#like a deer in the headlights that uses its own gaze to trap the driver

[ghostfiish]

Congrats on your level up! How are your stats? Learn any cool moves?

HP: +3 → 70

ATTACK:  +1 →35

DEFENSE: +1 →35

SP. ATK: +1 →50

SP. DEF: +3 →56

SPEED: +1 →35

NEW SKILL: Panic-Induced Focus. - Allows player to harness their anxiety to force a one-on-one with a single enemy out of many, and tackle it separately without distraction. Activate on your turn as a bonus action. Effects begin once the next initiative roll takes place, or immediately following the action if combat has already begun. Once the effects end, a short rest must be taken immediately. This skill can be used once per long rest.

Choose a creature. For the duration (up to ten mintues, until target runs out of hit points, or combat ends), you are locked in a solo battle against the chosen target. No interference or assistance can come from creatures other than the you or the chosen target; both you and the target can only attack each other. You take ½ damage you would normally take (racial bonuses and equipment effects included), and are immune to all status effects. However, all attack rolls and ability checks you make against the target have disadvantage (saving throws are unaffected). 

[sillyrabbit81]

The Instructor Part 2

Summary: You and Agent Walker meet again

Pairing: August Walker x Female Reader

Word Count: approx 2.4k

Warnings: angst, smut, dubious consent, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering

Masterlist

Part 1 Part 3

The Instructor Part 2

A month came and went.

Then six weeks.

Seven.

Eight.

Then you stopped counting.

You felt used, and grew angry. The submissive part of your nature had been taken advantage of and you swore it wouldn’t happen again. Never again would you allow your desires to be seen by any man, let alone by Agent Walker. You collect your memories of him, gather them into a box, seal it tight and bury it in the darkest corner of your mind. You don’t even bring it out on lonely nights anymore, it hurts too much.

You focus on work and fall into your new routine: wake up, work out, work late, eat take out, sleep, repeat. The days soon melted into one, weekends forgotten as the routine is the same as weekdays. Your work was repetitive and uninspiring. You were a junior Agent after all. You knew to expect a few years of grunt work before anything meaningful. You kept your head down and did what you had to do, hoping your diligence paid off and the higher ups noticed.

Despite your hard work, you were surprised when you were called into your boss’s office for a new assignment. She tells you that an opening came up on a surveillance team in the field focussed on a group of foreign nationals. She told you strictly that there would be no interaction with the group, surveillance only. You agree to the new posting, thankful for the break in monotony and chance to develop your skills.

“Just a moment, here is the lead Agent now.” She says.

You turn as the door opens and Agent Walker strolls in, his clipped yet casual gait doesn’t falter as he notices you. A lump rises in your throat as you see him for the first time in months. You don’t know how to feel, but your body reacts. With a pounding heart and clenching stomach, you keep your features smooth as possible, allowing the smallest hint of a smile to widen your lips. An appropriate response to seeing your old instructor, nothing more, nothing less. His eyes flicker with recognition, his small smile and nod was just as appropriate. He says to your boss, “Is this the addition to the team?”

“Do you two know each other?”

You don’t deny it. You’re not stupid enough to believe your boss doesn’t know every Agent you’ve ever interacted with so you say, “Of course, Agent Walker was one of my instructors at The Farm.” Boldly you continue speaking more for Walker’s benefit than your boss, “But I haven’t seen him in… what is it Agent? Four months?”

“Four and a half,” he replies, with a tilt of the head.

“Four and a half,” you repeat. Like bile rising in your throat, anger fills you and for a moment you know he sees it. Forcing the rising tide of fury down you say, “Well, time flies when you’re having fun.” You bare your teeth at him in what you hope your boss takes as a smile and Walker takes for the ‘fuck you’ it was. Walker narrows his eyes at you then turns his attention to your boss.

You discuss more details of the case and travel arrangements then you are dismissed. Leaving the two of them together you tidy your desk of personal belongings since you didn’t know when or if you would return and go home to prepare.

Once you are through the gates of Langley and no longer under direct video surveillance you start to shake. Seeing him again rocked you to your core you hoped you hadn’t given anything away with your comments. Was it a coincidence that you were promoted and put in his team or had he asked for you? Neither Walker or your boss had given anything away. No time to think about it now, you had packing to do and less than two hours to get to the airbase where you would be sent to DC for the job.

You showered quickly, resisting the urge to release some of the growing tension in your gut. You hadn’t touched yourself in months and you wouldn’t start now.

Trying to push thoughts of Agent Walker from your mind was a futile task. Instead you focussed on keeping your anger raw so you wouldn’t fall under his spell again. You had accepted that he wasn’t coming back. Did he have a knack for that? Only showing himself to you when you had moved on. You wouldn’t let him take you easily this time, this time he would not get satisfaction, not after what he had done. You shake your head, ‘this time’ you say, recognising the lies you tell yourself.

You start to get dressed when you hear a short rap on the door. Fuck, the car had arrived early. You pull a robe on as you answer the door, to let the driver know you’ll be a few more minutes.

Throwing the door wide, you’re greeted by Agent Walker, his face firm, furrowed brows looking you up and down. The collar of his dark woollen coat is pulled up, framing his face drawing your attention to his piercing stare. Frozen for a moment, you can do nothing but return his gaze. You’re a deer in headlights until he sucks his lower lip into his mouth and your body is propelled into action.

You slam the door closed, but he is quicker than you, a huge paw catching it and he forces his way into your apartment. You back away, but he kicks the door closed behind him and advances, with predatorily confident and rapid steps.

He catches your throat and brings you to him. He skin is rough with unshaven hair that is yet to grow soft. His lips are so smooth and warm, that you can’t help but melt into him. You hate him.

