pulled his lip as he tilted his head back. His dick twitched, throbbing while the heat of your mouth embraced him fully. He moaned, smiling wide enough to show off his dimples. You pumped his cock at the base, teasing his veins with your tongue.

Pietro’s brows turned inward. You suckled his head like you longed to guzzle anything he could give. He sank his fingers deeper through your hair, holding on tightly as he rutted his hips. With each slam of his weeping tip into your throat; he hoarsely grunted. You really did try your best, just for him. Even as tears spilled down your cheeks and your lips began to swell. Plush and puffy, circling his slick length. Pietro kicked up the speed at which he rutted.

Fighting his instincts, he was cautious enough not to choke you. Or, he wanted to be cautious. He braced his hands on both sides of your tear stained face, his arm warmer paws soft against your cheeks. Sinking his dick even deeper between your lips, he accidentally went balls deep. The wet fabric of his tights smothered your chin. You sputtered on his cock, which made your throat wring him so tight. As your tongue curled, sliding under the thrum of his veins; Pietro cursed. Playful chuckles and shameful apologies fell from his lips.

Bitter heat coated your tongue in sweltering jets, thick and explosive down your throat. Pietro’s groin twisted in a blossoming surge of pleasure. And as he ruptured your esophagus with his sticky load, he found himself that much more grounded. As if such a bombastic nut somehow tethered him to reality - securing Pietro from any further derealization. 

Righteous. His first big O since Agnes blessed him with the gift of consciousness. Significantly more electrifying than any sad, jerk sesh Ralph had in the past. And since you so humbly took him like a champ - giving Pietro a most euphoric experience; he saw it fit to return the favor ASAP.

Neither Pietro - nor Ralph, it seemed - had any experience toying around with partners. But he did have a vague knowledge of how to do so. Thanks to the backlog of not-so-safe-for-work memories deep in his subconscious. Raunchy porn, mostly. Magazines. Tapes. Jesus, Ralph…why’s there so much dirty stuff in there, huh? Lots and lots of it. Pietro would have to do his own research later.

He gave you no time to prep for his oncoming nose dive. Perched on your knees, coughing and clearing your throat - you found yourself abruptly resting on your elbows. Your upper back pressed into the futon. Pietro lifted your hips, using his strength to hike your thighs over his broad shoulders. As you parted your swollen lips to protest, blinking your reddened eyes; Pietro pulled your panties to the side. He kept the soaked lace pinned under a thick thumb. Burying his lips in your cunt, he lapped up your honeyed heat.

A sudden addiction, triggered by something carnal, overtook him instantly. Pietro became hooked on your fragrant flavor, swirling your cute bud in high-speed circles. He worked your stiff clit like a microscopic joystick, flicking wet heat in a spastic whirlwind. Alternating between drawing patterns, and sucking your precious pearl hard. Pietro so easily made you squeal - even without any prior experience - until you scratched your fingernails deep into Ralph’s sheets. Kissing your cunt, he let his thirst take over, and dove deeper.

The tune of his name melting through your moans made him wish the night would last forever. A small fraction of him hoped Ralph would never take over again. If consciousness offered rewards this scrumptious, Pietro wanted to stay sentient into eternity. Not to be selfish or whatever, but he almost considered playing minion for Agnes again - if only to secure the lifespan of his psyche.

Your supple, pussy lips parted as he wormed his tongue through your slick walls. Smooth, bumpy heat squeezed the fuzzy ridges of his tongue. In milliseconds, your fluttery love gushed over his taste buds and leaked down his chin. Tears teased the edges of your eyes. You cried whines of sugary bliss. Pietro’s thumb kept your panties pinned, his other hand locked around your thigh.

He smirked into your pussy, deep chuckles burning hot on your mound. And since the position wasn’t exactly the most comfortable; he allowed you some reprieve. Pushing you past your breaking point at light speed, Pietro bashed the sopping slickness of his tongue into your clit. You trembled, shuddering through powerful waves of orgasmic intensity. White-hot flashes of light flooded your vision. Under Pietro’s zippy tongue, your sweet pussy quivered.

Totes mcgoats. If he learned anything tonight - aside from the obvious lessons in subtlety; Pietro now understood why the everyday man lost his doggone marbles over puss.

After your first release, he eased your tired body into the futon. Your back met cozy blankets, engulfed in that skunk weed scent. Before you relaxed, he edged you even longer, drawing out your pleasurable suffering. Pietro sank his fingers deep into your heat, pumping the length of them inside you. His digits curled perfectly, finding every spongy spot that made your core burst with a desire to cum again. His tongue teased your swollen nub until you grabbed at his hair. You mussed the funny looking ear things atop his head, pressing your palm into his forehead to try and push him back.

You begged him to stop. Pleading in disoriented whimpers, your noises went straight to his limp dick. A few more hot, wrathful waves of pleasure later - he finally stopped. Only after your cunt erupted in one more, wet burst. You leaked like a fountain into his lips, soaking his chin, even making a mess of his makeshift costume. More than worth it. Pietro sat up on the futon, admiring his handiwork. He wiped his mouth with one of his arm warmer paws. Your mouth fell agape as your lungs begged for air. More tears sparkled on your flushed cheeks, mirroring the twinkle of your pussy. Pretty as a rose in a rainshower.

With your sluggish arms, you gestured for Pietro to climb over you. And once he did, you pulled him into a lazy kiss without a single care. You paid no mind to the taste of your sweetness on his lips, or the scent of your musk on his chin. Sleepily blinking, you bravely asked if you could stay the night. Too tuckered out to even consider a long walk back home.

Pietro could just as easily speed you over to your place. But even at the risk of his not-wife catching him in bed with someone else - he felt too adverse to loneliness. Besides...your company brought him more delight than he ever expected of anyone. Settling into the futon, he popped on Ralph’s old TV set.

Cheers was on. Pietro snickered to himself, rolling his dark eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, snuggled up against Pietro’s strong form. He’d changed clothes at some point in the night, finally foregoing the tights. Oh, and he lended you one of Ralph’s shirts too. A Grateful Dead t-shirt, of which you were very grateful. Hah, “You don’t like Cheers?”

Pietro shrugged, sipping a beer. A Busch beer. He scowled at the taste, curling his lip.

“Eh. More of a Frasier kinda guy.”

[goodolddumbbanana]

Sun X Molten crack fic (Friend, best friend, whatever man. I just like see them hanging.)

Maybe ooc. I black out and see this. IDK what i wrote man, maybe very cringe. Sorry for anyone who read it.

What was right, what was wrong? It was hard to understand when you were literally built to kill.

Molten's icy blue eyes stared up at the gloomy ceiling. The animatronic bear had been hiding in the vents for too long before crawling out of boredom and confusion. Molten's existential crisis would come back every now and then, for he had too much time to rest unlike before, when he was just forcefully turning off all day.

The question of what he should do, and what he could do next, lingered in his mind. The steady clicking of gears and metal against metal, rumblings each of every step he took. He was still not used to these weakling skinny stringy legs, especially when Molten had been purely instinctive in moving wire-like movements like an octopus.

Being repaired felt strange, and his mind was too clear it made him felt wrong. The hunger for purpose still lingered in Molten’s core, only it was not as strong as someone’s hand was twisting his circuit board like before.

“Moon?-- Are you here? Oh— Molten?”

The shrill voice of a Daycare Attendant. Molten tilted his head to look back, the golden glow of the yellow animatronic seemed to brighten up the gloomy Parts and Services area.

This was Sun. Molten knew this person. He is Moon’s older brother. Sun… according to what was left in his memory data, is a kind and good person.

“H–Hello Sun. Why are you here?”

“Oh… I was just looking for Moon… to do something related to my magic. Is there any chance you know where Moon is, Molten?”

Sun's stuttering almost stuck together, their whole bodies stiffened and their laughter was too awkward, Molten's sensors could clearly see that Sun was tense, and judging by the pair of legs that seemed to be only a few steps away from the door, it looked as if Sun wanted to escape from Molten at any moment.

Molten didn’t understand why he felt a little sad, while he didn't know what sadness meant. 

Perhaps it was because his appearance was too ugly, making even these kind people who wanted to fix him and give him a second chance, still didn't want to get any closer to him.

"Do you want me to help you find Moon? I'm very good at searching."

"Yeah... I know that..." Sun smiled awkwardly, and an awkward moment passed. There was nothing to say between the two, and the skills that Molten could only provide actually reminded Sun too much of their old bad memories.

About Ruin, about Nexus…

Molten, although he didn’t know much, was sensitive enough to be aware of situations, and he had heard quite a bit of things during these time, he knew that this was Sun’s difficult topic to talk about.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Sun… I know I look terrible and you’re still afraid of me…”

Molten lowered his head, suddenly the ground looked easier to see than the rays of sunlight above Sun’s head.

“Wh–? What? Noo—no… Molten, you do nothing wrong...” Sun’s usual tense stuttering voice suddenly changed, in the white frosted glass, Molten could vaguely see Sun’s two pearly pupils staring at him seriously. “I don’t have any problems with you. It’s just that I… It’s that I–” Sun took a deep breath, his hands clasped together, Sun’s voice softened. “– I’m not good at interacting with new people. It makes me feel nervous. I just need everything under my control…”

Sun’s voice became softer and softer. The rays on Sun’s head also twitched rhythmically as if trying to breathe.

“Oh... I see." Molten mumbles. "So…” He whispers under his breath. 

“You don’t hate or fear me, right Sun?” Molten asked curiously. A tingling sensation in his core, like satisfaction mixed with hopefulness.

Sun laughed, like what he said was really silly, “No? What have you done to deserve this treatment?”

“A lot…” Molten said slowly, the understanding echoing quietly like water flowing in a deep cave. A tired laugh came from Sun, Sun’s hand lightly bumping, too lightly, just a brush against Molten’s elbow.

“Sometimes there are things that can’t be fixed no matter how much you want to. You’ve changed, and that’s okay with me. I’ll never blame you for things that are out of your control… And you can ask Moon, Solar… or me if you need any help….”

The hum of the servo rang in Molten’s ears. The darkness was as bleak, and his chest was as empty and purposeless as ever. But the occasional phantom pain that swept through his code was soothing, like drinking a bowl of warm soup on a cold winter day.

Maybe it was the feeling of connection.

Maybe it was the feeling of having someone and not being alone.

“I still like following orders.” Molten hesitated. “It’s… sometimes good. It gives me purpose… Even if it’s just something the Creator put in to make me obedient.”

“And right now… even though I can do anything… I can’t think of anything.”

“It’s… empty.”

Sun just listened silently. Then, slowly, a soft groan comes out of Sun. The yellow animatronic folded their arms, it felt like they were trying to force out each word.

“I'm not the best at this, Molten. But…” Sun said softly. “I believe that in the end you will know what you want or what your new purpose is.”

"How can you be so sure?" Molten looked at Sun and saw through him. There were fragments that merged into celestial shards, condensed in Sun's eyes like a broken shooting star. 

His friend is like him, but much stronger than him.

"Hey Molten… Why don’t you help me find Moon, and then we can watch a movie or something?” Sun's invitation sounded like an olive branch, like a key that broke the boundary between Molten's prison and freedom.

‘To make you feel less lonely, to give you some purposes to work with.’

‘Because I understand the feeling of hopelessness and emptiness when you have nothing to cling to?’

That was Sun’s unspoken words.

“You know you can hang out with me whenever you want, right?”

‘I’ll be here if you need me.’

What a good person. Molten thought. The kind of one would easily break under any bad situation. But Sun is still standing, and that is truly admirable. 

“Can we watch a movie?” Molten asked curiously, his hands touching each other, unconsciously imitating Sun’s movements.

“Sure, what kind of movie do you like?”

“Human Centipede? Or we can watch ***, or ****, or ****** ****”

Sun froze. Sun’s overly expressive face, mixed with confusion, disbelief, and anger, made Molten begin to understand why Solar and Moon liked to tease Sun so much.

“Molten.” Sun smiled, but his eyes weren’t smiling at all. “Who told you those movie names?”

“Moon.” Molten threw Moon under the car without hesitation. The truth was that he only happened to see it when Moon connected him to the Internet, but it almost made Sun relax, so that was a plus in Molten’s opinion.

“Eh– Let’s go find Moon and then we can go watch a movie. I really need to say something to Moon…” Sun muttered, seemingly about to explore. Sun’s rays spun dancingly. It looks fun. Molten wondered if he asked, will Sun let him touch and play with them?

“Let’s go Molten.” Sun’s cheerful voice rang out and for a moment, a gentle sound swipes in Molten’s mind.

‘Sun is my light. Without him I would be lost”. 

And yet even with Sun, Nexus went insane. Molten never understood why Nexus kept refusing people’s help, and chose to walk down a more destructive path like that. Then again, maybe, it is the Moon thing across all the multiverses. 

Molten wondered. If Nexus let go of his links so easily like that, can Molten take his place and hold this little light a little bit for himself?

‘Can you be the one who stays with me, Sun?’

[dustofthedailylife]

Immortal Love

→ Masterlist

Summary: Zhongli is troubled by some thoughts that are keeping him awake and you are there to pick him up again.

Pairing: Zhongli x (gn!) Reader

Tags: Angst to comfort, very domestic setting and fluff towards the end, Zhongli is having a bit of an existential crisis, Reader picks him up again and reassures him

A/N: The Zhongli brainworms are kicking in again recently so I had to drabble something for him because he is amazing. Shoutouts to @lychniis and @zhongrin for fuelling my Zhongli brainrot more again recently. Definitely check them out, too!! (I know you're not on my taglist so I hope you don't mind the tag x.x)

Zhongli shifted on the bed unable to find rest. No matter how hard he tried, sleep simply wouldn’t find him tonight because of the endless thoughts that were plaguing him. So he lay awake, turning to the side to watch the steady rise and fall of your chest, and listened to your calm breathing and occasional huffs as you slept peacefully. A fresh breeze wafted through the open window and past the curtains in your shared bedroom. He saw goosebumps rise on your arms before you curled into your blanket more with a satisfied hum in your sleep.

The moonlight from outside the window shone through a crack in the curtains. It landed on your form in a way that perfectly illuminated your features, wrapping you in an ethereal veil of liquid silver, contrasted by the molten amber-gold of his irises which continuously wandered over your sleeping form.

He softly placed his hand over yours, carefully tracing patterns over the back of your palm with his thumb and feeling your warmth under his touch, prompting you to smile in your sleep.

As he watched you lie there so peacefully, his heart suddenly grew heavy again, when the dim light revealed the fresh scar on your shoulder caused by a wound inflicted during one of your commissions for the Adventurer’s Guild not too long ago.

You had shrugged it off as nothing and had simply put a bandage over it with a nonchalant smile but Zhongli just couldn’t help but worry and be reminded how he could lose you in just the blink of an eye. He worried every time you got hurt, every time you fell ill and every time a wound healed again, letting him know again and again that your time was running out and he was yet another step closer to losing you. He often had to remind himself that you were still there, right now, by his side, so his worries and his heartache were unjustified, yet he knew, you were mortal and he was not. 

He wanted nothing more than to spend eternity with you until bedrock turns to dust and until the sea dries out, but unlike his, your time in this world was finite and he was painfully aware that you didn’t have forever.

He had already lost so much in his life, one would assume he is used to it by now, but he was not, every time he had lost someone a big hole had been left in his heart, one that could never be filled again, for the person that filled it before was gone. And despite having to endure so much loss and grief before, never had he feared losing anything as much as he did losing you. Whenever it would happen, there was nothing that could ever prepare him to lose his anchor, his shield… the light of his life.

Day in and day out he was reminded of your fragility, of your mortality, of the things in this world that could potentially steal you away from him finitely, and there was nothing he could do about it. An illuminated being, a god like him, entirely powerless about the natural flow of life and it pained him more than anything he had ever experienced or was able to comprehend.

He suddenly felt hot tears spill and stream down his cheek, dampening the pillow he was resting his head on, as he lifted his hand to cup your cheek gently in your sleep. He could faintly feel your steady heartbeat under his palm and the warmth radiating off your body. You are still here.

You suddenly stirred in your sleep and drowsily opened your eyes, looking at him and smiling at him adoringly, nuzzling your cheek further into his hand.

"Hey. Are you still awake?", you croaked sleepily, equally reaching your hand out to cup his face, suddenly feeling the dampness of his tear-stained cheeks under your fingers. 