When he pulls away, he smiles at you almost sweetly and you can’t help the hand that flies on its own and makes a loud crack as it hits Walkers cheek.

You’re both stunned. Walker tongues his cheek and works his jaw a moment. “I hope you enjoyed that, pet. The first one is free, but the next one will come at a price.” He doesn’t seem angry, in fact his tone suggests amusement, which only fuels your rage.

“Get out,” you say. You try and keep your voice steady, but you know it warbled with fear as you looked into his eyes.

“No,” Walker says. He casually removes his coat folding it neatly and laying it over the back of your dining chair. He removes his scarf, placing it on top of his coat before he unbuttons his dark brown suit jacket and loosens his tie. You watch him, mind fixated on each of his careful movements. As if he were performing burlesque show, each minute act became a piece of seduction.

He sits in another chair and pats his lap, “Come, pet.” He calls to you in his gentle authoritative voice.

Before you can stop yourself, you take a step towards him. But then you notice his smirk, and you shrink away. You can’t speak but you shake your head as you retreat towards your bedroom.

Walker starts to look irritated and his voice gains a hard edge that both terrifies you and thrills you. “Come. Here,” he repeats. “I won’t say it again, pet.”

“Fuck you, Walker,” you spit out, your anger spilling from you, becoming a torrent as you wrestle within yourself.

He peers at you with his contemplating blue eyes. Then he sighs and moves before you can even register his actions. You turn, to run, but he is quicker and stronger. But more than that, his desire to have you is stronger than your desire to run.

His vice like arms trap you as he forces you against the wall, his body pressing into your back. “Why do you fight me, pet?” His voice rumbles into your ear. “I thought we had an understanding.”

Your tears came then, the rejection you felt was no longer able to be contained. That box of memories, buried for months smashes apart and so does your control. “You left me,” you sob. “You used me then left me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, ashamed at how quickly you relented and told him anything. You laugh at yourself, why did you believe even for a second you could hide anything from him? The only man who saw into your very soul.

“I know, pet,” Walker drones, his lips caressing your ear as he does. “I can’t promise it won’t happen again.”

“I know,” you reply.

His hand is in your hair, smoothing the strands away from your face. His tender touch was unexpected but welcome. You feel soft kisses on your eye lids and you slowly stop crying. His tongue comes out, licking at your wet cheeks and you hear his breathing shudder as he laps up your pain.

You open your eyes, he growls as your shining eyes meet his. He plants a foot between your legs forcing them apart while he undoes his belt and pants and you hear them crumple to the floor. His hand tilts your hips back for him while the other pulls aside your underwear as he roughly explores your centre, coating his fingers in your arousal.

You hear a muttered, “Fuck,” as his finger enters you, circling your walls, stretching you before a second enters. “Fuck, pet. Have you touched yourself at all since I fucked you?”

Unsure of what he would think, you reply hesitantly, “No. You said I was yours.”

Walkers features soften as he says, “I knew you were a good girl.” Your whole body bursts into flames and your core clenches around his thick, thrashing fingers as you hear his whispered praise.

With precise and sudden movements, his fingers are withdrawn and his broad, leviathan cock bludgeons into you. Biting down on your lips to supress the cry growing in your throat you savour the feeling of being torn apart. Wasting no time, Walker moves with vicious, aggressive speed, wounding you with his thrusts, ripping apart your defences.

Pulling down your robe, he exposes your chest. His wanton hands knead your breasts as he uses them for leverage, his pounding never stops. You hear his breaths primal and raw as he assaults your neck with his mouth and teeth. He moves his depraved mouth to your shoulders sinking his teeth in deep. The pain feels like a caress when you are this close to the edge.

Walker turns you around, lifts your leg to his hip as he enters you again. His eyes are clinical as he studies your reaction. You feel boneless under his scrutiny and close your eyes again looking away. Walker grips your throat in his hand and uses his long fingers to push your cheek back in his direction.

“Open your eyes, pet,” he orders. “I know you’re close. I want to see your eyes when you call my name.”

The pressure builds deep within your gut as you keep your eyes glued to his. His breath, warm and minty with a hint of gin maybe, tickles at your cheek. You want to kiss him, taste him, feel his tongue invade you and devour you. You silently beg him to and as if hearing your thoughts, he slowly moves his mouth to yours. His eyes stay open as he flicks his tongue over your lips before taking your lower lip between his teeth.

Like a taut elastic, your core grows tighter and your knee gives out as the rush of warmth whips through your body. He lets go of your lip in time for you to shout “August!”

Your body pulses and your tightening muscles strain with contractions until you feel all the tension fall away. Like a rag doll you slump against him. But he isn’t finished with you.

Walker lifts your lulling head with a firm thumb under your chin, He continues his frenzied thrusts with a new vigour having succeeded in his task. He fucks your listless body, you’re too spent to move, and he doesn’t care. With a stuttering final thrust he pushes deep into you, clenching his teeth, whiskered lip raised in a snarl as he growls with his final throes.

He raised his hand to your face, his thumb laying a single burning caress down your tear stained cheek. “Go wash up, I’ll pack for you,” he says before pulling away and doing up his pants.

You shower again, consciously cleaning August’s seed spilling slowly from your ruined core. Each time you think you’re clean, you feel more leaking from you and you wash again. The bathroom door opens and August enters making a show of looking at his watch.

You sigh, and turn the shower off. His eyes inspect your body as he hands you a towel. He makes no effort to leave as he watches you towel off and you awkwardly squeeze past him as you make your way to your bedroom. He has laid an outfit on your bed, complete with underwear and shoes. Your gun is on your bed in its holster with spare clips by its side. You don’t say anything to him and dress in the clothes he chose and slipped your holster onto your belt, pocketing the spare clips.

Walker is waiting at the door with your overnight bag in his hand. You give the apartment a quick look over, making sure everything is turned off and sling your handbag over your shoulder. August opens the door for you, and as you slip past him his arm wraps around your waist and he kisses you.

The deep demanding kiss you wanted earlier was nothing compared to this, his lips were bruising and hard, but his tongue explored your mouth with a soft insistence. Your hands were free and for the first time, you touched him, laying a hesitant hand on his chest, and another on his neck. His skin felt hot under yours and testing his limits you slid your fingers into his hair and were rewarded with a barely audible groan.

Then he pulled his head away with a jerk and without looking at you said, “Go to the car. You’re making us late.”

Disappointed but not surprised you went to the car wondering where this assignment would take the two of you.

Part 3

Tag List

@henryobsessed @omgkatinka @legendarywizarddetective @posiemax @nostalgicb-txh @moonlacebeam @anitababi @agniavateira

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are Weird:   The Hand of Andromeda Ch. 1

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps) (New chapters will be posted first to patreon and then moved here) Hanging above the front of the classroom loomed an archaic clock; its arms slowly moving with the passing of each second. To Lizzy Stalwart who was the only student left in the classroom the clock appeared more like a prison warden, watching over her until her hour was due.

Mr. Parkins, her teacher, sat behind his desk just under the clock. He appeared to the casual observer to be going over today’s submitted papers and grading them, but Lizzy could tell from his constant sidelong glances that he was more interested in his data pad he had tucked away in a side drawer. No doubt it was playing the live feed for the Rebound Prix game going on today. He would occasionally look up to watch Lizzy with suspicious eyes before looking away again as if uninterested.

Lizzy had never liked Mr. Parkins as a teacher. He always felt the need to show off his intelligence, always needing to make people feel inferior to him, and always gloating about his past achievements. Frankly she thought that he was having a midlife crisis and this was his coping mechanism, but with each passing day it just became sadder and sadder to watch.

Before Lizzy could further ponder the sad existence of her teacher a series of knocks came from the classroom door. Mr. Parkins looked up from data pad and closed the drawer it was in. He straightened himself out and said “Come in.”

The door to the classroom slowly opened and a towering figure entered the room. They needed to stoop slightly to enter as their muscular build could barely squeeze through the door frame. At first Parkins thought that the figure was just a rather muscular human until the figure fully emerged into the room.

“Thank you for coming on such short-“Mr. Parkins began as he stood and held a hand out then stopped himself. He took a good look at the figure now that he was outside of the doorway and saying he was surprised would be an understatement.

The figure was none other than a Predatorian, standing easily six or seven feet tall and dressed in a coal black suit and matching pants of no doubt expensive material. Orange and black slit eyes looked down at Parkins before looking passed him to Lizzy. As they saw her the Predatorian’s mouth twitched for a moment and Parkins could see a gleaming row of razor teeth behind the smooth blue and white scaly skin.

Turning their gaze back to Mr. Parkins with his hand still held out but unable to move, the Predatorian clasped it with his own hand and shook it.

“It’s no trouble at all.” The Predatorian said. The fluency of his speech was almost as unnerving to Parkins as the sand paper like texture of their skin.

“You-you-you are…” Parkins trebled on as his body switched to auto pilot and continued shaking the alien’s hand. “You are Ms. Starlwart’s guardian?”

“I am.” The Predatorian let go of Mr. Parkins hand who was still dumbly shaking it. “You can call me Mr. B; I spoke with you earlier on the phone.”

“Why yes we did, but I was just thinking you would be-.”

“Human?”

Mr B. grinned, showing off even more teeth as he waved his hand as if dismissing Parkins concerns. “That’s alright; I get that a lot with humans.”

Lizzy watched as her father motioned for Parkins to sit back down which he gladly did. She could tell Mr. Parkins was regaining a bit of his composure returning as he sat behind his desk now that it separated the two of them.

“I was a bit confused why I am here however.” Mr B. continued. “You weren’t specific with what my little girl was in trouble for and I would like to clear up that confusion now.”

“Today was the final exam for the class before the summer break.”

At this Parkins pulled open a drawer from behind his desk and withdrew a single paper sheet from it. He placed it on his desk so Mr. B could fully see it.

“Your daughter was upset with how her grade came out and began arguing with me about changing it. I felt this was most disrespectful and thought her parents should be made aware.”

“That’s because you docked me points for not using a calculator!” Lizzy stood up suddenly and nearly knocked over her chair. “I told you I didn’t need one but you still told me I needed to use it!”

“It’s alright sweetie,” Mr. B said in a soothing tone Mr. Parkins found completely at odds with his appearance, “I’ll take care of this.”

Lizzy pouted but sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. She couldn’t even look at Mr. Parkins without becoming upset at this point.

Smirking Parkins turned from Lizzy back to Mr. B. “You see? Your daughter is smart but her manners can be lacking at times.”

Mr. B was ignoring Parkins and picked up Lizzy’s exam. He slowly went over reading every line before looking back at Parkins.

“Were her answers wrong?”

Mr. Parkins looked confused for a moment but rallied.

“She was docked points by not following the rules.”

“But were her answers right?”

Mr. B walked towards the desk and now loomed over Parkins. He set the paper back down on the desk and tapped it with his talon like finger. He locked eyes with Parkins and continued tapping the paper.

“I’m asking if these answers she gave are right or not.”

“Technically,” Parkins began, swallowing deeply as the locked eye contact whittled away his composure again, “they were correct.”