"What's wrong?", you asked worriedly, gently brushing some of his brown locks out of his face with your finger.

"I don't want to lose you.", he said, his shaky voice barely even above a whisper.

"Hey, hey… what’s with this all of a sudden? I have no plans to leave, love.", you reassured, placing soft kisses on his nose and forehead and kissing his tears away, giving him a loving smile.

“One day you will be forced to.”, he wept softly. And at that moment you began to understand what it was, that was keeping him awake and it made your heart painfully clench in your chest, wanting nothing more than to kiss his sorrows away and tell him everything will be alright.

“Hey, listen! No matter what happens, I’ll always be here.”, you emphasized as you placed your palm over his chest where his heart was, feeling the steady beat of it under your palm. “Okay?”

"If this is a contract, you better not break it."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

You cuddled closer to him, burying your head in his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, and engulfing yourself in his warm embrace before drifting off into sleep again. With the arm he placed over your waist he pulled you a little closer and placed a tender kiss on the crown of your head, closing his eyes as well.

It was no use to dwell on things of the future in the present because all it would do was ruin the precious time he had with you and he’d do everything in his capability to show you just how much he loved you in the time you had together and make the best of it.

Do not repost, copy, translate or edit - © dustofthedailylife || reblogs, comments, and asks about Genshin or my fics are always appreciated <3

Maple dividers are mine - do not copy.

TAGLIST@irethepotato @euphierosyne @x-zho @stygianoir @polalcee

(send and ask to be added/removed)

[lovelytsunoda]

fairytale of new york // mick schumacher

summary: it's her first christmas alone, and he's wandering around new york in the middle of an existential crisis about his future. it was simply meant to be

pairing: mick schumacher x female reader

you were handsome, you were pretty, queen of new york city. happy christmas your arse, i pray god it's our last. and the boys in the nypd choir still singing 'galway bay', and the bells are ringing out, for christmas day (..) i could have been someone, well so could anyone

warnings: angst: mentions of mick losing the haas seat, guenther steiner mention, anxiety and loneliness, metions of hospitals and thyroid problems. cheesiness, a romance book-worthy meet cute, sexual tension, body image/insecurity, implied smut.

author's note: fuck guenther steiner. netflix created a monster as soon as they made him a series regular. and fuck gene haas, i hope he goes back to federal prison for tax evasion. mick really gave his all this season and got nothing in return.

new york city, new york. december 22nd, 2022

they've got cars as big as bars, they've got rivers of gold, where the wind blows right through you, no place for the old

she still wasn't used to the sounds of the city.

new york city raged around her as she walked down the sidewalk, her adidas tennis shoes squelching in the muddy slush.

there was no destination in mind, she just knew that she couldn't stay in her residence alone. her roommates had gone home for the holidays. her own parents had decided to embrace their newfound freedom and flew to puerto rico, leaving y/n to navigate the holidays on her own.

she was a small town girl at heart, raised on a vineyard in niagara falls. new york city had been a big change for her, but she was halfway through her semester and she wasn't sure if moving had been the right call for her.

she was still thinking when she felt the impact, a hard body running right into hers. the impact forced her off the sidewalk, and she fell in between two parked cars. melted slush soaked through her jeans and stained her puffer jacket, her glasses knocked from her face with the impact.

"what the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted, inspecting her glasses for cracks or scratches. "if there's anything wrong with my glasses, you're buying me new ones, asshole!"

"are you alright?" the person said hurriedly, kneeling down the help her to her feet. "i'm so sorry!"

he had a soft face, one that reminded her of an owl. his bright blue eyes were panicked, and his voice had a touch of an accent that she couldn't quite place.

she got to her feet, with some help from the handsome stranger, her feet sliding through the damp street shoulder.

"it's no big deal." she was breathing heavily, her anger dissipating the longer she looked at his soft face. "i should have been paying more attention."

"no, no. it's my fault. can i buy you a drink?"

"can i get your name first?"

"mick." he said softly, extending his gloved hand for a handshake.

"y/n. now, about that drink."

when you first took my hand on that cold winter's eve, and you told me that broadway was waiting for me

twenty minutes later, they were sitting in an old-timey british pub, with john lennon on the speakers and a basket of onion rings in between the two of them as they nursed hot drinks.

"i'm sorry about your jeans, by the way." mick said apologetically, swiping the whipped cream from the top of his hot chocolate onto his pointer finger before licking the cream off his skin.

the action sent shivers down y/n's spine as she shrugged to hide the involuntary action. "it's no big deal. they'll dry."

"still, i feel bad."

"well, don't." she smiled. "what brings you to new york? you're not from around here, are you?"

"but you're not either. not a hint of new yorker in your tone."

"touche. i'm canadian. i was raised in wine country, just over the border in old niagara on the lake."

"switzerland. genolier, but not too many people know where that is." mick laughed lowly before shoving an onion ring in his mouth. "new york was a pretty last minute decision, actually. didn't want to go home, didn't want to go to the ranch." i needed to be some place where people didn't know who i was. he didn't say it out loud, but he yearned to. "i lost my job in november. i'm not sure where to go from here, to be honest."

"i'm sorry to hear that." she frowned, taking a sip of her own hot chocolate, flinching as she felt it scald her tongue. "and around christmas as well. christ, your boss was a heartless bastard. this is my first christmas without my family around. my grandparents are in europe, enjoying retirement and all that bullshit. they've been retired for fifteen years, they just seem to not like staying in canada very long. and my parents are in puerto rico on a beach somewhere."

"so why aren't you with them?"

"i moved out when i went back to college. i took a gap year right after high school, and then it was two years digitally during covid, and my parents told me that i needed to" she paused, getting her fingers ready to make air quotes. "spread my wings." she ran her fingers through her hair, resisting the urge to mess with her hoop earrings. "it's lonely. making friends in university isn't as easy as they claim."

"tell me about it." mick laughed. "you can't make people like you. like my boss."

"does he live around here? we can key his car." y/n suggested halfheartedly, stealing another onion ring from the basket.

mick laughed. the first genuine laugh in weeks. the first genuine laugh since abu dhabi. "well, guenther lives in austria, so that might be a little difficult."

"austria? jesus." she laughed. "hey, this might sound strange, but has anybody ever told you that you look like micheal schumacher?"

mick's cheeks flushed pink as he thought about a response. "he's my dad." the german said simply, showing y/n a picture on his phone. "all i ever wanted was to make him proud, you know. do you watch racing?"

y/n smiled fondly, looking down at the iphone. "my grandfather did. i remember the schumacher era well, his big mercedes comeback. i haven't watched f1 in years, actually. granddad spent some time in the hospital for thyroid problems, and i'd sit with him for hours on end watching races with him while he was in for treatments."

"would you beleive me if i told you that i was a driver?" saying it stung. he still couldn't get used to the fact that he wasn't going to get to drive any more, even if he did sign the reserve contract with mercedes.

y/n raised an eyebrow. "i'd have to see it to believe it, schumacher."

mick laughed, pressing a few more buttons on his phone, pulling up a picture from abu dhabi, his last race ever. it was him and seb, with lance in the corner of the frame and esteban behind them both.

he was going to miss everybody so much.

"is that sebastian vettel?" y/n's eyes widened as she looked at the phone again. "the sebastian vettel? he's still around?"

"he just retired, actually. he had a great run, didn't he."

"he did."

"you said you were in university? what are you studying?" mick asked, shifting the focus of the conversation to the young woman across from him.

"english literature, with a focus on the mystery-thriller genre." she said sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck. she was a nerd through and through, occasionally embrassed to admit her degree ut loud.

english lit was the fallback option for people who didn't know what they wanted to do with their lives, and the fact that she took a gap year first would tell everybody everything they needed to know about her.

except she was starting to get an idea of what she wanted. she just wanted to be around books, be it in a publishing agency or a librarian.

"so you're like, really smart." mick gushed

she brushed her hair behind her ear, hoping that mick would assume the red in her face was from the american winter raging on outside. "i don't know if those are the words that i would use, to be honest. i'm in like, the middle half of my class. incredibly fucking average. i've just always known that i wanted to spend my life around books.

conversation had reached a comfortable lull, with the duo sneaking the other longing glances as they munched on the onion rings and drank their hot chocolates.

mick thought she was stunning: with her shoulder length hair that shone in the lights from the bar, the cat's eye glasses that framed her eyes so nicely, the small golden nose ring that glittered against her skin. but more so than that, he enjoyed her company. her soothing voice, her beautiful laugh. her aspirations and eccentricities.

y/n was entranced by mick schumacher. his passion, his vibrance, his sunshine attitude that could light up an entire room without even trying. was it too soon to say that she had fallen for his soft features, his bright blue eyes and his beautiful hair?

sinatra was swinging, all the drunks they were singing, we kissed on a corner, then danced through the night

the song on the stereo changed, a group of drunk nyu frat boys in the corner who had been celebrating the end of exam season throwing their arms around each other and belting out the words.

y/n laughed at the group, before she started singing along herself. "and then we sang a song, a rare old mountain dew. i turned my face away, and dreamed about you."

"you have a great voice." mick said shyly, not wanting to embarass y/n.

"no i don't." she laughed, fighting the urge to hide her face behind her hands. "i just really like this song. it's my favorite holiday song. 'fairytale of new york'. it's not my favourite version, though. i like the creeper version better than the original. not the most popular opinion."

mick raised his eyebrows. "it's a little depressing."

"it's beautiful. melancholic, almost." mick didn't miss the sparkle in her eyes as she started talking about music. "i went through a phase in high school, I was really into the punk bands of the seventies and eighties, like i was a complete nerd about it. i could recite any fact about the sex pistols or the clash in seconds. sorry, i'm rambling."

"no, no. keep going. i think its cute." he regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth, a dusting of pink coating his pale cheeks.

why did you say that, schumacher? you're not as smooth as you think you are. what would sebastian say?

"do you want to dance?" he offered up instead, getting up from his side of the table and extending a hand for y/n to hold on to.

y/n looked at him, slightly confused but taking his hand anyways, an electric shock coursing through her veins at the closeness. "you know how to dance?"

"my mother raised me properly." mick laughed as he pulled her closer, leading her in a clumsy ballroom waltz and trying to keep himself together, overwhelmed by her vanilla scented perfume, her closeness to her body. "just follow my lead."

they matched their footsteps, circling around the carpeted floor and the frat boys in the corner, the couples sharing drinks after work, the group watching the premier league on the tv above the bar. the world narrowed down to just the two of them, fingers laced together and arms around backs to hold the other close while y/n sang along under her breath.

they stopped dancing as the song faded out, foreheads pressed together as they stood between empty tables.

"can i kiss you?" mick asked softly, scared that if he was any louder, his voice would betray him.

"yes." she answered equally as quiet, wanting to keep the moment a secret between the two of them.

their lips met in a soft, gentle kiss, mick's lips warm and soft against her own. she pulled away, a bright smile on her face as she rested her forehead against his.

"i don't usually kiss strange men in bars, you know."

mick laughed, both his hands resting comfortingly on her waist. "and i dont kiss strange women in bars, but i'm really happy to make you the exception."

"i'm glad. now, can you kiss me again? if we're going to break these rules, i think we should go all out."

and then mick kissed her, with twice as much feeling this time, each kiss punctuated with giggles and bright smiles.

you were handsome, you were pretty, queen of new york city

their giggles echoed off the hallways of the residency building. the apartment had been shoddily built for the sole purpose of housing students away from the university campus: three floors with paper thin walls and metal doors with electronic locks, pre-fabricated and cookie cutter pre-furnished three-bedroom apartments behind every electronic combination lock.

the hallways were hung with dollar-store tinsel, whiteboards with festive doodles proclaiming who lived where, the sound of christmas carols wafting up from the lobby and through the thin drywall.

she held mick's hand in hers, and the driver longed to touch every inch of her body as they ran down the hallway, the pom-pom on the tip of her winter beanie hat bouncing up and down as she ran, flared jeans swirling around her legs as she stopped in front of a door with a handmade wreath hanging off the front door, covering up the names on the whiteboard.

"all of my roommates went home for the holidays. it's just me here, we aren't in anyone's way." she said softly, pushing the door open.

a large christmas tree stood in the small living room, covered in mismatched garlands, homemade ornaments blinking rainbow lights and a picture of ryan reynolds perched at the top where the star should have been.

the sight brought a smile to mick's face. It was a glimpse into the life of a girl he could see himself falling in love with.

a girl that could help him find out who he was outside of the sport he had given so much of his life to.

"i'm just in here." she said softly, opening a door with a poster of guns n roses on the front, a small hangar reading "y/n's room" in calligraphy hanging off the doorknob. "sorry, it's a little bit of a mess."

"that's okay." mick beamed, taking everything in. everything in the youngest schumacher's life had been cookie cutter, neat and organized as a pin. he was ready to embrace a bit of disorder once in a while. "i actually like it. feels cozy."

every available surface of her room was covered in books: overflowing bookshelves next to the desk, another makeshift shelf constructed at the end of the bed that was filled with overflow, a few mismatched photo storage boxes on the bottom shelf. the walls were a collage of all the things that made y/n who she was: art cars with paintings from van gogh and monet, polaroid pictures of her and her small circle of friends from home, postcards of all the places she wanted to see. strings of fake flowers, their plastic petals bright against the cream colored paint.

y/n smiled as she flicked on the warm-colored fairy lights hanging above her bed, lighting a small scented candle that was on the side table before she took off her jacket and beanie, ruffling her hair in a way that allowed mick to see something that he hadn't originally noticed in the dim lighting of the pub: the magenta streaks running through the undersides of her hair.

"what?" she asked, a smile on her face when she caught him looking.

"i just noticed the streaks in your hair. i think it looks really good. you're beautiful, you know that?"

she shook her head, kicking off her shoes before crossing to where mick was, looping her arms around his neck. "unfortunately, that's not something i've heard from too many people."

"i don't understand why." he said, gently kissing the top of her forehead as he rubbed his thumbs up and down her torso, over her knit sweater like the gentleman that he was. "and if you'll let me, i want to show you just how beautiful you are, even if i only have you for one night."

she slipped her glasses off her face, folding the arms in and resting them on top of her romance book before turning back to mick and kissing him softly, cradling his face in her hands.

she never wanted to let him go.

she shivered under his touch as he undid the buttons on her cardigan, stripping her top half down to her lacy black camisole before he gently pushed her onto the bed, climbing on top of her and pressing his lips to hers in a bruising kiss. her fingernails left scratch marks across his abs as she slipped her hands underneath his sweater, bunching the fabric up as she tried to strip the german of all the clothing covering his upper half.

as he kissed down her neck, mick could feel himself getting hard, fully at the mercy of her labored breathing, the low moans and whines she let out as he nipped at her skin and dug his fingers into her jean-clad thigh, wrapping her leg around his body before he grinded into her, trying to find any kind of relief that he could.

his hands tugged at the cotton camisole with enough fervor that he was sacred it might rip as he scrambled to push it up, pressing kisses to y/n's stomach before she sat up, gently pushing him away.

y/n didn't know why she did it. why she let the sudden wave of insecurity and anxiety keep her from getting something that she finally wanted. thoughts about the stretch marks and acne scars marring her breasts, her not-so-flat stomach that mick was sure to notice soon enough. the little inner demons that would be the death of her.

"what's wrong, pretty girl?" mick's voice was gentle and soft as he brushed a lock of magenta hair from her face. "is it too much? too fast? please, let me know how you're feeling." he was gentl as ever, bringing y/n's hands to his lips so he could place a kiss on her knuckles.

she sucked in a deep breath, taking things into her own hands, making the conscious decision to overcome her demons as she pulled the camisole over her head, reaching behind her to undo the cotton tommy hilfiger bra, putting every vulnerable part of herself on display, hoping that mick would see past it, fighting the urge to cover herself with her hands, to shrink back into the person she used to be.

mick kissed her forehead, then her cheeks, her nose, and her lips, her head cradled in his hands. "you're the most beautiful woman that i have ever seen, and i wish you could see that in yourself the way that i do."