“Then it makes no sense why you took away points.” Mr. B stood back up to his full height. “She did the work and gave the correct responses.”

“But she didn’t follow the rules I laid out for the exam.” Parkins countered. “Not following the rules will not get you anywhere in the real world Mr. Stalwart.”

“And what would you know of the real world?”

Parkins looked up and saw nothing but pure anger written across Mr. B’s face. The corner of his mouth was twitching once more revealing the sharpened white teeth. His eyes narrowed and his stare turned hard.

“You, who spend every day inside this tiny safe box”

Parkins retreated deeper into his chair as Mr. B grasped the table and leaned forward.

“You sit here behind your tiny desk in your tiny world and think that you know how the “real” world works, do you?”

Mr. B was now leaning over Parkins, his shadow swallowing him up. Parkins clasped his hands together to stop them from shaking as gut wrenching fear crept up his spine like a cold shower. He looked into Mr. B’s eyes for a moment and saw nothing but a barely contained rage, held in check by the thinnest of lines. Parkins’s stare broke away for a moment and looked over at Lizzy only to see she was still sitting at her desk but had covered her face in her arms as if embarrassed.

Mr. B pushed forward Lizzy’s papers. “You will give her the credit she is do or else.”

“O-o-o-or else what?” Parkins stammered, to which Mr. B smiled. Not a friendly smile, but one of pure devilish delight. The kind of smile Parkins had seen on holo dramas from villains just as they were about to commit evil.

“Or else I will have the school board have you removed from your position.”

As Parkins looked at Mr. B’s calm demeanor he could tell this was no idle threat, but more a assured promise.

“Oh,” Mr. B continued as he casually picked some lint off his suit and flicked it away, “I’ll also have you black listed from every school on the planet.”

“But you can’t do that!” Parkins was on his feet so suddenly that he knocked his desk with his knees and sent the contents atop it scattering to the floor.

Mr. B casually shrugged and took on a more relaxed posture. “I can, because unlike you I know how the real world works.” He calmly bent down and picked up Lizzy’s paper and put it on the desk again.

Parkins looked back and forth between Lizzy and Mr. B like a deer trapped in headlights before slumping back into his chair.

“I will correct the mistake.” Parkins said reluctantly.

“Good man.” Mr. B adjusted his suit and motioned to Lizzy. She sighed loudly and rose to her feet, hefting her backpack and heading towards the door. “I knew we would come to an understanding.”

“Your daughter will have no trouble passing my class from now on.” Parkins continued, any shred of dignity lost from the encounter. Surprisingly Mr. B shook his head.

“I don’t want her getting a free pass.” He fixed Parkins with a stern stare again which made him further retreat into his chair. “All I want is for her to be treated fairly.”

Parkins couldn’t say anything and just nodded his head as the two of them left the classroom.

The car ride home from school was uncomfortably quiet for Lizzy. She sat in the back with Mr. B while their driver carefully navigated the busy streets of downtown Gilfield. The buildings flew by like blurry images as the car drove the two of them back home. The car itself was a stretched model with the back lavishly decorated with emerald silk and several bottles of Juvian IV water or exotic liquors.

Every block or so Lizzy would glance over at Mr. B expecting him to say something to her, but every time she saw him casually reading some papers and making notes or dabbing his slowly dying cigar into the ash tray. This went on for about ten minutes before she couldn’t bare the silence anymore.

“Look, I’m sorry.” Lizzy said as she crossed her arms and sat back into her seat. Mr. B set down the papers he was reading and turned to her.

“I’m not upset with you,” he began as he twisted the final embers of his cigar out and closed the tray, “but you know better than to poke the bear.”

“But Mr. Parkins-“Lizzy began but Mr. B held up a hand to stall her.

“I stood up for you because your teacher was being an asshole and needed to be taken down a peg; but that doesn’t mean his point wasn’t valid.” He pulled out a bottle of red velvet like liquid and poured a glass for himself, careful not to spill a drop as the car continued down the road. As the liquid touched his lips his pupils dilated and a shudder ran down the length of his body. “In his classroom he’s the boss, and when you’re the boss everyone under you must do what you say.”

“Until you find a way to do it better.” Lizzy quipped back making Mr. B smile.

“I’m glad to see some of my lessons are sticking with you.”

Lizzy smiled back as she pulled out a napkin and threw it at him. “Were as the ones I teach you fall on deaf ears.” He looked confused for a moment until she motioned down with her head and he saw several drops had spilled on his suit.

“Son-of-a-bi-“he began before the driver cut him off.

“We’ve arrived sir, madam.”

“Thanks Hendriks.” Lizzy was already out the door as she called back to the driver and stepped out on to the street. It was nearly dusk and the city lights were beginning to turn on one by one turning a dull city into a light show of neon and glare. A line was beginning to form around the block as Lizzy walked passed them to the front and waved to the bouncer at the door. To the crowds surprise the bouncer let the kid cut the line and enter the night club “Blitz”.

As she made her way through the club she smiled and greeted the staff still prepping the place for opening. Several of the dancers on stage saw her and called out which she waved back but continued her way upstairs and into the back rooms meant only for staff.

She came to a thick metal door strong enough to take an anti-grav tank rocket and not be dented and stopped. Pulling her backpack off she shuffled around inside until she found he id card and swiped it. The door beeped and lit up green for a moment before slowly rumbling open letting Lizzy continue on.

Unlike the front of the club the back room was an entirely different beast altogether. In place of bar benches and rows of liquor, stood weapon racks and crates larger than her entire body. The scantily clad dancers were replaced with thick muscled guards checking weapons before loading them into storage containers. Even the air itself that had smelled of cologne and perfume was replaced with the stench of weapon oils and hydraulic fluid.