"tonight, you've helped me find that part of myself, made me feel things that i never thought were possible for me. and if we only have one night, i want to make the most of it." she said confidently, unsure of where that confidence had come from but knowing it was from the part of herself she had been trying to find for so long. "kiss me, schumacher."

the boys in the nypd choir still singing galway bay, and the bells are ringing out, for christmas day.

they didn't leave the bed that night unless they absolutely had to, one of her grandmother's heavy knit blankets draped overtop the duvet as they lay together in a tangle of limbs. the air was punctuated with bright giggles as they kissed, big smiles on their faces.

neither of them wanted to let the other go. they knew what this was: a one night stand, nothing more.

but maybe it didn't have to be that way.

"mick?" she said softly, moving to sit up, the oversized def leppard shirt hanging off her frame, making her look smaller than ever. "where do we go from here? i know that we went into this thinking it would be a one time thing, that you would go back to switzerland, and i'd stay here. but i don't know if i want that any more."

mick sat up, still shirtless and with a thoughtful look in his eyes. a shiver ran through his body from the cold, and y/n instantly reached for the blanket, wrapping the corners around his torso.

"that's not what i want either, pretty girl. what i've felt tonight is nothing that i've ever felt with another girl."

she shifted in place, resisting the urge to reach for the driver. "so what now?"

"i've got no plans. no sport to go back to. i could stay in new york while i try and figure my future out." mick took her warm hand in his cold one. "i want to make this work, y/n. i want to get to know you, to wake up next to you every day. and if i ever get back to racing, i want you to be in the garage at my side."

"okay." y/n said, trying not to cry (the good kind of tears, of course!) "okay. let's do this. tomorrow i'll show you all my favourite places in new york?"

mick laughed. "sounds like a really good plan."

and then he kissed her again, wide smiles on both of their faces.

and even more important than that, they had hope for the future.

__________

tags: @sidcrosbyspuck @flannel-cures @libraryofloveletters @diorleclerc @magnummagnussen @daydreamingleclerc

[therevelationsmessenger]

What a life.

Summary: Terzo learns an important lesson after his resurrection

TW : depression , trauma , death ,

AN: Maybe this fanfic will find you in a dark time of your life and remind you to keep going. Youre not alone.

He hasnt been present for the first week or two after the resurrection. Terzo didn’t know why, but maybe , it was because his brain decided to not let him remember, in case there was something deeply traumatic. Fuck, it was traumatic, everything was . but especially the moment he died and his soul left to hell. Especially the betrayal has set deeply into his heart

They betrayed him

Stole his future

His dreams

His lover

Maybe it was that what gave him this deep stab inside his already wounded soul. The people who he thought were his family turning against him, and then that he had to leave people he cared about behind. Terzo didn’t even want to know if there were people who had to watch him die. And if, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. Because the last thing he wanted was to leave a painful gap in these people’s hearts. But he knew the last part has been inevitable. What he also knew was that things weren’t the same anymore. But who would he be if he got mad or upset that he was replaced. Why would he be mad in the first place anyway? If he felt something it was worry, worry about that Copia would be just killed and replaced in the same cruel way. He blamed himself for not being able to atleast get him out of this after he found out what the clergy really thought about their papas. His perspective has been changed by being greeted with death in an non peaceful way

Terzo has been through..a lot. Even in an attempt to somewhat heal the cracks in his soul and the turmoil in his mind. The former Papa woke up to a feeling that something wasn’t right in some way. He was a fool for thinking that maybe death would wipe his mind, leaving a pleasant feeling of not remembering what happened on his mind. But this is not how the brain works. It will just repress until he would be “ready” to handle it. But is anyone ever ready to handle ones trauma at all- It was clear that at some point he would have to work through it. And the time came that day. It has been about a month after his resurrection when something was feeling off.

It began with a phase where he was repulsed, if not defensive even when someone addressed him by his title. He couldn’t stand it. Terzo has been never impolite about it. But it was the expression on his first that implied that he wasn’t to happy about being called Papa anymore. All in all, the pride was gone too. It rather has left a sour taste ,which of course got away over time, in his mouth that he was Papa. Some days he thinks about if accepting the title as Papa opened the door towards his death.

Then the wave hit him. It almost crushed him and it drowned him. Terzo was almost completely silent about it if even, he has disappeared from the ministries daily life in those painful weeks of his life. It wasn’t memories, but it was that pain that was in his heart and has spread into his brain, his eyes, his mouth. Terzo didn’t cry much about it, he rather mourned in silence. Starring at the wall for hours, days on end. He was afraid to sleep because he was afraid to remember. Terzo didn’t like confrontation in the first place anyway but this time he ran from it. He was and is still somewhat running from his past. Terzo didnt get much sleep. He was awake and somewhat almost on time every night he was striken with an existential crisis sort of feeling. He knew if he just bathed himself in that water that broke out of his shattered soul, as in drowning in that pain, he wouldn’t get better. He knew he couldn’t pull himself out, that’s just a rational thinking considering how deep the trauma was. But it hurt too mu h to talk about it. It felt like stabbing at a wound which was already bleeding. Touching a bruise what already hurts. And too, he was overwhelmed with the trauma, he didn’t want to make it worse.

It felt like this would never end . That this is all what was left of the confident and cheerful Terzo. Yes, he had his struggles in the past but he never thought that at some point he would hurt this much. It was like rock bottom had a basement.

One day, he understood. He understood that there was no way out but through it and that for this way through he had to drop most of the beliefs he had until now. And fundamentally, his view on life has been changed. After those weeks of isolation and dread, he was found in the garden, in the library, observing. Noticing details, tracing on textures. Fully in the present. It kept him from spiraling. It kept him from going inside the dark he had somewhat fought himself out of.  The darkness jad changed him just as much as his death. Like storms and floods have created new lands and islands, like a volcano outbreak left new fruitful grounds for plants. Like a sunset after a long and dreadful thunderstorm where the birds sang. Peace. He has grown soft, observant and still quiet. His tired eyes held a comforting gaze now.

And on some days he was found in the hammock in the garden , just enjoying the sounds and looks on nature. Every morning on his way to get coffee, he observes the stained glass through the sun shining through it, looking at the paint it leaves on the floor. He realized how colorful spring was and how warm summer evenings really were.

Maybe this calm after the storm changes your view on life as well and reminds you that there will be peace after the most painful thing in your life.

Don’t die yet.

[kaylinalexanderbooks]

OC interaction

Thanks to @mysticstarlightduck here and @illarian-rambling here!

Rules: describe an OC and then how they would interact with the OC of the person who tagged you!

The descriptions added up and now it's long. Under the cut!

Mystic's OC 1:

Nimwen is an 18 year old girl who has spent most of her life (since she was 8) travelling through the uncharted forests of a region popularly called "the wilds", with her adoptive brother Scarlet and their little band of misfits. They live on the outskirts of society, since their kingdom has been so dilligently outcasting them, but they don't seem to mind it. All in all, Nimwen is an awkward, overly anxious, often paranoid but incredibly sweet girl, though she rarely lets strangers get too close to her. She embodies the energy of a skittish deer that will bolt at the nearest sign of danger, even if its a false alarm, though she has very good reasons to be that way - her father was wrongfully executed for treason, and the people of the kingdom didn't exactly give her much reason to trust them after what they did, so yeah. She's very in touch with nature and other people's feelings though she somehow seems very much oblivious to her own. She prefers to avoid confrontation, and will only fight if that's the absolute last resort in a life or death situation. She loves very deeply and makes strong bonds once you get to know her properly.

Mystic's OC 2:

Renn is a young man in his late teens (his exact age hasn't been specified yet, but he's suspected to be around 16-19) with a penchant for dark humor and a love for all that's mysterious and slightly macabre. He has a very strong vibe that is reminiscent of those early 2000s goth/emo kids, minus the angst - just the aesthetics and the sometimes deeply philosophical existential crisis - despite his fantasy medieval setting. He is a rule breaker and likes to question authorities at every chance he gets, and is also very savvy about the true inner workings of their seemingly perfect kingdom. It is implied that he has some kind of secret he is keeping hidden at all costs, and that implication would be true, but its not what most people would assume. While the townsfolk mostly label him as this unhinged/"crazy" reject who is always causing trouble and is up to no good, he is actually a really sweet kid that just had some truly fucked up stuff happen in his past. He is a loyal friend and values honesty and integrity above all else, even if it means he'll have to go down fighting for what he believes in. Despite all of this intensity, he just wants someone to truly understand him and have a pure friendship towards him. He is also implied to be gifted in some kind of magic, though it isn't specified which, and that he has knowlege of "forbidden arts".

Katie's OC:

Ivander Montane is a 30 year old corrupt detective from the trade city of Unity. He has blue blood and double-pointed ears, wears fancy suits, and walks with a cane. His estranged family runs the banks of Unity, however he left them years ago, and in doing so, broke a divine contract, which left him cursed to slowly and painfully be transmuted into mist over the course of many years. Personality-wise, he's kind of a privileged shithead. He's got the catty attitude and love of gossip of a middle school girl, and can insult your outfit just as acutely. He doesn't have a sincere bone in his body and is afraid of any form of intimacy. However, deep down, he really just wants a friend and to not be in pain anymore. Show him the slightest hint of compassion and he will crumble. His hobbies include being a hater, fashion, and marksmanship (he's a crack shot with a rune rifle). All in all, he's got the snark of a drag queen, the heart of a lonely noir detective, and a body that's been through a cheese grater.

My OC:

Maddie is an 11-year-old girl who is quiet, curious, and a bit of a risk-taker. She's generally well-liked but isn't sure why people like her. She fidgets and squirms and likes to remain active, especially with her hands. She's a STEM kid through and through, loving each letter in the acronym. Maddie takes things apart, such as pens, to see how they work and eventually joins her school's robotics club. She believes in direct fairness - will match your tone with her - and gets a little upset if she is misunderstood, which is often, since she thinks she's straightforward. Her honesty leads to her being nosy, as she believes everyone should be open. Maddie is an animal shapeshifter, and enjoys the physical sensation of morphing as well as pushing her limits a little too much. She's a gamer who prefers consuls with buttons and enjoys old sci-fi shows and modern cartoons. Despite not quite understanding emotions, she does try to be there for the people she cares about, and usually tries to defuse a serious situation with a little joke.

Maddie + Nimwen:

Maddie likes adventure and risk, so I think she would be interested in hearing Nimwen traveling through uncharted forest for a decade. Her sibling is much more comfortable staying in, well, her comfort zone, so the idea of two siblings doing this would be a little foreign to Maddie. Being overly anxious and sweet would remind Maddie of her sister, but Lexi is a lot more outgoing. She wouldn't really understand Nimwen being skittish, but maybe Maddie's more adventurous nature would rub off on her. She may be a little caught off-guard by Maddie's shapeshifting. Nimwen being in touch with nature combined with Maddie's animal morphing will be interesting. Maybe Ninwen's knowledge of animals can help Maddie understand them more, since she's more of a hands-on person and is functioning based on reading up on animals - something she can only tolerate knowing she'll shapeshift later. Nimwen could also give Maddie more emotional advice, though it would take a while for Maddie to understand why Nimwen wants to talk with her. Maddie is a little over-eager to fight, so Nimwen may have to hold her back, or Maddie may try to get Nimwen to fight with her. I think this would be a fun little sister-esque dynamic!

Renn + Maddie:

Maddie is best friends with an emo/goth leaning person, so I feel like Renn is familiar territory. Maddie also likes breaking rules for the thrill and questioning authority, so I think they'd be an unstoppable force. Maddie is nosy, though, so I think she'd be a little too curious about Renn's secrets and business. They're both honest, Maddie almost blunt, so I feel like they'd get along. She'd also be curious about his own magic, and would probably show off her powers. I think Maddie would be a little weirded out if Renn wants to be friends with her - and since they seem to understand each other, that may be possible, though not sure how he'd feel about her being a kid - but I think in the end they'd be an unstoppable duo.

Ivander + Maddie:

Now this is an unlikely pairing. Maddie's nosy nature would probably get on his nerves. She'd be curious about the cane, why he's always in pain, etc and may ask too many questions and not pick up on how he doesn't want to answer them. She would probably though recognize his shitheaddedness and would just match his attitude with her fairness policy. Maddie has an odd fashion choice - bright and colorful with mismatched patterns, but I don't think she'd be that hurt by any insults, just confused. And of course would get him back. Maddie is a nice and kind person but isn't good about empathizing, and if Ivander doesn't show her compassion, she won't show it either. They'd annoy each other, and honestly they may have fun doing it. At least Maddie will find it very exciting to poke at his patience.

To describe OCs to pair with Maddie --

@monstrouswrites @mrbexwrites @elsie-writes @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @stesierra @sarandipitywrites @sarahlizziewrites @mk-writes-stuff @jezifster @jessicagailwrites @leahnardo-da-veggie @pb-dot @ohnomybreadsticks + anyone else!

TSP intro

TSP tag list (ask to be +/-): @thepeculiarbird @illarian-rambling @televisionjester @finchwrites - y'all can hop on if you want!

[hanakihan]

cracked NSFW idea in comedic way though because me and friends were drunk

So anyway jinwoo gets his own yt channel where he reviews good and bad hentai manga either in aesthetic appreciation of straight up losing his mind of how bad it is (he doesn’t openly say what’s happens of shows too nsfw panels but he does it in comedic way with completely straight face while wearing a face mask and overall having his own aesthetic)

and like channel becomes a niche and very few actually connect that cool cold handsome hunter sung and this energetic full of humor and existential crisis hentai reviewer

and then there’s jinchul just accidentally starting to watch one of the videos because he had it in background and it started to play automatically and he doesn’t really care about hentai even though it’s interesting to hear how reviewer talks about it and progressively loses his mind at trashy ones and this channel becomes jinchul’s guilty pleasure because you can turn off your brain and appreciate a reviewer and their jokes

and then memes arise and imagine that awkward absolutely weird moment when jinwoo and jinchul are in same room and then jinchul references one of the channel memes with others not understanding context but finding it funny and jinwoo choking on his drink while sweating nervously

and with knowledge that jinchul is watching his channel jinwoo also starts to review stuff that either references it or straight up trolls jinchul’s work (like you know those office hentai doujinshi and stuff)

/and then they have sex and jinwoo does or says something and jinchul goes full nerd way like ‘oh did you just referenced that quote from your 37th review?’ and jinwoo just stops like ‘are you fucking seriously—‘

[fleetways]

I am fascinated by Ometal, may I inquire about it?

Credit where credit is due, my friend was the one who got me into ometal and pretty much everything I like about it came from conversations we’ve had and ideas he’s come up with.

Basically this all stems from the idea of “what if metal sonic joined team dark,” since team dark were the ones that picked up Metal’s body after he’s defeated at the end of sonic heroes

Unfortunately nothing ever came of this in canon, but in another universe I don’t think metal sonic wouldn’t have been satisfied returning to eggman’s side after getting a taste of freedom and power of his own (plus, I think if he had returned, eggman would have put measures into place to ensure he was never betrayed again, which is my personal headcanon as to why metal sonic doesn’t speak nor really play a very large narrative role anymore). Of course after the events of Heroes he’s also too damaged to go anywhere else, so w/o any other options he decides to stick with Team Dark. I think Shadow would be the one to offer it, as he and Metal already have a lot in common and we see that they work well as a team in games like Sonic Rivals 2 (Metal is also one of the few characters Shadow has verbally expressed outright concern for, so there’s that). I also think Shadow would get a kick out of messing with Sonic by keeping Metal around (Shadow: “What? I took a page from your book and decided to forgive my enemies”).

As for the Metal/Omega dynamic itself, I don’t think Rouge would mind having Metal join but I think Omega would HATE Metal Sonic at first. But eventually it becomes clear that like him Metal is the cream of the crop of eggman’s creations and like him, has also unaligned himself with Eggman. This would make it difficult for him to see Metal as just any other old badnik. However, I do think Omega would consider himself to be the only one of them to actually have free will, as he went against his programming while Metal Sonic continues to comply with his original directive even after leaving Eggman.

On the other hand, I think Metal would see the opposite. In his eyes, Omega’s original directive was to guard Shadow the Hedgehog and under Team Dark, that’s still what he’s doing. Therefore, him and Omega are the same in that way. Of course, this insinuation would PISS omega off, but I also think it could kick off a serious robot existential crisis moment (I don’t actually think Omega joining Team Dark is a result of his original programming, even if the argument could be made, but I think it could serve as an interesting character investigation).

There’s a lot of nuance to Sonic robots beyond the original franchise concept of “artificial bad natural good” (We saw this as early as Gamma in Adventure and recently with Sage in Frontiers), so I think exploring the dichotomy between Omega and Metal’s personal goals versus their original programming has potential for a good free will/forging your own path/finding your own people story. Also Metal and Omega are both totally down for murder so thats cool.

Most of this really boils down to me and my friend wanting wacky gay robot hijinks and the fact that Metal Sonic is my #1 favorite sonic character so I like creating content for him. It’s a fun pairing to me that I think has more potential than pure crack but also isn’t meant to be super serious.

TLDR: i like it when robots are gay and kill

[birb-boyo]

HOW DID THE CHAIN MEET IN YOUR STEVEN UNIVERSE AU???

HOW DID TIME BECOME…TIME?!

ARE THE GODDESSES THE DIAMONDS? AND IF THEY ARE ARE THEY LIKE THE DIAMONDS IN THE SHOW???

WHAT IS RAVIO?? IS HE LIKE- A GEM THAT WAS CUT FROM THE SAME CRUST/KINDERGARTEN AS LEGEND???

TELL ME ABOUT IT SAHDE

OKAY

HELLO(I just got from my nap, sorry for the wait)

FOR THE FIRST QUESTION

All heroes, instead of having a triforce, they have a shard of First’s gem, also called the Shards of Courage. These shards are made of basically just Light because that was Hylia’s parting gift, to make his shards shine brighter than the morning sky. Ask the chain, except Sky, they fucking hate it. It’s Sky’s nightlight by the way. It’s like a naturally made flash bang. It’s an activation thing, so it’s not always there.

I don’t know why I explained that last part but whatever.

I actually haven’t thought about how they met, but I suppose we could stick with the iconic dream montage. Like, they all pass out randomly and suddenly First is talking to them like, “Hyrule needs her heroes to assemble and-“ blah blah blah

A lot of them probably ignore him, but some days later, when they all end up through a portal, surrounded by each other with their bright ass shards, they definitely believe the magic dream man.

SECOND QUESTION

Time is a fusion between Fierce and Mask

I should also clarify that Majora and Fierce were never masks, their gems were put in stasis. Skull Kid and Mask were able to gem those gems out of stasis(I didn’t think about how yet) and I guess the final fight was like a Pokemon fight and I love that idea so much but it’s also so stupid-

SO WHAY HAD HAPPENED WAS, AFTER THE BIG TERMINA FIASCO,

Mask and Fierce were going to part ways, but Fierce has been in stasis for so long, he knew that the surface had changed. Not only that, but being in stasis for so long made him weak. It made Majora and Fierce weaker than they used to be.

So Mask, still in a existential crisis, was like “we can be travelers together then” because mask didn’t want to seem like he used Fierce (even though he kinda did) so he offered to be travelers together with Fierce.

My boy Fierce took that “together” the wrong way and kinda forced Mask to fuse with him.

THEN BOOM, TIME EXISTS

Mask is kind of shaken like, “What the fuck?”

Fierce is kinda like, “Isn’t this what you meant?”

Mask is like, “No!” Mask then uses they mirror shield. “I mean…”

So now they’ve been fused for a good while. They also just feel safer inside the fusion because they know that if one fumbles, the other has their back.

I also have a feeling that no gem truly knows what it means to be married, so when marriage was proposed to Time, he was kinda just-🧍🏼‍♂️

Then Malon(I’m keeping her human…hylian) explained it sort of like, “Marriage is like promising to be best friends forever-“

“Then me and Fierce are married?”

“NO-“

THIRD QUESTION

I would give the Goddesses Diamonds. Nayru gets Blue, Farore gets Yellow, Din gets White, Hylia gets Pink.

Hylia gets pink because she is all over the place. But she is actually shattered too. She shattered herself after First got shattered so her shards(Shards of Wisdom) could be beside First’s for all eternity. You know Demise’s hating ass shards(Shards of Power) are also there, tearing shit up🥰🥰🥰

The other diamonds, Nayru, Farore, and Din, just monitor what the shard wielders are doing and making sure Hyrule doesn’t fall in on itself.

FORTH QUESTION

Yes, Ravio was born in the same Kindergarten as Legend. The same hole too. He was made after Legend though and came out “deformed”. Physically, Ravio doesn’t look really deformed, but other amethysts disagree. He’s skinnier and weaker and far more in the mind(smarter) than he should be.

That being said, my boy did not have fun while trying to serve his diamond. So he ran away. He attempted many times to run away, in turn, he was kind of tortured by his “siblings”. Don’t worry, there’s no crack, but other amethyst would forgive and forget in a solid three human years, but Ravio? Those nights are engraved into him gem.

In order to truly escape, he had the help of an opal(Hilda) they kinda just hang out together until they find another amethyst(Legend) on earth and started spying on him and WOW ANOTHER GAME INCOMING

Kinda dropped backstory there whoopsie😅

@the-cucco-nuggie :D

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

helena, hi! i've been listening to the record on loop for the past few days (it gets better every time i swear) and wanted to come pop in with an ask:

if your ocs were boygenius songs, which would they be? and, if you're feeling inspired, what about your oc ships?

BLU WHEN I TELL YOU I SCREAMED AT THIS ASK???? YOUR MIND >>>

Valerie Harmon - Ketchum, ID

I am never anywhere / Anywhere I go / When I'm home, I'm never there / Long enough to know

Anna March - Me & My Dog

I never said I'd be alright / Just thought I could hold myself together / When I couldn't breathe, I went outside / Don't know why I thought it'd be any better

Frankie Bevan - $20

Mama told me that it don't run on wishes / But that I should have fun / Pushing the flowers that come up / Into the front of a shotgun / So many hills to die on / Run out of gas, out of time, out of money / You're doing what you can, just makin' it run

Diana Fayed - Stay Down

So would you teach me I'm the villain, aren't I? / Aren't I the one constantly repentin' for a difficult mind? / Push me down into the water like a sinner, hold me under / And I'll never come up again

Camille Whitney - Souvenir

Always managed to move in / Right next to cemeteries / And never far from a hospital / I don't know what that tells you about me

Faye Warren - Satanist

Will you be a nihilist with me? / If nothin' matters, man, that's a relief / Solomon had a point when he wrote "Ecclesiastes" / If nothing can be known, then stupidity is holy / If the void becomes a bore, we'll treat ourselves to some self-belief

George Aarons - Letter To An Old Poet

I wanna be happy / I'm ready to walk into my room without lookin' for you / I'll go up to the top of our building / And remember my dog when I see the full moon / I can't feel it yet / But I am waiting

Ships:

Val and Ron - Without You Without Them

Speak to me, speak to me, speak to me / Until your history's no mystery to me / Talk to me , talk to me, talk to me / Until the words run dry, we'll see eye to eye / I'll give everything I've got / Please take what I can give

Anna and Eugene - We're In Love

I can't imagine you without the same smile in your eyes / There is somethin' about you that I will always recognize / And if you don't remember / I will try to remind you of the hummingbirds / You know the ones

Frankie and Rosie - Black Hole

Good day, good night, good talk, goodbye / It's out of your hands, but have a safe flight / My thoughts, all noise, fake smile, decoys / Sometimes, I need to hear your voice

Diana and Reg - Voyager

It's a hundred and three in the Valley / Blacktop is meltin' on our shoes / And I don't mean to make it all about me / But I used to believe no one could love you like I do / And I'm startin' to think that it might be impossible not to 

Camille and Eugene - Not Strong Enough

I don't know why I am / The way I am / Not strong enough to be your man / I lied, I am / Just lowering your expectations

Faye and Shifty - Leonard Cohen

Leonard Cohen once said / "There's a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in" / And I am not an old man having an existential crisis / At a Buddhist monastery writing horny poetry / But I agree / I never thought you'd happen to me

George and Curt - Emily, I'm Sorry

Emily, I'm sorry, I just / Make it up as I go along / And I can feel myself becoming / Someone only you could want

[incubum]

okay so hear me out -

one night (post-s1 pre-s2) richie is sitting in a bench down by the pier having a teeny tiny existential crisis reading the book he told carmy about in ep1. a crying or maybe cried-out woman comes to sit next to him and after couple minutes of very awkward silence he asks her if she’s doing okay and regrets it very quickly because she is/was crying for fuck’s sake obviously she’s not okay. fortunately the question doesn’t backfire and she’s actually grateful cause she’s got so much bottled up so everything just sort of spills out. at the end of her rant she’s kind of embarrassed that she’s bothering this complete stranger with her whining but richie, who was also having a night full of self-pity himself, is feeling rather sympathetic and takes a chance on this strange woman and trauma-dumps in return. they spend the night wallowing and eventually end up feeling the tiniest bit better by morning once they get everything out there. surprisingly, a pathetic night turned out pretty good after all. eventually once the morning comes she has to leave to go to work. they exchange “see you later”s but forget that they haven’t exchanged names or numbers but this only hits richie later on when he goes to pick up his phone to talk to her and tell her something funny he’s heard that he thought she’d crack up at. which throws him back to square one, all sad and shit. a few days later they cross paths and richie thinks he has used up all his luck in the world on this moment, finding the one person he wanted to see again despite how fucking huge and crowded chicago is. this time they exchange names and numbers and it eventually turns into something serious. she travels a lot due to work so they’re always either texting or talking (mostly talking because richie doesn’t quite get texting). she texts him a photo of herself in his devry university sweatshirt that he left at her place and he makes it his lockscreen because that’s the sort of thing I KNOW he’d do okay don’t judge me. one day carmy sees his lockscreen and he goes “richie why the fuck is (character’s name — let’s call her roman roy because that’s the sort of thing i had in mind) your lockscreen?” and richie is so confused because although he has talked about her before he never gave them her full name so he says “how the fuck do you know jesse?” and carmy just laughs and goes “cousin that’s roman fucking roy she’s that asshole logan roy’s daughter, she’s a fucking billionaire” and richie is just so fucking shocked but obviously he dismisses carmy saying “why shouldn’t i know roman roy” and trying to act chill but the second he’s gone he’s immediately googling roman roy and his mind gets sooooo fucked and calls her a bajillion times while she’s in a meeting

okay that might be absolute crap but i was thinking abt succession and the bear happening in the same universe and this came out — it’s totally self-indulgent but i kinda wanna write it and see where it goes??? idk you’re my favourite richie writer and i guess i just wanted to tell you about it

never seen succession but i finally sat down and read this ask and i was vibing and jiving with it the whole time. you should DEFINITELY write it my dude

[chaxiu]

a list of further possibilities

pairing: hanamaki takahiro x fem! reader

summary: it’s hard to understand what it really feels like to want something. hanamaki is trying very hard to remember. only very loosely inspired by chen chen’s poem “when i grow up i want to be a list of further possibilities.”

notes: this is just a little piece with literally no plot and no overarching anything. spoilers for the post-timeskip professions of the seijoh four. allusions to depression and depressive modes; deals heavily with themes of mental health. mostly a character study instead of anything else – aka me projecting my constant existential crisis onto makki so,,, sorry about that <3 love you all! get some rest.

____

Depending on how he cares to tell the story, Hanamaki supposes it could all begin in high school, with the stupid career sheet his third-year teacher had slammed a stack of onto his desk (okay, really just placed, but in hindsight, she might as well have slammed it down hard enough to crack the desk, for all the good it did him.) He’d blinked at it, then at her. Matsukawa, behind him, had poked him, hard.

“Take one, pass it back,” he’d hissed. “Dude, I know you’re like, academically challenged, but this stuff should be easy.”

Hanamaki had flicked a bit of eraser shaving at him, pinging him square in the forehead. “Shut up,” he’d said. “I’m tired. Brain’s not functioning at one hundred percent today.”

“When does it ever,” Mattsun had grumbled, rubbing at the spot on his forehead where it’d hit.

Makki had scowled at him, but turned around to face forward, turning his attention to the sheet of paper. Name, date, class, he had filled out easily. chewing on the tip of his pen out of habit (one his mother was constantly after him to stop.)

Post-graduation plans:

He’d paused, biting down on his pen, hard. 

Post-graduation plans. The phrase had made him think of Oikawa, tossing his head back with an air of practiced confidence. (Argentina, he’d told them, and only years of experience let Makki see the fear tensed in the edges of his jaw.

To play volleyball, he’d added, like it was something that needed to be explained.)

It made him think of Iwaizumi, steady shoulders and even gaze, always looking forward to the horizon. (Irvine, he’d said. California. To study sports medicine. There had been a weight on his shoulders but he'd carried it steadily. Something always there, something always on the cusp of becoming.)

These days, it even made him think of Matsukawa, who hadn’t said anything tangible about his college plans but whose backpack Makki had spotted with college brochures sticking out of it, some as far away as Tokyo.

Post-graduation plans. He had rolled the words around in his mouth. They didn’t taste like much.

He turned in the sheet blank, slipping it under Mattsun’s before depositing both in their teacher’s hands. There would be time, in the future, he’d decided, to figure it all out. 

And then, and then, and then. And then his last volleyball match, and then his last bowl of post-match ramen. And then his last practice, and then his last walk home from the gym, pausing at the same bend in the road they always did, before Makki went one way and Mattsun went another.

Things felt a lot closer, suddenly. He’d shoved that feeling back down his throat, into his chest. Mattsun didn’t seem to notice, tilting his head back to look at the night sky above. “Big moon, tonight,” he’d commented absently, and Makki had forced himself to nod along.

Mattsun had raised his eyebrows. “See, that’s how I know things are bad, because that was a perfect setup for a stupid joke.”

Despite himself, Makki had laughed.

“There you go,” Mattsun had said. Dropped a hand to his shoulder, squeezed a little too hard. Makki hadn’t minded. The pressure of it all was a comfort. “Chin up, yeah? It’ll be okay.”

Makki wonders about that, as he sets the cardboard box filled with his desk belongings (such a cliche, down to the tape at the seams of the box, peeling in a way that makes him worried about the bottom dropping out from underneath) at the entry to his shitty little apartment. “Tadaima,” he breathes out, mostly out of habit. 

A walk would probably do him good, he thinks, even as he toes his shoes off, sinks to the floor by the kotatsu. Clear the mind. Get some exercise in.

It sounds like something Iwaizumi would say, all gruff voice and rough hands even as he was at the peak of his mother-henning. The thought of it makes him smile, a little. He lets his head fall back. Stares at the ceiling.

Maybe it had been his own fault. His supervisor had given him a vaguely conciliatory smile as he’d delivered the news. “Hanamaki-san,” he’d said, as the two of them were sitting in his little office, the one without any windows that felt vaguely like it had been a closet in a past life, “thank you for your service to this company.”

Makki had nodded, in a vaguely distant way. The other man had frowned, leaned in closer. 

“Hanamaki-san, please don’t take this advice the wrong way. Your performance was always adequate. But out of everyone in this office, you out of everyone seemed as though you didn’t want the work as much.”

There had been a loose thread on the sleeve of Hanamaki’s white button-down. He’d picked at it absently. His nails had been too short to do any real damage.

“I think it might be beneficial if you took the time to ask yourself what it is you really want.”

Hanamaki had bowed slightly in his chair. At that moment, all he’d really wanted was a window. To be able to see the sky.

His phone beeps. Mattsun, probably. On lunch break from his job at the funeral home. It wasn’t a job he’d ever envisioned for Mattsun, back in high school, but it made sense. Mattsun with his steady hands and his wry voice and his dependable heart. Mattsun who might not have fallen into something as easily as breathing but who had found a road and walked along it, steadfast.

Hanamaki wonders about that, at times.

It’s not even that he’s terribly disappointed about losing the job. Or even particularly surprised. His supervisor had made some good points, to be honest. It’s that he wishes he could be – more, at times. A little more than what he is now.

Maybe he could start a new career, he thinks absently. Maybe he could start all over, in an entirely different field. Except he doesn’t really have any marketable skills. Or passions. Or anything, really. Maybe he could sell all his earthly belongings, move to the mountains, and become a monk in a Buddhist temple somewhere. Except he doesn’t really have the temperament for a monk (he still gets angry when his Youtube videos take more than five seconds to load) and besides, he’s a little too attached to his hair to really commit to shaving it all off.

Maybe – well. Maybe what, then?