She wondered why her dad had wanted to keep both of the businesses he ran under the same roof but when she thought about it the whole thing was so cliché that no one would believe it anyway. Who would think the largest mercenary company in the Sleisian Belt would be being run out of the back of a seedy nightclub?

She had just made it to her room when an aid approached her. Without a word said they handed her a data pad which she took without looking at it as she opened her room’s door.

“I’ll have it finished and organized in an hour.” She said to them. They nodded and scampered off back down the hallway to the arming room as the door closed behind her.

Her room was modest by comparison to the military quarters outside. Pictures of singers were on the walls and the ceiling was covered with star charts that shifted as the projector updated them every passing minute.

She threw off her backpack and plopped herself down on to the nearby bed. She’d hoped laying there for a few minutes would relax her after the mind numbing ordeal Parkins had put her through but the more she thought about it the more frustrated she became.

Sitting up she shuffled over to her desk and picked up the data pad she had been given earlier.

“Computer, play track seven.” She said as she sat down and began going over the day’s expense report for the company. Just looking over the initial figures she had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

[wolvesandpetals]

Loki x Sylvie Playing House Part 3 (Humor, Romance), Rated T. Full on Sylki hijinks, as promised!

Masterlist of my Sylki fanfics here.

---

The first thing she does when Thor leaves is Google herself. Apparently, she was a child actor and made a fortune there, before transitioning into modelling, and later into a successful influencing career.

"That makes perfect sense to me", Loki comments. "If I was not a prince, I would have chosen to be an actor too. Just imagine, legions of fans screaming your name, begging for your attention for just one moment, hanging onto your every word, willing to worship the very ground you walk on. Now, that is the dream." He pauses, cherishing the image in his head. "There's also the money. Looks like you and I will never have to work a day in our lives. We can just live off your money."

[[MORE]]

Sylvie feels the muscles in her laws instinctively tense. This is not her life, or her reality. She can't imagine spending eternity here. She looks at Loki sternly. "We can not. We have to return to the TVA."

"Yes, of course." He agrees immediately. A part of him likes this life. But another part of him knows there is never a gain without a loss. The universe finds a way to make him pay for every bit of happiness he ever gets. Who knows what the price may be if he chooses to stay, with his family, and with Sylvie right here?

Sylvie sets down the laptop on the bedside table, ignoring the danger of Loki's glass being knocked over and drenching it. She cannot let herself be concerned with such simple things. Ignoring them is the surest way to covince herself she hates it here. "I was wondering, if Thor can get into this town, and if he remembers us leaving this town in the past, does it mean we are free to leave?"

Loki studies her features, the resolute glint in her eyes and the defiant stance of her chin. It is clear that she will stop at nothing to get back to the TVA. "We should test it out." He says, trying to sound as calm as possible. "Where do you wanna go?"

"Maybe we can go to Oklahoma? See my supposed parents?" She attempts to play it off like it's nothing, even though she knows exactly what it means- temptation. The urge to see what this life looks like is ever-growing.

"Why can't we go to Asgard and see my parents instead?" He counters immediately.

Sylvie purses her lips, trying not to reveal her emotions. She doesn't remember her Odin or Frigga at all. A part of her longs to meet this version of them, but another part wonders how overwhelming it would feel, watching Loki occupy her place, have her life, her "parents" in this timeline. "Fine. How about we pick a neutral location first?"

"Fine." He replies curtly.

"Fine!" Her irritation escalates. She grabs the laptop again, opening up a tab to a travel website, ready to book a flight.

"LA?" He suggests.

"You just want the paparazzi attention, don't you?" She points out, but doesn't resist. "Alright."

September 1st. The date is set. They will be off to LA within three days, and if whatever being that has placed them here does not want them to leave, they will know by then.

---

"Do you really need all of these sunglasses?" Sylvie asks, after Loki stashes the fifth one in his backpack.

"Of course, I do." He defends. "Style? Remember?"

"Travelling light, remember?" She hits back, taking out two random pairs and throwing them back on her dresser. "Just take what you absolutely need."

"I absolutely need my sunglasses." He says stubbornly.

She can either give in on this trivial matter, or she can dig her heels in and fight it out with him. A stupid pair of sunglasses is not worth the effort. "Fine." And in return, there's something that he has to compromise for her as well. "Only if you help me get my swords past security."

"With pleasure." He says with a grin, and with a wave of his hand, the newly arrived swords from eBay are magically cloaked.

Sylvie looks at her own luggage. She has never really owned anything. She jumped from one apocalypse to another, with only her life, and sometimes food supplies for a few days. It feels surreal to look at the clothes in her wardrobe now. The thought of carrying them with her feels even more foreign.

She looks at the tons of products on her dresser, skin creams, lotions, toners, cleansers and heaven knows what else. All the luxuries she never had.

All the luxuries she does not want.

"I'll just pack a change of clothes." She says finally.

"You don't want anything else?" He asks, surprised.

"These are just things, Loki." She explains. "They can be replaced. I have no attachment to them."

---

She regrets not booking first class. She has been on planes before, using crashing aircrafts as a temporary hideout spot to regroup when the TVA was on her tails. As a stowaway, she never realized just how annoying a plane journey can actually be.

Loki graciously offers her the window seat, noting her unease as soon as they board. She thanks him with a smile, and they nod in mutual understanding.

She stares out of the window, at the town that is supposedly her home, and for the first time ever, she feels a pang of homesickness for a place that is not Asgard. She has been here for just five days now, yet, the thought of sleeping in her own bed is so tempting.

Sylvie notices how she is thinking of the bed as her bed now, but tries not to dwell on it too much.