If he squints hard enough, he can see a faint spiderwebbing of cracks on the ceiling, in the corner. Maybe it’ll all come crashing down someday, a veritable rainstorm of plaster and wood and whatever the hell else his ceiling is made of. Maybe he’ll even be there to see it.

________

The thing is this: Makki knows enough about himself to know that he gets in his own head, sometimes. That there are days and weeks when he’ll cut off contact with his friends and family, shut down a little. Spend hours in bed, laying on his side, staring at the drawn curtains. It’s not comfortable, or peaceful, or good. But sometimes it’s all he’s able to do. 

On the third day of what he calls his “vegetative phase,” there’s a knock at the door. It sounds three times, then stops. “Makki,” a voice says.

He knows the voice. It’s you. Of course it is. His phone, if he could check it – if it wasn’t dead – if his charger wasn’t God knows where – if he even had the energy to plug it in – probably has dozens of missed texts and calls from you alone.

“Makki, I’m coming in,” you say, and then the door to your bedroom is swinging open and you’re there. He blinks over at you.

“Makki,” you say, again. The tone of your voice is unbearably fond.

He says your name back. It’s been a while since he used his voice. The sound is croaky, hoarse, almost foreign. You smile at him like he’s given you the sun.

“I come bearing food,” you say, hefting a takeout bag in your hand. “As payment for entry. You should really move your spare key, by the way. Under the mat is like, the number one spot that people would check.”

A pause. His brain is working slowly, today. Even slower than normal, he hears Mattsun saying, a smile curved at the edges of his voice. 

“Well,” he says, finally. “If you brought food.”

You smile at him and start pulling boxes out, setting them up on the bed heedless of any possible spillage. It’s nice, the way you navigate around him easily. It’s nice. You’re nice.

“You know, I saw a turtle that looked exactly like you the other day,” you tell him, pausing in your preparations to pull out your phone to show him a photo of a turtle sporting an unamused expression, looking like he could rock the haircut Makki had had in high school. “I was tempted to get him, to give to you. I think you could’ve been a phenomenal duo.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

“You could’ve been a comedy act, maybe. Ventriloquism, or something. Or maybe even just a singing duo. Or you could’ve had some sort of telepathic act where you both point to the same card at the same time. Although I suppose the turtle would move much slower than you, so that might be difficult to coordinate…”

You keep talking, even as you draw the curtains open. Outside, the sun is setting. The light is soft. It illuminates you so well. Not that there’s really any lighting that Makki thinks you look bad in, but, well. The sound of your voice is soothing. Makki lets himself fall into it, even as he stretches, long and slow. The pull feels good to his stiff muscles.

“Eat, Makki,” you urge, and he does. Slowly, at first, and then a little faster once he realizes how hungry he is. You hum happily, chewing a bite.

“Want to watch a movie after?” you ask, and he swallows his bite of food. Nods.

“Yeah – just let me. Uh. Shower, first,” he says, aware for the first time in a while of how greasy his hair must be. You just nod, simple and easy.

He stumbles into the shower with his stomach almost uncomfortably full, letting the warm water fall over his body. It’s good. Pleasant. It feels good to do something that makes him feel like a person again.

When he exits the shower, you’re sitting on his couch as if it’s the most natural thing. There’s already one of his shitty alien films on the TV – the kind with a stupid amount of gore – waiting for him to press play. He makes sure to leave a full cushion of couch space between the two of you when he sits down, but you make an impatient noise. “Makki.” 

Then he’s being tugged into your space, head in your lap, and your hands are moving through his still-damp hair, moving carefully. As if he’s something precious. He watches the movie in silence with you.

“Makki,” you say against the backdrop of the sound of blood spattering everywhere, “do you want to talk about it?”

He does. He doesn’t. He wants to scream. He wants to fold into himself and fall into the sky, fall into something. There is a hole in the back of his throat, an empty space carved hollow. He thinks every part of him has been built around that absence. That he was made to be a lack of something. He wants desperately to want, to know what it’s like to hold an empty space in your hands and understand what it could be to put something there, instead.

You’re cupping his face in his hands, and distantly, he realizes that he’s shaking. “Hey,” you say, so soft, impossibly soft. “I’m here.”

He turns towards the softness of you, tucking his face into your stomach, feeling the faint rise and fall of the pattern of your breathing. 

“I wish,” he says into the fabric of your shirt, “I wasn’t so hollow.”

You don’t say anything to that, just hug him a little tighter, press him a little closer. It helps, a little. He doesn’t feel so much like pieces that could fly apart at any minute. Your hand is warm in his.

“I’ll be here,” you say finally, “until you realize you aren’t.”

“It might take a while.”

“We have so much time.”

Your voice is warm. Your hand is in his hair. “And after, too?” he lets himself ask. He lets himself hope.

Your thumb smooths out the space between his brow, where he hadn’t even realized a wrinkle had formed. Under your touch, it softens, a little. The knot inside his chest sighs. It hasn't untangled itself, not yet, but it's a whisper of a start.

“And after, too.”

[imasimpforstevengrant]

THRICE (Chapter 4)

Summary: Steven Grant was begotten from Marc's need to deal with emotional pain. Being a fraction of the same person and the living shield of a mercenary has its toll on his already frail psyche. Did Steven actually live a happy life as Marc intended him to?

Warnings: angst and comfort, lovesickness, DID, existential crisis, violence, death, fluff, sexual themes and smut (flashback), unsafe sex, breeding kink (kinda)

WC: 10.663 (I know it's too long, I hope you don't get bored!)

Note: This is basically a retelling of the series (chapters one to four). I hope you don't get bored, I wrote it as entertaining as I could.

Note²: Some of the lines and scenes (post-Moon Knight) are taken from:

• Marc Spector: Moon Knight (#27 - #31)

Note³: sorry for any typos. As you know, English is not my native language (Chilean spanish FTW)

Chapter four: Unworthiness

Life had never been easy for Marc Spector. 

After his mother's passing, his mind digs through the rubble of his shattered sanity, desperately searching for a sliver of stability. Unable to grieve the woman who made his life a living hell, Marc spawns a new self from the shreds of his soul. One who would live a simple, happy, and peaceful life, far from the problems that gnawed at his mind. One that took all the good things in his life to build a better man than Marc Spector could ever be. 

Steven Grant was what Marc Spector wanted so badly to be. He was the innocence that he no longer had, the sweetness that had already turned sour in his heart, the tenderness which he used to see in life before having become the executioner of his brother without wanting it.

Steven is sweet, meek and honest. He is plagued by insomnia when he tries to sleep, he works in a gift shop at the National Gallery of Art. Grant dreams about being a tour guide, even though Donna - that insufferable boss who was always hurtful towards him - always insisted on shattering any illusion of becoming one. He sometimes didn't quite understand why he was ignored or looked at as a freak.

He wakes up in his flat, alone as always, shielded by big pillows, blankets all over him and a restraint around the right ankle. Having sleeping disorders - if he ever managed to have a decent sleep - made him foster a self-care routine: he unties the restraint, steps head toward the door, taking off the blue adhesive and chain lock.

He then feeds his one – finned goldfish, whom he endearingly calls “Gus”, talks to his mom, tries to compensate for the lack of sleep by an even more dulling lethargy that ends up in awkward situations in public. Steven cannot understand the reasons behind the frequent mental and physical fatigue. That week had been so strange and stressful. Almost falling asleep in a bus, arriving late at work and a pretty, smiling woman who just passed by near him.

"Hello," she greets him. 

"Hellooo," Steven answers playfully, waving his hand. 

"How's the sugar trade going?"

"I don't know what this has to do with Egypt, really… they didn't have that back then, did they? No."

She stares at him.

"They liked figs and dates, and…" but she made a clear sign that something else was on the way, rushing to the end of the chat. 

"My next tour's here but just checking. We're still on for seven tomorrow?" She asked. 

Something else than perplexed, Steven mumbles:

"Seven… tomorrow?"

"Best steak in town"? Her frisky tone suggests him to stop playing as if he had forgotten it. 

"Oh, yeah… yeah, right…" Steven is unsure of the situation. She steps out of the Giftshop, but Steven follows her through the limited space behind the desk and display.

"What?" 

"Sorry… but… are you asking me out?" Steven almost whispers, as if such a thing was forbidden.  

The mysterious woman just laughs and comments how much of a funny guy he is. Donna walks by, witnessing the scene that had Steven Grant dazzled and confused. 

"Stevie, you absolute rascal. I didn't know you had taken a crack."

"I didn't know either."

"Hang on, did she say steak? What in the world's a bloody vegan gonna eat in a steakhouse?" 

"I don't know, Donna. Salad? Bread?" 

The disgust in her eyes was more insulting than any coarse comment she had darted at him that day.

"Yeah, I can see why she went for it. Real catch you are." 

Steven stuck with the good part: at least he had a date!

-----

How many times had he been the object of ridicule in his work for his fascination with ancient Egypt? Steven always found it nice to talk, given his deep loneliness, even though the weirded out looks of people killed any intention of further chatting. Despite this passive mistreatment by people, he always strove to make the environment pleasant and bearable. After spending the week in the inventory, he bids farewell to the guard, who cannot even remember his name.

"It's Steven… with a V," he gasped, a bit exasperated, accelerating the pace to get out of the place as soon as possible. 

Steven doesn't know it, but missing that day on a Friday evening would turn out to be much more than just an unfortunate loss. Once he's back in the flat, he proceeds to do the usual: sand in the floor to see if he had been up during night, blue adhesive tape to seal the door, chain lock securing the door and finally, the ankle restraint. 

Those nightmares. Those fucking nightmares that lately had been gnawing his mind. Nightmares where he was covered in someone else's blood, where his hands broke bones, smashed skulls with gushing flesh. It always ended with a dreadful Steven jumping off the bed, preventing a further run thanks to the restraint, anchoring him to reality. The initial pain of having his face smashed to the ground relieved his fears of a severe sleepwalking episode. 

This is a common theme he talks about with a living, golden statue in the square near his flat, the only company he manages to get. 

"Honestly, it's like my body wants to get up and wander about, you know, like it has to get the 10,000 steps in," He takes a bite of the vegan burrito he holds in his hand. 

"You know? I don't even know about it until I wake up. That's why I try to stay awake at night. What do you think? Nah, you're right. I mean I guess there are stranger things that people do, but… 

"No? Well, I think it's a bit…`` Suddenly, Steven turned around as if he had remembered something very important, taking a few chocolate bars for the time spent. 

"Extra pralines for the man himself." 

Steven continued the conversation - or more like a monologue -, mentioning the girl from work. 

"Anyway, if I am gonna have a girlfriend, at some point, obviously I can't have ankle restraints on my bed, can I? That's like the definition of a red flag, isn't it?"

The man knows what Steven means. Oh, yes he does. 

"I better jog on. Nice catching up. All right, laters."

-----

He repeats the routine once home. 'Staying awake' is on the phone, while solving a Rubik's cube, engulfing himself in the messy mountain of books about Egypt over his desk. Many things can be said about Steven. 

Being uncultured is not one of them.

Not being in control was something he had come to accept, though he always wondered why such a thing happened to him. His mild mannered ways crashed so much with the adrenaline of near death experiences seen in dreams. 

Searching for answers, Steven Grant spends countless hours, and even entire nights with his gaze upon books, filled with pictures illustrating dreams in vivid colors, mostly blue. Rain and hot chocolate were good company, while drifting away in long paragraphs. It all started with a nightmare. One bloody nightmare to make the lines between reality and dreams become blurred. He suddenly wakes up in a vast green field, far away from home. 

Perplexity becomes fear as he tastes the iron flavor of blood and the pain of a dislocated jaw. Disoriented and unsettled, Steven gets up to watch the beautiful yet unknown landscape before his eyes. 

"Go back to sleep, worm." 

Steven turned around, scared. 

"You're not supposed to be here," an angry otherworldly voice suddenly rang in his ears. 

"Yep. I completely agree… where are you?"

"Surrender the body to Marc!" the voice demanded.

Marc? Who the hell was Marc?

"Sorry, what? 'The body'? Wha—?" Steven answers puzzled, much to the presence's chagrin, "'surrender the body?' What body?" 

"Oh, the idiot is in control," there was a profound disappointment in his observation. He realizes there's something in his pocket. A golden scarab, more precisely. A quick move puts the object back safe in his jacket. He sees a castle-like edification behind his back. Two men peek out for Steven to wave his hand at… just to be greeted by a gust of bullets. 

"Don't you stand there! Run!" The voice screamed to an startled Steven, who didn't think twice before running for his life. A village was nearby, barely populated. Steven seeks refuge behind the walls of the unpainted facade and later, in a curious diaspora. 

People congregate, waiting for something or someone. His doubts are resolved when a man makes his way through the crowd, who admires him with unspoken hope in their expressions. People gather around him. Steven got the impression that he was a preacher, a spiritual guide. The man, leaning on his cane, begins to speak.

"What a beautiful day. It's like we're in Heaven. Only it's not Heaven, is it?"

The group of people grew larger as the man spoke about darkness, and how it hid in the heart sometimes. 

"We are here to make the Earth as much like Heaven as possible." Steven tries to go as unnoticed as he can, getting closer to have a better look of the curious scene.

"Who'd like to go first?"

He had a bad feeling about this, but he kept silent. A man steps forward. The leader praises his bravery to submit his soul to judgment on behalf of a dormant goddess. 

'What on earth is going on here?' he asks himself. 

The stranger and the leader place their hands above the other's.

"I judge you in Ammit's name with but a fraction of her power". The cane starts to oscillate. 

Ammit? Like… the first boogeyman? Steven was anxious to know how this situation would turn out, squinting to catch a better sight. The cane stopped balancing and the leader pronounced the verdict:

"This is the face of a good man".

The crowd rejoices silently. A few clap when the first one hugs the judged one. Steven turns around just to see the same two men who previously chased him in the hills near the gathering. He had to be out of there as soon as possible, but another willing individual got his attention again. An old lady pleads with the leader to repeat the process, just with her instead.

"Call me Arthur. Come" he offers his hand generously, "will you accept your scales, regardless of the outcome?" to which the lady gladly agrees. Steven slightly crouched down, fearing the worst when Arthur pronounced the ominous verdict.

"I've been good my entire life" the lady tries to rebuff.

"I believe you. But the scales see everything. Perhaps it's something that lies ahead".

Much to his horror, the body fell with a loud thud. Her skin turned into an unpleasant, pale gray shade that betrayed her death before their eyes. An armed man steps beside Arthur to whisper something he cannot hear clearly, due to his attention being completely drawn to the two people carrying the corpse of the lady away.

He then got up, shouting words in ancient Egyptian. The crowd immediately knelt… except for Steven, who mimicked the action way too late to go unnoticed this time. 

"Oh, bollocks," he sighed.

"You…" Arthur hissed, with an accusatory tone, "I know you."

"Me?" He gasped, inaudibly, pointing at himself and seeing no other option than to step up.

"Mercenary." Arthur spits. 

"No, no. I'm not a mercenary," Steven chuckles nervously, especially when the whole crowd turns around to see him. He futilely tries to explain his job in a Gift Shop, his name, where he lives. But nothing seems to change the hostile expression in Arthur's face. 

Chaos ensues when the cult leader demands the golden scarab to be returned. 

"You will give him nothing," The voice growls with an angry threat. 

Steven tries to obey Arthur to set himself free from this confusing situation. But it only leads to the cult chasing him to seize the object.

Then he blacks out. And everything goes downhill from there. Steven doesn't know, but once he regains conscience, all of those who tried to corner him are dead.

Horrified by the sight of blood, he drives a muffin van, escaping through the solitary highway with frantic despair. Scene gets more difficult when that voice again threatens to kill them both, displeased at his incompetence.

But how could he succeed when he was nothing more than a gift-shopist? Steven was no mercenary. Then he blacked out once again. The man he had attacked with a muffin fell through the open back doors. But he tried not to panic, especially when he was surrounded by two cars with armed men after dodging a truck. 

A third black out ended up with Steven driving in reverse and just when he thought this couldn't get any crazier, the people chasing him were crashed by falling logs from the truck he had avoided earlier. How was he alive? He doesn't know. 

Then, chuckling, wakes up in his flat. Steven falls on his back over the bed, unaware of what awaits him that day.

_____

Discovering Gus wasn't Gus anymore - the fish had its two fins - was the beginning of this spiral of insanity. When going to the pet store, the clerk explains that he had gotten another goldfish. When? He doesn't remember it. 

He then sees the clock. He had a date he couldn't miss. Though he thinks he looks like a knob, Steven Grant does his best to look acceptable for his date. He rushes to the steakhouse in a dark suit, patiently waiting for her with a box of chocolates and a bouquet of red roses. Minutes pass by and she's nowhere to be seen. Soon Steven finds out that the current day is not Friday, but Sunday. Her tone is angry and resentful when Steven tries to explain himself. 

"Come on, no. I think Friday still comes after Thursday, doesn't it?"

"It doesn't change the fact that today is Sunday, which means 'lose my number'. Cheers'. She ended the call. To ascertain this, he asked the waiter. He just confirmed what he feared. 

Bloody Sunday.  

_____

Steven leaves the steakhouse, broken hearted and ashamed. The failed date would be the least of his problems when he finds a key and a flip phone hidden in an upper corner of his flat. There are dozens of missed calls from the same person.

Layla. 

The device starts ringing, startling him. Who was Layla? Why were there so many unanswered calls? He jumps off his seat and revolves to answer the call. 

"Yeah?"

"Oh, my God, you're alive!" 

"Yeah, all right" is the only thing he can reply.

"That 's it? I've been texting you and calling you for months. You couldn't give me any sign that you were okay? I thought something happened to you. Where are you? Where have you been?" The woman asks, with certain exasperation.

Who was this lady? Why did she call him 'Marc'? 

"Steven." A male voice echoes, "Steven… you need to stop."

"Who said that?" 

"You're gonna get yourself in trouble."

"Oh, no, no, no, mate… someone's having a laugh." Steven wanders over the flat, looking for the origins of that mysterious voice. He goes to the bathroom and sees his reflection in the small, circular mirror hung on the wall. 

"Bloody hell…" he mutters but his reflection shakes his head. Terrified, Steven turns on the lights.

Nothing. 

"Steven. Stop. Looking" the same voice hisses. The electricity starts buzzing, a rumbling noise caused by his books falling prompts him to leave the place with phone in hand. He shelters in the elevator, pressing the buttons frantically so the sliding door can shield him from whatever threat may be after him. 

Only then, Steven sees an ominous presence at the end of the hallway. It was a beaked, mummified creature. He huddles against the mirrored wall, squirming like a prey being cornered by a predator. The flickering lights just made him more terrifying. It caws and keeps appearing, even on his way to work in the bus, for more shame. 

Steven didn't mind the weirded out glares, he just wanted to run away from that ghastly presence. His mind starts questioning his sanity but everything crumbles down to horror when he catches the sight of that man with long, grayish hair and cane. 

The same man who judged people in the name of Ammit in his dreams was just a few inches away from him.

What could possibly go worse now?

_____

The air feels heavy that night. The notion of persecution grows stronger. It's harder to focus but Steven tries to protect himself at any costs from this dangerous visitor.

"I'd assumed Steven Grant was an alias. Imagine my surprise to find you here." 

He steps back, telling the guard that he has been following him. But he rolls his sleeve, flaunting a tattoo of a scale.

"Praise Ammit." The guard says. 

Steven freezes. He then turns to face Arthur.

"Mate, I don't have your bloody beetle. I swear. I…" 

Arthur makes him know that the golden scarab doesn't belong to him, but to Ammit. The force that punishes the evildoers to protect the innocent, shaped by the Egyptians as a creature that merges the head of a crocodile, forequarters of a lion and hindquarters of a hippopotamus. These three animals are the ones Egyptians regarded as the largest "man eating" creatures. A beautiful way to combine fierceness and supernatural aspects, Steven thought. But even in beauty lies the horror. He tries to escape but many visitors besiege the entrance. 

How many people were part of this crazy cult?

He was convinced he was dead, until he repeated the process of judgment. Steven remembers that woman in the Alps, dead at Harrow's hands. The scales tattooed on his right arm start moving… but they don't offer a clear verdict.

"There's chaos in you" Harrow sentenced. The leader allows him to escape, but just to keep the cat and mouse game, since his uncertainty was a thrilling characteristic.

_____

The waning moon hardly enlightens the night. Almost like a prelude to the horror Steven is about to witness. Once he finishes registering the small gifts and souvenirs, he grabs his bag to lead home when he hears a distant squealing. He mistakes it for a dog, trying to lure the animal out of its hiding place. 

"Where are you, little bugger?" 

Steven walks by a mirror that reflects not one but two images of himself that just stare at him, perplexed - maybe - for his bravery to face this alone. A shadow behind a statue goes unnoticed for the mild mannered man, who keeps his unfruitful search.  

With the lights off, Steven finally sees what lurks within the shadows: a growling, menacing jackal. He hides behind a display containing a golden statue. The loudspeaker rings with a jolly marimba tune before Arthur speaks a warning like an omnipotent being:

"Steven Grant from the gift shop, give me the scarab and you won't be torn apart." 

It 's useless. Steven just throws his bag to earn time in his escape but the beast is faster: it hounds him towards the restroom, where there was no escape. 

He sees the mirror again, beholding the man whose voice he recognised from earlier:

"Steven… I can save us. But I can't have you fighting me this time." 

It was himself, with a more determined expression in his face. His attempt to find another way out was thwarted by the man who insisted on being given the control. 

"No, what? Control of what? What are you talking about?" 

"That thing's about to break through the door, we're out of time!" He exclaimed, pointing at it, "hey, listen to me…"

"Damn it, no!" Steven slaps his face to daunt the nightmare away, "you're not real!" 

"This is real. I am real" but Steven refuses, "you gotta give me control, it's the only way".

"I'm gonna die… I'm gonna die…" he repeats out of his mind. 

"You're not gonna die," Marc says firmly, "let me save us."

With the monster getting closer, Steven finally allows him to take control of the body. He feels a vertiginous depersonalization that soon flourished with his form summoning a suit. 

The hellish creature made its way into the ruined restroom, only to be greeted by the ruthless fist of Spector, dragging it back to finish it when it tried to escape his grasp. 

Even if he wasn't Steven, he was glad to finally fight back.

After his first confrontation with Harrow in London, Steven is determined to find answers to his questions. Tracking down the location through the key found with the flip phone, he heads to the cellar. 

What he discovers in that place leaves him speechless. There was a stretcher, a bag of guns stuffed with wads of cash, that damn gold beetle… and an American passport with that bloody name on it.

Marc Spector.

He appears in a reflection, finally clearing things up. The revelation of Marc Spector as a servant of Khonshu only leaves him even more confused. Steven disbelieves his situation, attributing his recent instability to having eaten a steak while he was a vegan. Convinced that his mind was playing tricks on him, Steven rushes out and does the right thing: report this the authorities and load himself with pills.

But when he flees from the place, he realizes that the existence of that deity is true. It approaches him threateningly, hissing angrily:

“Give it back, you fool.” 

But all Steven does is run away, carrying the bag with him. The heaviness of it causes him to trip on the sidewalk. A vespa almost runs over him, but then the most wonderful thing happens:

A woman with a familiar voice tilts her head, looking down at him. 

"Marc?"

Amazed, Steven Grant realizes who she is.

"Layla?"

_____

Steven is deeply deprived of touches. This harsh reality hits him like a bus when Layla appears in his life, envisioning his failures to go on simple dates, to hold small talks without being seen as a freak. Her first interaction with Steven is not precisely positive, though. She's angry and frustrated at him, complaining about his British accent and an abrupt disappearance he couldn't explain, much less understand. 

Things take another turn when she doesn't oppose nor protest when Steven wraps his arms around her waist, bringing her closer to him. Steven is so thunderstruck to speak even a word at this sudden closeness. He can have a feel of her body, battling the dichotomy of guilt and enjoyment for holding a feminine figure for the first time… as he could remember. 

"Do you see the spiral you put me through?" She asks accusingly… and heartbroken. Steven squints, without Layla noticing.

"It's not okay, yeah? I'm still your wife."

Wait. Steven's mind stopped working, overriding at the last word. He tried to get his thoughts back together as fast as he could to catch a break. 

"By the way, this would be a great time for you to say something. Anything. Just in case it's not clear."

"Sorry, sorry… Did you say wife?" Nervousness and amazement got his words correctly articulated, resulting in a disbelieving stammering.

"My… are we married?" Steven voiced, completely taken aback by a revelation that just crowned an insane week. His whole world had turned upside down in just a few days. Several seconds flew by for Steven to dimension the magnitude from being a mentally ill, recluse loner, buried in books to learning that there was a woman who took the time to know him, love him and marry him. 

Steven desperately begs her to take them to their flat, so he can explain everything that has been happening lately. It manages for her fury to ease down, though her harsh looks haunt him through the reflection.

_____

Steven cannot take his eyes off her, watching every small thing she does. Who was this mysterious, lovely woman who claimed to be nothing more than his wife? 

Layla, ignorant of the stormy thoughts dwelling in his mind, stares at the goldfish. Marc's reflection appears in the diaphanous glass of the aquarium. It doesn't take long for the mercenary to berate Steven for letting her inside the flat, demanding him to get her out. 

She wanders over the place, inspecting it. She insists on calling him for that bloody name. 

"It's Steven," yet she doesn't listen to his plea. 

"Are you living here with someone else?" Layla questions him, frowning at him after seeing the restraint. 

"No, this is my mum's flat" he rushes to answer. Layla keeps checking the place, and a book gets her attention. 

"Marceline Desbordes-Valmore?" 

"Yep" Steven nods, and not caring if he embarrasses himself he starts reciting in perfect french:

"I am sad, I want my lights put out…" but something wonderful happens, relieving the tension between them: Layla joins him, reciting the rest in perfect french and unison. 

"Summers in your absence are as dark… as a room." 

"Oui, Oui" Steven says, amazed and quickly adds, "she's my favorite poet." 

"Um… no," a puzzled Layla stutters after a few silent seconds, "she's my favorite." 

Not letting speechlessness overcome his newly found interest.

"That 's mental".

She now leads her steps to the desk, noticing the amount of books. Her anger is still there, but Steven follows her despite it.

"So, you're learning French and hieroglyphics?" 

"Yeah, well… that's not that impressive, really" and then again, he needs that awkward need to explain what he has learned in those insomniac nights. She knows about the topic and Steven sees the perfect opportunity to ease down her fire with his poised politeness, "it's not like hieroglyphics are a whole language, it's more like a…"

"Like an alphabet," she finishes. Steven's expression beams with interest. He's so dumbfounded that it takes a couple of seconds to answer. 

"Yeah… and… well, you still have to know ancient Egyptian to read it."

"Sure," she nods, coming closer to see the book Steven tries to teach her.

"Like this one here."

"Funeral rites," she asserted. 

If Steven wasn't fascinated before, he's now. His impressed eyes stare at Layla, marveling at her intelligence and beauty. He cannot help but let a wide, happy smile enlighten his face. 

"Well, someone knows their unilaterals" his playful comment tries to get a smile off her, "you."

He manages to, and he continues.

"That's amazing." She chuckles, hiding her face and the smile on Steven's face fades away, "sorry, I don't mean that in a creepy way–"

"No, I'm sorry. I'm not buying this, Marc" she scoffs, exasperated, "use whatever accent you want." 

Layla leaves his side.

"Let's just get this over with" she reaches for her bag and takes out a form, "you sent these papers but you never signed them." 

"Did I? Uhh…" everything is so confusing. Layla hands him the papers.

"This is what you wanted. After everything, you told me that we needed to move on" He finally had a look at the papers with his reading glasses on. 

"Divo… divorce?" He says it, not believing it.

"Yeah, we're doing this or not?" Layla asks him. 

Steven eyes the documents to comment, flirting:

"I would never divorce you," Steven is dying to know more about her. He hears a frustrated, stressed out sight from Layla. 

"What are you doing?" 

Steven Grant takes off his glasses, cherishing her figure with his eyes. He looks utterly lovestruck, too stunned to speak. 

"Look…" Layla is appalled by his gaze, staring at her as if she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in his life, "you seem absolutely lovely," his tender praise tries to soothe the evident pain Marc has put her through. He then turns to the small, circular mirror to face Spector and his abandonment. 

Once again, his words widen the abysmal gap between them. He tries to explain everything to Layla, despite his fear to be seen as an insane, desperate man. He doesn't expect her to believe him, since Steven himself cannot believe it. Marc's plea to let her out of his fall on deaf ears. Steven intends to show her what's in the bag, until the mercenary screams in his head to stop it.

"You're gonna get her killed! You hear me?!" 

The frustration in Layla grows even more when she sees the golden beetle. She spits at him, calling him out for his lies before the mild mannered man can form a reply.

"This whole one-man who is just what? So you can keep it for yourself?!" 

"No, I swear…" Steven tries to explain himself but her anger corners him like a wounded animal. 

"Just stop! I'm supposed to believe anything you say with this shoved in a gym bag?"

"Take it! Take it! You can have it, I don't want it!" Steven opens his hands, so Layla can trust his words, "I don't want it, I swear… have it! 

Layla keeps silent, not missing him out of her sight. 

"I am not Marc Spector. I'm Steven Grant. I work in a gift shop… well… I used to work in s gift shop and I think I'm in real danger… and I think maybe that you might be the only person that can help me!" Steven breaks down, scared.

She looks at the golden scarab, as if looking for rational explanation of that something he cannot understand wholly. 

"Please" he whispered, to which she asks him if he really doesn't remember the reason of why they have been looking for the small treasure. Steven shakes his head, completely flabbergasted at the thought of not only being a husband, but having a whole story with her. 

"Oh, God, I wish I could" he gasps, lost in her eyes. 

_____

Things get crazier after meeting his wife. That night he would know how fucked up the situation was. Starting with a kidnapping, Steven learns about Spector's dark past.

"We've only got ourselves a full-blown international fugitive" were enough to spark panic in him. He wished he was committed to an asylum so he would never harm anyone again. 

But it wasn't him. 

Then the corpses. Covered corpses of people tied and shot in the back of the head. Steven huddles against the seat, feeling like a deer before a hunter. Being handcuffed just worsened his anxiety. But the horror just begins when he realizes not only was taken to an unknown alley, but it was inhabited by more of Harrow's cultists. Then the fugitive mirrors in the glass of the window.  

"You don't need to fight me, Steven. Surrender control."

"N-no, no. I saw what you did to those people."

"It's not what you think–"

"I am never giving you control again. Ever. Do you hear me?" Steven hisses defiantly at the mirror. 

But another voice comes out of the radio. 

"I hear you loud and clear, Steven Grant from the gift shop."

Next, he is finally out of the car. It doesn't take long for Steven to learn that Ammit's avatar had orchestrated this. Harrow welcomes him, stating they needed a chance to better understand his situation. He mentions the scales, his chaos, voices in his head… everything feels so confusing.  

"It must be very difficult having all those voices inside one head." 

He introduces him to his creed, trying to persuade Steven to embrace it, defending the idea of what was, basically, mass genocide. It was dark and sinister. Harrow strikes back with a powerful argument, also mentioning his former servitude to Khonshu, who doesn't hesitate to manifest his wrath by throwing and pushing objects. 

'Cutting evil from the root', is what Ammit intends. Harrow compares her sense of justice to Khonshu's. A comparison Steven knows too well the latter will lose, surprised at Harrow's boldness to mock the deity right in front of him. He then persuades Steven to give the scarab, so Ammit could be free to make humanity face her judgment. With his firm refusal to tell, both wanting to protect Layla, Harrow speaks to Marc but Steven defends his denial by pointing out what could turn into an innocent bloodshed, refusing to give the scarab no matter how much the crowd and the leader himself tried to intimidate him. 

Much to his surprise, Layla showed up in the most unexpected moment, object in hand. She doesn't think twice to get him out of that place, though she insists he can fight back by summoning a suit. Layla doesn't hesitate to beat the hell out of the guys trying to prevent their escape. All Steven can do is stare at the man falling down, open-mouthed.

"That was awesome," he gasped, as Layla ran to grab his arm and drag him out of the place. But Harrow sends another hellish jackal to hound him. Steven feels his sanity slipping out, before Layla's insistence on calling him 'Marc', pushing him to fight, her voice echoing with Spector's own to surrender the body manages to break him.

But once the great, ebony door was opened, Layla saw nothing. Steven was panicked for something only he could see. 