The plane takes off without incidence, and she dozes off quickly. When she wakes up, she notices a thin comforter wrapped around her shoulders. Turning to her side, she sees Loki sleeping as well, his mouth slightly agape. She snuggles close to him, suddenly needing the comfort of his warmth, and the woman on the aisle seat gives her a dirty look. There's a baby crying somewhere in the back, and what feels like the beginning of a massive headache. But all that fades away when she lays her head on his shoulder.

---

When the flight arrives at LAX, they are both a little scared to leave its comfort. They are about to find out if they are free to travel wherever they want, or whether the action had any consequence. Sylvie is the first to take a step out, and they are both relieved to see nothing happens. The baggage claim goes smoothly, though slowly, and they get a cab quickly. Sylvie hides her grin when she sees Loki put on his sunglasses.

"So we're here." He says, staring at Sylvie, while she stares out of the window.

She only hums in response.

"Is this your honeymoon?" The driver asks.

Loki laughs nervously. "No, no. We've been married for quite a long time. This is just... a vacation."

The driver recommends them a lot of tourist places. Sylvie tunes him out. This is just a test. She has no interest in touring LA. They have their return flight scheduled for the next day.

They check into their hotel room, and she plops down on the bed immediately. "It seems we are free to leave the town. Just not the reality, I suppose." She runs her hands over the silky sheets, amused. "I must say, whoever placed us here has taken every measure to make this prison comfortable."

Loki follows suit and takes a seat beside her. "I suppose that is indeed generous of him. Or her."

Sylvie turns to the side to look at him. "So how do we get out of here then? Got any plan?"

He shrugs. It's not like there's a book called What to do when you find yourself trapped in an alternate universe with your alternate self for Dummies. "Right now, the plan is to get some dinner, then some sleep. Then perhaps in the morning we can see a bit of LA?"

"You want to play tourist?" She asks in a neutral tone.

He replies in kind, testing the waters. "We are here already, and we have the time, so why not?"

"Okay." She replies, a little unsure, but not entirely opposed to the idea. The weariness of the journey starts taking its toll on her. She messages her temples with her fingertips. "Should we order room service?"

Loki contemplates for a moment. On the one hand, she looks really tired, and she could use a good night's sleep. On the other hand, she has been completely on edge and razor focused on the mission since they got in this mess. Well, since they met, actually, and probably for centuries before that. She could also use a bit of fun and relaxation.

With that in mind, he carefully voices his proposal. "I was thinking maybe we can go down to the restaurant and have a proper dinner."

Sylvie looks up, grinning mischievously. She's about to call his bluff. "What, like a date?" His deer-in-the-headlights reaction makes her laugh. "Calm down, I'm just teasing you."

---

It's not a date, but it kind of is. It's a four course meal and a fine bottle of champagne over candlelight, after all.

"Was it like this? Back at Asgard?" Sylvie wonders.

"Mostly. But Asgard was grand, elegant. This is..."

"A cheap replacement." She completes.

Loki smiles. "Precisely."

They talk about their Asgard bedrooms, the similarities and the differences between their safe haven in the palace. An hour passes swiftly.

"The wine is good." Sylvie comments, sipping on her first glass of wine, when the champagne is drained.

"Yes, quite good." Loki agrees, on his first glass as well.

The tiniest buzz starts to take root in him, and his mind wanders into the realm of possibilities, the future he can have, here and now. His eyes focus on the brighest object in front of him- Sylvie.

She feels her cheeks flush under his gaze. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You are just so..." He blinks. What is another word for Asgard's Sun when it disappears into the azure lakes? "Breathtaking"

Her lips curve into a shy smile. This is the beginning of the same foolishness he showed on the train in Lamentis-1 that almost got them killed. But right now, their life isn't in imminent danger. Right now, she is just amused. "Wow, you really can't hold your liquor, can you?"

"Of course I can. I am Loki, Prince of Asgard." He declares proudly.

"Yes, yes, I've heard the speech." She says it with a smile and an eye-roll. "We should get you upstairs."

He objects immediately. "But I'm not done yet."

"Oh, I think you're quite done." She beckons the nearest waiter. "Can we get the bill, please?"

He can still walk surprisingly well, but she holds his hand tightly, just in case he decides to take a detour, and drags him into the elevator.

"Blonde looks good on you." He comments out of the blue. "Maybe I should go blonde too."

She grins. "Like Thor?"

He glares at her. "You're a buzzkill."

---

Sylvie opens the door after fumbling with the keys for a minute. She is starting to feel the effect of the alcohol as well. She takes off her shoes and her earrings, while Loki runs to the loo.

"Why did you book a room for two?" He asks in a serious tone, leaning against the door-frame of the bathroom.

Sylvie freezes, her hand hanging mid-air for five uncomfortable seconds before she awkwardly drops it to her side.

Why did she book a room for two? She could have just rented separate rooms, or at least ones with separate beds. It's not like she and Loki are actually together.

But they have been. At least for the past few days. Why do they need separate rooms here when they share a bed back home?

Home. Sylvie realises with alarm that she's thinking of her prison as her home.

Is this reality starting to mess with her mind now?

"It's okay, I don't want to leave you either." Loki's voice pulls her out of her inner monologue. She turns around quickly in his direction. He's still drunk, and it shows, but he has a look on his face that she has never seen before- a mix of resolution and fondless. His eyes whisper silent vows of loyalty, and something else, something he can't quite express yet. "I will never leave you."

Sylvie smiles, closing the distance between them and standing next to him. Her hand finds his by sheer instinct. "Good to know."