The beast doesn't have any mercy on him, throwing Steven from the window. Khonshu speaks then, in a last desperate attempt to make Grant abandon his usual passiveness.

"Summon the suit!"

Being a few inches away from becoming a corpse, Steven finally screams. He lands lavishly, now donning a fancy white suit, which frustrates Marc enormously.

"Oy, Steven. What the hell are we wearing?" But he doesn't know Spector meant the ceremonial armor from Khonshu's temple… Though he thinks the suit makes him look pretty sharp. 

The jackal, of course, ruins his new appreciation for himself. Steven doesn't think twice to save Layla when it attacks her, even when his stubbornness cannot handle the danger. He lures the creature away from his wife, acting with a defying confidence that caught Layla unprepared. 

"Fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee, my name is Steven with a 'V'!" He exclaimed, stepping back so the jackal would follow him… just to end in the floor again, now with people mistaking him for a drunk man. Marc knows he's right, and his proud, witty remark just convinces Steven to give him the body to finally end this fight. 

_____

Steven doesn't like to be outside of his body. He can scarcely move. For his part, Spector is furious. The scarab was probably in Harrow's hands, closer now to doom mankind to Ammit's judgment. The panic can be felt in the air and the tension between the two just increases. 

"The one who controls the body has become stronger." 

Marc's futile words to appease his anxiety just cause uncertainty in Steven.

"The reflections help but most of the time, it takes all your willpower just to be a fly in the wall."

"You can't do this" Steven pants, horrified as he felt like a ghostly entity, "you have no right." Marc listens to his furious rant, pointing at him as the one to blame for all his misfortunes in his life. It doesn't seem to carve any guilt on him, limiting himself to hear everything he had to complain about. 

Marc reassures him with the promise of never being seen or heard again once his debt is repaid with his servitude, the one that leaves him covered in blood. 

"Everything you touch, you ruin. You hurt people, you abandoned your wife. You left her stranded!" 

This last remark was enough to light the fury on the mercenary, who turns around to clarify the matter.

"I am protecting her. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you did. I saw–"

"Khonshu has his eyes on her. He wants her as my replacement. I'm never gonna let that happen, you hear me?" Marc hissed, upset. 

"You're a liar. I don't believe you. I don't trust you. You hurt people!"

"I'm never letting him near her, just shut up!" but Steven's voice overlaps over his, rapping him out.

"I won't let you hurt anyone else ever again, I will never give you a moment of peace, I swear!" He promises, with avid vehemence. A bell tolls, almost as if wanting to go in tune with the mess in his head.

The noise becomes unbearable, sparking a violent reaction from Spector. His foot breaks the mirror where his reflection berates him, obtaining a few seconds of silence before Khonshu appears in the heights of the church nearby. A strong gust of wind serves as an ominous warning of his closeness. 

Marc feels trapped. It wasn't wise to awaken the lunar deity's wrath in such a crucial moment, especially knowing that the scarab would point at Ammit's ushabti. The final battle would be unleashed not there, but in the cradle where his crusade had started: under the scorching Egyptian sun, a half naked Marc drank a bottle of whiskey, resigned to another bloodbath while a fearful Steven just beholds from the mirror the mess he had done in the room. 

_____

Knowing how to get to the map that would lead to Ammit's ushabti, Marc goes against time. He fears he only has a few days left to avoid it. Harrow is restless and after an useless chase through the streets of Cairo. Marc doesn't remember the killing spree he carried on the top of a roof and near a cliff, away from the city. 

How much time happened? He didn't know. He was horrified by the three men who were alive and fighting just seconds ago. Marc cannot bring himself to believe when he is more disgusted by the noise of blood squelching… and the uneasy sight of blood. But the mission is the same: to find Harrow.

His last resource for knowledge comes from a kid who barely made it alive. Despite Khonshu's order to take him to the ledge to scare him away, the kid just ends up killing himself, saying a final praise for Ammit.

Khonshu decides to send a message to the gods. One that they will not ignore. In order to delay Harrow, the deity manipulates the sky, astonishing everyone with an unexpected solar eclipse. Marc knew this was a bad idea, but deep down he had to give him credit for how bold the move was. The vulture is smart. It manages to summon Marc to the council, located in the Giza pyramid. Steven feels like a kid in a candy shop as he is privileged to see it from the inside. Whenever the Ennead should gather the avatars, from all around the world, a portal presents everywhere. 

The last time Khonshu had spoken to the gods, it resulted in his banishment. The case against Harrow must be indisputable. Marc was unsettled, for he must respond for what Khonshu had done. The god doesn't even bother to explain how this would work, leaving him to his own devices. The attendance was concurred by Horus, Isis, Tefnut, Hathor and Osiris to hear Khonshu's account. 

The open contempt from Osiris just bittered his antipathy for his garishness, threatening him to a petrous imprisonment if he dared to manipulate the sky one more time. 

Marc then yells at him, shattering the silence.

"Spare me your self-righteous threats! I was banished for not abandoning humanity, unlike the rest of you".

Osiris responds with polite calmness that the abandonment came from humanity's side, letting the avatars carry on with their purposes unnoticed. It wouldn't do, since the whole Ennead needed the might of other gods.

"Return from the opulence of the Overvoid before you lose this realm!" Khonshu furiously demanded, outraged by their indifference that could unchain an apocalipsis.

Just as Marc had finished screaming Khonshu's wrathful words, a tear fell down his cheek. He never thought that being used as a messenger through his body and voice could hurt so much. 

"For the last time, Khonshu, the avatars that remain here are simply meant to observe. We decided long ago we did not wish to meddle in the affairs of man."

The council then asks him to speak about his purpose. Khonshu points out Harrow, mentioning his conspiracy to release Ammit. Arthur then enters the room, already suspecting the nature of the meeting. Khonshu explodes against his former avatar, tired of him playing innocent.

But he goes straight to the point.

"Do you not seek to release Ammit from her tomb?" Khonshu accuses him so violently that Spector's whole form shakes with its choleric roar.

"I was in the desert. But if visiting the sands were a crime, the line of sinners would be longer than the Nile" he then accuses Khonshu of searching said tomb in the times he was his avatar, mentioning jealousy, paranoia and—"

"HE'S A DECEIVER!!!" Marc howls until his vocal cords are torn, but Harrow doesn't let his former master to mortify him.

"Khonshu is unhinged and his servant unwell," to which Hathor asks to explain it.

Harrow calmly replies:

"This is a man who literally does not know his own name."

Marc began to panic. He gulped, trying to fight the feeling of helplessness and vulnerability. But he doesn't stop there: Harrow also mentions his marriage certificate as Marc Spector and employment records under the name "Steven Grant"

"Liar!" Khonshu roars, then Marc pleads, "stop!"

"I've seen him speak to himself…"

"Shut up!"

"...threaten himself…" and then he chuckles, trying to deal with how twisted Spector's illness was, "I have no idea how many personalities he must possess. The man is clearly insane."

That last sentence fueled his fury, ready to tackle Harrow but he's immediately reduced by a psychic onslaught coming from Osiris. Marc shuts his mouth, trying to recover the strength.

"It brings me no pleasure to tell you that this is a deeply troubled man." 

Marc cannot defend himself, feeling his vocal cords bleeding at the least effort. Even breathing makes his chest hurt, as Harrow is speaking the truth about his servitude to Khonshu. He is then allowed to speak, being asked personally by Horus.

"I am. I am unwell. I need help… but that doesn't change the fact that this man is–" but he cannot bring himself to verbalize Harrow's intentions.

"This is a safe space for you to tell us if you feel exploited by Khonshu." But then Marc bursts out:

"This is not about my feelings! I'm not the one on trial here. He is! This is about how dangerous he is if you would listen for a second". 

"He has committed no offense," Osiris sentences, "this matter is concluded." 

Marc stays there, defeated, humiliated. But once everyone is out of the hall, Hathor's avatar comes closer to him and tells him another way to get into Ammit's tomb. The location was recorded by a Medjai called Senfu, whose sarcophagus was stolen and sold in the black market. The task was done in case the gods ever changed their minds, if they decided to show mercy.

_____

This was where the real adventure began. 

Much to Spector's displeasure, Layla showed up in Egypt just in the moment when he was in the market, asking for Senfu's sarcophagus to merchants. Layla offers help, and both embark to meet Anton Mogart, an antiquities collector. Once Layla went with Marc undercover (using a fake identity), the map was recovered… but it requires an expert insight to decipher the location of the tomb.

However, Harrow has kept watching Spector. His disciples had told him the couple's plan to find the crypt, attempting to turn Mogart against them and if that wasn't bad enough, that maniac dares to reveal his involvement in the raid that killed Abdallah El-Faouly. Once out and with Mogart dead, Layla confronts Marc about Harrow's words about it. The mercenary gets nervous, and pretends he doesn't know. He tries to convince Layla that Harrow just looks to divide them. 

"Every time I learn something new about you, I think that's it. There can be any secrets left between us. And then something else pops up and it's like I've not known you at all."

Marc tries to end the conversation bottling up.

"Yeah. You haven't" he looked at her in that cold way that shattered her heart, "you don't." Just as intended, Layla ceases the talk, driving in tense silence. Both leave their differences aside to put the pieces of the starry map back together to know the exact location of Ammit's tomb.

They had been like this for like an hour, and Marc is getting frustrated with the lack of results, slams his open palm violently over the bonnet. Layla pleads with Marc to let Steven front, since he might know how to handle this.

"Marc, we can't wait" she mutters sweetly, but it doesn't soften him a bit, "it's okay… just...let go."

Marc sighs and runs his hands over his hair to cope with the stress and snatches the mirror off the jeep, taking the tape and the pieces of the map. He walks a few feet away from his wife and looks at the reflection.

"All right. Go ahead, you're in." 

And in a couple of seconds, Steven is back on his body.

"Cheers, thanks a lot" and sets his hands to solve the problem. Layla sees him, walking towards him with caution. Steven jolts and smiles at her. He has that look of pure love in his eyes. How is it possible for a man she has been married to for years, a man (she thinks) she's known for so long can look so different? Steven's skills finally recompose the map… just to realize the stars drift over time, making it impossible to find the exact location in the present. 

But Khonshu doesn't stand there. As the god of the night sky, he had power over the celestial vault. He would do something way bolder than a simple eclipse in broad daylight. Steven wished to be prepared for the wonderful spectacle Khonshu conjured in order to locate the tomb. The deity doesn't take long to ask Steven for help, which causes that white, elegant suit to appear again. With the skies stirring in violent motion to catch the exact alignment of the stars, Layla finally obtains the location while Steven and Khonshu slowly begin to weaken.

He realizes the god is disintegrating, asking him to tell Marc to free him. 

But he cannot act fast, since his own energy has been drained with Khonshu disappearing. Layla tries to wake him up with tender impatience. His eyes remain closed and Layla sees no other option than to take matters in her hands. 

Or that was what Steven could deduct once he regained consciousness. She never ceases to amaze him. All those people… Layla took them down by herself. 

"We can't lose more time. Harrow must be headed back to the tomb. Look, if he is, we're gonna need Marc, yeah?" 

"Exactly. See, she gets it," Marc quips from the mirror. A few seconds of silence follow before Steven replies: 

"No."

"No?" Layla turns around to look at him. 

"No, see… the thing is… we made a deal, Marc and I" he swallows, "that when he was done with Khonshu, he would disappear for good–"

"But that deal didn't involve you getting Layla and us killed, did it? That's not gonna fly with me."

"You guys made a deal? That he would just disappear from my life?" She stared at him, with silent outrage, hot tears filling her eyes, "and you didn't think that maybe I should've been made aware of that?" 

"Oh…well, hadn't he disappeared from your life already?" 

"Yeah, I mean…" Layla shook her head, not taking her eyes off the road, "Whatever. His suit was his best feature, wasn't it? Didn't have that anymore."

The awkwardness boils Marc's patience. 

"Steven. Give me the body right now. This is a suicide mission." Layla keeps complaining about him, and his loner nature. 

"It's not happening. We're not gonna do that" she said, determinedly. Maybe expecting to piss off Marc. 

"We are not," Steven also said with determination, "it's just you and me and the open road–" but Layla stopped the car abruptly. 

"We're gonna go on foot from here."

*Yeah, all right."

It took them a long walk to arrive, but Harrow's men were already there. It was necessary to beat them to get to Ammit's tomb. Descending from the canyon, the couple find an empty camp, with cars left with open doors. Only camels were there to greet them. Both go for supplies, and Steven finds plenty of them in one. Marc insists on fronting, mentioning Steven's inexperience as a liability. He doesn't, though and takes a lantern, rummaging through documents like photos, reports and maps.  

"Without Khonshu there is no more suit, no more healing, no more power–"

"Yeah, no more you, I thought. It's what you said, innit? But I guess… believing anything that comes out of your mouth just shows what a plonker I am."

Marc sighs, understanding his discontent. 

"Look, I wish I could just disappear. I really do. But unfortunately, I'm still here. If you're gonna go through with this, you gotta be smart, for least for Layla's sake. I've in situations like this before—"

"So have I. It's the same body, innit? It's in there, somewhere. Muscle memory and that." 

"I'm not sure it works that way. Just—"

"Whatever," Steven cuts him off, with an uncharacteristic sassiness that surprises Marc.

"I'm here. You're not alone" Marc calms him down. It finally snaps Steven's patient ways with him turning around with defiance against Spector's reflection.

"I know I'm not alone! I know I'm not bloody not alone, I've got Layla! She's got my back!" Steven spits, heading to walk off the place.

Hearing him talking about Layla with such vehemence fueled a choleric jealousy from Marc, who didn't think twice to growl at his alter for his affections:

"Are you in love? You're in love with my wife?!"

Steven turns over once last time. 

"Look, I appreciate your concern, mate. I really do… but we've got it from here." He mutters, confidently despite Marc becoming more and more furious.

"You lay one finger on her… I swear to you– Steven!"

"If I need a recipe for a protein shake or something, I'll call you," Steven went out to find Layla, not caring about Marc's growing wrath. It made the situation even more hilarious. 

"I'LL THROW US OFF A CLIFF!"

_____

Steven feels the thrill of closeness as Layla puts the harness on him. Having those hands on him, treating him gently had an hypnotizing, euphoric effect. The thoughts of her doing other things while kneeling caused an impish grin tracing his lips, fighting those naughty fantasies of his.

"I have to say, I feel like I've been waiting for this my whole life…" he then looked down at her, adding with a glint of guilt, "the adventure… I mean."

Layla gets up, smiling at the flirty grin Steven gives her. She doesn't keep her hands off him, concealing her wish for a greater closeness through "accidental" nuzzles, talking in breathy whispers. Steven shrugs, not knowing how to handle this heated tension boiling inside his chest. He cannot take his eyes off her lips as she becomes dangerously close to his ear, swearing she made a soft groan, which immediately sparked Steven to ask himself what he could cause Layla to make those sounds… he wonders things. He longs for contact. 

For her contact. 

From the first moment he had seen her, where he remembers the pleasant embrace riding the Vespa back in London, dark eyes shining like tourmalines. 

Her tender expression reminisces of Marc at his warmest. 

"You smell like him," she mutters, "I mean… why wouldn't you?" Layla stares at his mouth. Steven feels his heart racing when her lips attempt to crash with his mouth in an impulsive move, desperate to feel Marc, whether it was through Steven's skin… or whoever dwelled in there. 

But his nobility is greater and before their mouth make contact, Steven rushes to say:

"Marc's trying to protect you from Khonshu" her warm expression faded, clearly upset. 

"What?" 

"That's why he's been pushing you away. He thinks Khonshu wants you for his avatar and he won't let that happen" Steven finished. As he sees it has no positive response from Layla, he rushes to explain further:

"It's all right… I just felt like you should know that." Layla grabs a glove, as Steven apologizes for being so imprudent with such delicate information. 

"Why are you telling me this now?"

"I don't know. I.just thought you deserved to know." Layla puts on the glove to distract herself. 

"It wasn't his call to make. I don't need protection", she muttered, "What I need is honesty."

"Yeah, I get that."

"That's more of a 'you' thing, isn't it?"

"What? Being honesty?" Layla laughed at his sweet clumsiness. 

"Yeah. Being honesty" she nods, instead of laughing at him. It makes the love he feels for her to reach unthinkable dimensions. 

Confidently and sure, Steven grabs her shoulders with gentleness, leaning with delicate precision to reach her lips. An astonished Layla shuts her eyes off at his daring gesture, doubtfully keeping up with the famished and impatient kiss Steven insisted to captivate her with. He's too bewitched by the full, warm lips he didn't know he had kissed in another life. 

He first caught her upper lip for a few seconds, partially breaking the kiss to catch her lips with his, wishing to devour or at least, have a better taste of them, aroused by the sound of their mouths breaking their caress, which he delayed as much as he could.

Moved by the desire for more touches, Steven refuses to give her personal space after their impulsive kiss, smiling with genuine happiness with his forehead against hers. It warms and breaks her heart how grateful Steven was with a simple gesture. How deprived of touches had (Marc) Steven been? So many questions demanded so many answers that couldn't be solved at this moment. 

Layla goes down the excavation, and doesn't get to see an absolutely enamored Steven looking at her completely in love, haunted by her kiss…

…Nor Marc punching Steven, to then throw him down the tomb, accomplishing his threat for touching his wife. 

These were the things Steven remembered most fondly, before dying at Harrow's hands with two shots in the chest. 

Until that night. 

Until that fucking night. 

_____

He never imagined that a trip to Egypt would change his life so drastically. He returned to London far from the meek, jumpy man he used to be before these incidents. But not even that prepared him for what fate had in store for him. 

Steven didn't want to be impertinent in Marc's relationship. But during that night it was impossible. Steven didn't even remember how upset he was for missing a date because of that mercenary using his body to save the world from a genocidal maniac, knowing he was married to a lovely, intelligent wife. It was as if that failed date with Dylan had never taken place.

Even when Steven had been begotten to be better than Marc Spector, not even he could escape the searing feeling of envy when Spector got to be with Layla in that way. 

Seeing her in all her nude glory, first imprisoned in Marc's arms, impaled relentlessly, and then above him, loving how Layla trusted him enough to lock her as if she was his and his only. 

He then realizes a sad truth; Layla wanted to kiss him because he had the face of Marc Spector. Layla loved Spector, not Steven. 

Steven now looks at her, elevated to a goddess, naked and sweating while her moans delight his ears. He feels like a pervert for spying on her through the aquarium reflection but he's just too marveled seeing Marc's body being ridden with raw, brutal fury. He felt as if he was witnessing a privileged mortal making love to a goddess.

Though he was happy to see them together once again, he cannot stop wondering how his name would sound if she'd screamed it with him beneath her.

As much as he struggles to keep his eyes and ears covered, curiosity overcomes his modesty and what a sight he gets. To Steven, Layla had ascended from crush to a reborn Aphrodite right in the moment he saw her getting up to place herself above him. How he wished to be Marc at that moment.

It wasn't the fact of sex itself, being naked or close to each other… It was the climax and its meaning what mesmerized Steven, the vestiges accusing their union, watching it ooze from her while she moans for more. He may not have the full satisfaction of it, but he's more than glad to see the body being loved and taken care of. 

Steven diverted his gaze, ceasing the tortuous illusions of intimacy. He tried to focus on other things but those scandalous moans of hers made it impossible. Those things she was whispering, it was like a mermaid tempting a sailor to follow her. He'd give anything to experience what it was to be buried deep inside her, with nothing except him occupying her mind to cry his name. He had never felt so undesired and miserable in his life, especially when Marc howls his lungs out when the peak hits him. The moment was followed by a dead silence.  

Suddenly a dizzy, incorporeal sensation numbed his muscles. His vision became blurred, just like when he regained… 

Hearing how her calm breathing changed to a sharp cry aroused him to the point of insanity, not just the wet, tight flesh practically latching around him so abruptly, not just having that beautiful female nude still impaled on him. It wasn't the fact that Marc had surrendered the control to him. He couldn't understand why but he couldn't process everything that happened in that moment, not having time to ask her out loud about their situation. His sobs finally got Layla to look down at him. He felt cornered.

"Steven?" She whispered, just as mesmerized as he was. Steven writhed and shook while pleasure stuns his strength, trying to break the physical bond to avoid any more problems, but Layla insists on retaining his body underneath her. How was it possible to be like this now? When not too long ago he had been admiring her from afar, yearning silently for her body.

Why did Marc feel so vulnerable being with her? 

Maybe it was the shock of seeing her, of feeling so helpless when she loved him like this. Steven tries to focus but his body speaks for him: he moans loudly as he watches several, thick threads of himself falling down their sexes, looking to adhere even more tightly to each other. 

The explicit image does things to him. It is the physical reminder of how her body stirred under his touch. Wishing to see more of it percolating between her thighs, Steven thrusts up, shaking her whole body again, observing with respectful and immense fascination a pleasure-drunk Layla, who doesn't seem to care that Marc wasn't there to finish what he started. 

Steven moans her name and smiles at the sight of her breasts and curls bouncing. They look so lovely, begging to be touched, kneaded, pampered. 

He didn't decide what to do next, though he doesn't miss the chance to squeeze them to calm down his aroused enthusiasm. Layla starts straddling his hardened length once again, until Steven has an idea: He obeys his instinct to wrap his arms around her, to then roll over the bed sheets so he was above Layla, who latched at his neck, desirous to obtain more of him, not caring if she was on control. Steven never thought this loss of individuality would be so magnificent. And then, he sees that look in her eyes. Layla stares up at him. 

Her gaze is nothing but fire.

His voice undoes itself in praises and desperate claims, melting each other's mouths in heated kisses that left their tongues tangled in a desperate dance.

Steven felt her hands running down his ribs, reaching his hips to scratch his back to then caress it. It made the mild mannered man push as deep as he could as a harsh response, breaking the kiss to moan while genuinely convinced he could feel every vein, every inch of hers melted with his.

He looks down her body by mere instinct, and finds more lustful evidence of their act between her legs, more pearly creeks gushing from their differences. It moves him to gather strength to drag himself out of her just to slam back inside, reviving the sensation of sweet captivity within her depths, feeling those pulsating walls hardly containing him, despite Layla seemingly wishing more of Steven inside of her. 

Neither of them would get to see it, but the reflection showed a delirious Steven Grant taking an euphoric Layla with him over the bed, making their bodies move in perfect unison. 

"Keep going! Fuck, Steven… just like that" he panted against her ear, groaning when he feels her thighs pressing his hips, "I want it dripping off me, Steven. Will you be good to me and give me that?"

"Yes! I will! I'll be good-- I'll be so good to you!" Steven pushes as deep as he can without thinking, making sure to comply her wish. 

Layla liked that, sliding her hands down his chest, heart hammering with war-like fury. Steven was too desperate to repeat that deep feel of wholeness both experienced a few moments ago, too immersed in the pleasure the narrow, hot embrace gave him but also too stunned too form a coherent sentence. Layla tenderly caresses his hair, and Steven gently leans his head to bathe in those kind touches. She kisses his jawline, brushing her lips against his ear. 

"Don't hold back," Layla lovingly whispered, knowing their climax was close. Steven looked down and saw that again between their legs, stopping for a moment before the glorious end. Layla reminds him that he was the one who stole a kiss from her back in the desert, enjoying to see Steven Grant turned into a sex crazed mess, so far from his fancy, polite manners, fighting against the constriction that he knew, would overcome him. 

He had never been so happy to lose a battle as he did with this one, in particular. He increased the pace, making the bounce of her orbed parts even more intense. Steven weeps of pleasure when he cannot bring himself to resist it anymore, pouring all of his seed inside her, delighting in the falling strands accusing the violence of the orgasm that shuddered Layla's body. 

He keeps completely still, loving the intimacy between him and Layla. All he can think about is never letting her go. He loves her. Steven loves her more than he loves his own life. This is how it feels to be seen, cherished, loved. He wishes this precious moment to never end. And there she stays, cradling his tired body. Steven hides his face in her neck, repeating that he could never leave her, much less after what happened between them. 

Layla runs her fingers over his hair, caressing his back up and down, grateful to have her husband sleeping in her arms once again, away from danger and blood for good. She lovingly lulls him, despite Steven being asleep (or passed out, who knew?) so he could know in his slumber that she would be there to care for him… and love him.

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

Clearing the Fog

Oh hey it's the annual chapter of Damage. One of these days I PROMISE I'll update on a day sometime else in the year. Eventually?

Summary: Cole is dead. But he's been a ghost before, so maybe Pet can find a way to dig him out of his grave.

Trigger Warnings: mentions of attempted suicide, pet whump, dehumanization, past abuse, trauma, stockholm syndrome, existential crisis

1743 words

He didn’t know what to do.

Jay had dragged him off the rooftop hours ago, away from the bite of the wind and the chill of panic that was seeping at the edges of his brain. He was so, so tired. He wanted to curl up and sleep forever. But he just… he couldn’t make himself get on the bed.

No matter how many times Jay told him it would be okay, something in him just… refused to believe it. Maybe it was that foreign name on his lips, so completely unattached from the husk he now was.

Maybe Cole was dead. Maybe he had never been alive at all.

He hunched in on himself on the floor, grateful for the bundle of blankets that Jay had all but forced him to accept. At least he could hide away in these, pretend that a few layers of fluff would stop him from being vulnerable to the world — like a mother’s warm embrace.

God, his mom. When was the last time he’d allowed her to enter his stupidly broken brain? When had he realized just how damaged his brain even was?

He missed his mom so much. He’d been at peace with her loss, once, but the sands of time had withered away at him in more ways than one, hadn’t they? What he would give for just one moment of her comfort.

There was his dad. But the others (he swallowed down the creeping along his spine at the concept of equating himself to them at all) had all but forced him to go home for a few days, promising to keep him updated. Was he being updated now? How much would he know?

He longed for his father, but at the same time… he couldn’t bear it. Not when all he could see was the shattered heartbreak in his eyes when he’d pushed him away. Not when he was like this. The nausea swimming in his stomach dipped and spun, and he was finally beginning to identify what exactly it might have been.

It was humiliating, being seen like this. It was humiliating to be the disgusting shell he now was, unsure of where he was supposed to fit in the world, untrusting of his own shattered mind.

It was humiliating to still believe, on a primal level, that he was just a pet.

He didn’t want to believe it. He really didn’t. But what else could he be? He certainly wasn’t a ninja, not anymore. He barely qualified as a person at all.

Maybe it was better that way. Maybe he could still just go back. Home.

He wanted to go home.

Where had home ever been?

It should have been with Master. That’s where it was supposed to be. He was happy there. He was. But maybe… maybe it wasn’t right, that home was a place that, underneath the clouded haze of one sided love (which side was it?), was a hive of constant, buzzing fear.

Love wasn’t supposed to hurt. Was it?

He hadn’t thought it possible to cry any more tonight. His eyes were painfully dry and there couldn’t possibly be any water left inside him, not after all of that. And yet, tears were steadily dribbling again anyway.

His mouth burned in its dryness. 

Slowly, he poked his head out of his blanket pile, unsurprised but still embarrassed to find Jay watching him intently. Like if he didn’t keep both eyes on him at all times, he’d run off to the roof again. It wasn’t a horrible assumption on his part.

“Can I—” he croaked, voice cracking from what was probably both his incoming breakdown and the lack of use over time. How many times had Master ever allowed him to speak? “Water?” He asked, too exhausted to so much as clear his throat. He was barely even holding his head up at this point.

Jay snapped to attention, standing from his post. “Of course! Um, will you be okay if I leave to get it, or, uh…”

Cole nodded as much as his body allowed, slumping back into the blankets. “Pl’se,” he mumbled, eyes half open.

Through his blurry vision, he thought he might have seen Jay smiling. “Be right back.”

He didn’t watch him go. He allowed his eyes to slip closed, keeping himself just awake enough that he’d be able to chug a cup or two before passing out entirely.

His head hurt, and he wondered distantly if it was because he was no longer used to truly thinking. Not for himself, anyway. 

Jay returned within moments, pressing a bottle with a straw into his hands. Spill proof. He might have sobbed if it weren’t for his exhaustion, too tired to do anything but allow more tears to slide down his cheeks. 

He didn’t get through more than a few relieving sips before he began to drift off again, somehow finding himself having dragged Jay into his makeshift nest, arms wrapped loosely around him. 

If Jay was with him, surely that would keep the monsters at bay. No nightmares, and no…

Well. In any case, at least he could finally sleep.

He woke up to a deep, harrowing ache in his bones. At some point in the night, Jay had rolled over, half on top of him. 

He couldn’t entirely say he minded. It was a comforting sort of weight. He couldn’t do anything to himself if the body atop him prevented it. Nothing could hurt him — not himself, and not… not anyone or anything else.

In the peace of the morning sun, he committed every name to memory, going over their faces in his mind and staring at Jay’s slack face until he’d memorized every intricacy of it.

Even when he went back — because he knew he would. He knew Master would come for him, he knew there was nothing that could stop him, not a thing in the world. Even when, he didn’t want to forget. Not again. He would remember their names — Jay, Kai, Zane, Lloyd, Nya — and he would remember their faces. He would remember them. No matter what.

Master would find him. He couldn’t allow himself to get too comfortable — it would only make it all hurt so much worse.

But such a small, burning spark of hope buried deep beneath it all longed to hold on. To hold onto the people who refused to give up on him. Even as he screamed at them, pulled away, broke their hearts every time he refused to so much as look at them.

Looking at them hurt, now that he could feebly grasp onto the memories of who he once was.

Who was he now?

What if he could just… not go back? What if he could just stay, find who Cole was, dig him out from where he’d been buried deep within himself? 

Jay stirred beside him, slowing sitting up and cracking his neck, then his knuckles. They sat in silence for a great deal of time while he thought.

“Jay,” he finally mumbled, staring at the wall, “what happened to him?”

From the corner of his eye, he could see Jay watching him. He wanted to look at him, to meet his eyes, to convey anything other than the emptiness in his voice.

“Police custody,” he finally supplied, “in jail until he goes to trial, and then… god, he’s going to rot in Kryptarium if I have anything to say about it.”

Silence, again. For a long time, sitting together while Pet tried to find his words. Up to him to break the silence. Up to him to use his voice as he pleased.

“I’m so confused,” he finally admitted, once again choked up. “I don’t know what to — I’m confused.”

“I know,” Jay sighed, leaning over and resting his head on Cole’s shoulder. “I know, bud. You don’t need to — fuck, you don’t need to be okay right now, okay? You don’t need to stress about anything. You’re safe. You have all the time in the world to figure it out, okay?”

“Do I?”

“Oh, Cole… he’s never getting out. After what he did to you… even if he somehow managed to escape Kryptarium, he’d have to fight off a group of highly trained ninja that would sooner die than let him at you. Plus your dad. That guy is vicious.”

At the mention of his father, he fully burst into tears, the dam breaking. 

Jay rubbed circles into his back, softly encouraging him to let it all out, not seeming to mind as he sobbed into his shirt, creating a mess of it. He hated remembering almost as much as he hated having a hollow mind. Remembering hurt. Existing numbly hurt.

“It’s not fair,” he managed between hiccuping sobs, “it’s not — I don’t even know where to — it’s not fair. I wish I could just — I wish I could go back. Before.”

Jay cringed at the mention of a wish, something he could vaguely remember (remember, remember) him doing over the last few years. He liked remembering. Even if there were still massive gaps, it made the thoughts in his head feel so much less alone. 

“I know,” Jay mumbled, squeezing his arms tight around him. “You’re so strong, Cole. You — god, I was so scared you would never remember anything at all.”

“I don’t,” he sniffled, “I don’t.”

“You’re so strong,” he just repeated. “We’re gonna get through this, together, okay? You have all of us, and we’re never — look at me,” he gently lifted Pet’s head with his hands so his eyes could bore into him. “We are never. Ever. Letting that disgusting man get his hands anywhere near you again.”

He hated how much he hated hearing that. Despite the confliction violently burning in his chest, he missed — him. He hated missing him. He wanted things to go back to how they were before it all. He wanted to be Cole. He wanted to be normal.

A soft knock sounded at the door, swinging open with the hesitance of waking someone. “Jay, are you…?” The green one — Lloyd, his baby brother, the boy he would protect with every last breath in his body, whom destiny had linked them all to so many years ago — asked, trailing off as he took in the scene in front of him.

Cole sniffled, smiling up at the boy through his tears. “Hi, Lloyd,” he said. “I missed you.”