"I mean it, Sylvie." He gives her hand a reassuring squeeze, before he tugs her along with him as he sits down on the bed, unable to stand any longer in his inebriated state. She is grateful to be seated too, and she's unsure whether it is just the alcohol. "I know you hate it here. But I like this." He indicates at her, then at himself, then back at her. "I like falling asleep next to you, and walking into the kitchen first thing every morning to see you cursing at the microwave. I like how you hum in the shower and scream at the TV."

Sylvie listens quietly, her eyes focused on the feeling of his hand in hers. She is trying to memorize this moment, burn the shape of his fingers and the feel of his touch into her brain, so that when it's gone- when he is gone- like everything in her life always is, she will have another good memory to relive again and again.

Loki continues. "I like the way you burn the pasta every time you try to cook."

"I don't burn the whole dish." She retorts playfully. "Just the bottom part."

He shakes his head to show he disagrees. "Can I tell you a secret?"

Her heartbeat quickens. Is he going to confess that he has feelings for her?

Does he have feelings for her?

"Sure." She barely whispers back.

Loki double-checks. "Promise me that you will never tell yourself?"

She laughs softly. "I promise."

Loki tenses, suddenly looking sober. He lets go of her hand, to rest his by his side, his fingers clenched into a fist. Mastering all his courage, he finally speaks. "I don't want to leave. Ever. I like it here."

Sylvie looks away, suddenly needing air. Hearing Loki say that makes her feel irrationally angry. He promised to be on her side every step of the way, but the minute he finds a life he likes, he's ready to throw in the towel.

A part of the anger stems from the fact that she knows, a major reason he wants to stay is her, this life he has with her. Two Lokis on any other timeline will cause Nexus events. But here, they are free to be together. Timelines don't start branching off like a growing vine on timelapse video every time they touch. And he wants that. She knows this because he has all but said it with his words and his actions.

And because she wants it too. Damn it, she wants it so much. She is getting sucked into this reality, indeed.

But she knows she has to finish what she started- she owes it to herself, and to the people out there who need her help, who will be robbed of their lives if she doesn't stop whoever is doing this.

She wants to-

- But she can't.

"Loki, I-" she stops when she turns around to see he has already fallen asleep. Wordlessly, she wraps the comforter over his sleeping form, before crawling under it herself. Turning to her side, facing away from him, she wonders what's next for them.

[lochrannn]

AU-gust: Glass Houses

Read on AO3

CW: Explicit Sexual Content

prompt no 9: Roommates

Characters: Lila Pitts, Diego Hargreeves

Relationship: Lila Pitts/Diego Hargreeves

-

Diego honks his horn as an asshole driver swerves out in front of him so that he has to slam on his brakes, hoping the car that's been riding his ass for the last two blocks doesn't crash into the back of his trunk.

But then he realizes that the asshole's vacated a parking spot not too far from his building, so Diego takes a deep breath and swings his car into the gap. Once stopped, he turns the key and pulls it out of the ignition, the shitty banger he's driving lurching a little, as the engine cuts out.

He takes another deep breath and tries to settle the undefined feeling of simmering rage and frustration.

He has only a few minutes before it will get too unbearably hot in his car without the air con on, but he thinks if he doesn't take the quick moment to settle his nerves, he might punch the next person who just looks at him funny square in the face. And all things considered, he's almost certain he doesn't want that to happen.

So he leans back against the headrest, lets his eyes slip closed and tries not to think of the mounting stack of bills on his desk back at the agency, or how later tonight he'll have to put on a brave face for Allison and Vanya or they'll again try to get him to let them help him with money, or how he's had to let out his spare room in his apartment to subsidize the rent, or how he's probably going to have to give up his dream of his own business and join a bigger agency and start working domestic dispute and divorce cases, which he absolutely hates.

His eyes snap back open at the realization that he's incapable of meditating his worries away, so he decides there's no point in staying in the car and gets out into the blazing afternoon sun.

When he walks up the five flights of stairs, because the elevator has been out of order for as long as he's lived in this shitty building, he feels droplets of sweat running down the back of his neck and into the collar of his shirt, not because he's expending too much energy, but because its a hundred and three fucking degrees in the city.

Diego unlocks his front door, kicks the bottom while pushing it open because it always jams, lets his keys drop into the little dish by the entrance, doesn't bother to kick off his shoes, and just heads straight over to the living room couch and drops down onto it.

He heaves another sighing breath, his muscles no less tense than when he was sitting in his car a few minutes ago, and he's still dreading having to meet his sisters later in this state of pent up frustration. He really needs to relax.

For a moment he considers changing into a t-shirt and shorts and going for a run or to the gym, but it's just too fucking hot for that. He thinks, with slightly morbid fascination, that the only things that can easily and efficiently relax him are exercise, a good fight, or a good fuck, and none of those options are readily available right now.

Although...

Diego takes another deep breath, tries again to empty his mind, though pretty unsuccessfully, and reaches down to the top of his jeans. He unbuttons them, pulls down the zipper and pushes his pants and boxers far enough that he can pull out his cock with one hand. He licks the palm of his other hand and then uses it to give himself an experimental tug to see if the lack of real lubrication is too uncomfortable.

Feeling a little foolish, as he's not jerked off this hastily since he was a teenager - these days he'll usually do it in the shower if he feels like it - Diego tries to conjure up some erotic images in his mind to help him get hard.

He manages to get some fantasies going behind his closed eyelids while lazily moving his hand along his dick.

Lips closing around his earlobe, teeth scraping along his neck, a hand trailing down his chest, hips colliding with his, soft moans responding to his touch.

He's so distracted, head leaning on the back of the couch, eyes closed, that he's pretty certain he goes into cardiac arrest when a clipped voice somewhere behind him says, “What are you doing?”

His first jumbled thought is for the preservation of his modesty, so he curls in on himself, to shield his exposed crotch from view, and then awkwardly turns around to see, past the door to the kitchen, his new roommate, Lila, who he had completely forgotten about, standing by the open fridge, a large bottle of soda Diego is certain he himself bought, halfway to her lips and she's pinning him with her frown, one perfectly straight eyebrow quirked up high.

Diego has no response and can't move. And, maybe because he continues to be holding his still half hard dick in his hand, his brain can't help but focus on the fact that Lila, who - he had immediately noticed the first time he met her - is incredibly hot, is wearing nothing but a tight, low-cut tank top with thin straps, and sinfully short shorts that make her legs look like they go on for days.

Feeling like the perviest deer to ever be trapped in anyone's headlights he shifts his gaze to the soda bottle in her hand and is immediately out of ideas for what else to do. Maybe he'll have the tiniest bit of luck today and there'll be an earthquake that will form a crack in his floor which he can disappear into. Or maybe, even better, the fucking moon will explode and rain fiery meteors down on him and end his misery.

The moments tick by and nothing happens to ease the tension until Lila shifts her weight on her bare feet, twists the cap back onto the soda bottle, puts it on the counter, closes the fridge door and then says in a low but steady voice, “Want some help with that?”

Diego's eyes snap back up to look at her and there's a glint in her eyes and an upwards tug playing at the corners of her mouth and he thinks she must be mocking him, until she lifts her eyebrows once at him suggestively and then starts making her way over.

There's nothing he can think of to say to that.

All blood, apparently, leaves his brain again to shoot down south at the prospect of... something... and that must be the reason why, completely on autopilot, he leans back against the couch when she stands in front of him. And then he moves his hands away to give Lila access when she drops to her knees between his, swiftly wraps her one hand around the base of his dick, slightly grinding the heel of her palm into his balls, making him twitch, digs her other hand into his thigh, and then loses no time to take him into her mouth, making him gasp.

What the fuck is happening?

It's so weird, and probably also pretty wrong to let yourself get sucked off by what is effectively your tenant, Diego thinks, but it's also so fucking hot how Lila is bobbing her head, not taking him in very deep, but she's hollowing out her cheeks and pressing her tongue against him and he's staring down at her and every so often he can see the top of her breasts and he can already feel the muscles in his abdomen tense.

He resists the urge to put his hands on her head, stifles his panting breath, hoping that the less active he is in this situation, the less of a dipshit that makes him.

Lila's hand on his thigh moves upwards and under his shirt and she lets her fingers drag across his abs. Her interest apparently piqued, she pushes his shirt up to see, hums appreciatively, and that makes Diego lose his iron grip on his self-control for a second and he thrusts up into her mouth and feels instantly guilty for doing so.

But when Lila's gaze flies up to meet his, eyes dark with arousal and want, Diego has no choice but to put his hand under her chin, touching her for the first time, and pull her off him with a small pop, or he'll come down her throat that instant and he really can't let that happen.

She looks confused for a second but then gets up and leans her hands on his chest while she swings her leg over his knee to sit down on one of his thighs, and Diego has yet to let go of her chin.

He doesn't guide her, he'd do nothing of the sort, but his hand comes along with her face as she leans in to kiss him, open mouthed and filthy, with her tongue pressing against his, right away.

Her lips taste of sugary soda, but the rest tastes of him and something in Diego's brain short-circuits and a tingle runs down his spine.

He's so engrossed in their kiss and already so turned on, that it takes him half a second to notice that Lila's wrapped her hand around his cock and is slowly pumping it up and down in time with the movement of her tongue and lips against his.

Unsure where to put his own hands without wanting to overstep whatever boundaries might still be left, Diego keeps one on the side of Lila's neck and wraps the other around her small wrist where she has the hand she's not using to drive him absolutely insane pressed up against his chest for balance.

And then he feels her rock her hips, grinding down onto his thigh and she moans into his mouth at the friction and that's all it takes for Diego's muscles to go impossibly tight and an almost blinding orgasm to rip through him. He squeezes his eye's shut, can't stop a grunt from pushing it's way up his throat, and distantly feels Lila press her forehead against his, while he holds on to her wrist and neck for dear life.

Diego falls limply against the back of the couch, Lila's weight on him disappearing shortly after, but he keeps his eyes shut as guilt and shame begin threatening to replace the feeling of bliss still running through his veins.

He shouldn't have let this happen.

He's so distracted by his spiraling thoughts that he takes no notice of the rustling sounds around him until he's hit in the face by something slightly squishy and damp that drops to his chest before he can open his eyes.

When he does, he sees, lying on top of him, a washcloth that was clearly tossed at him by Lila who's standing just the other side of the coffee table staring him down expectantly.

“Come on, clean yourself up,” she says and then comes around to drop down onto the couch next to him, leaning against the armrest, “or do you need help with that as well?”

She smirks at him wickedly as he gingerly begins wiping himself clean.

He tucks himself away, cheeks flushing, suddenly feeling overly exposed with her just sitting there, watching him.

But when he zips and buttons up his jeans she breaks the silence with amusement in her voice, “Chop chop!” she chirps. “I could do with you returning the favour right about now,” and at whatever shocked expression she must find on his face, she pouts slightly and says, “... or not. But then you'll have to ignore the buzzing coming from my bedroom for the next twenty minutes,” and she starts getting up from the couch again.

But before she's fully upright, Diego grabs her wrist, pulls her back down, and at a speed that surprises even himself, maneuvers her into a prone position, her head lying on the armrest, and he positions himself between her legs, shoving her tight tank top up with his nose, and kisses her belly button.

Some combination of his tongue and his rough stubble on her soft skin makes Lila giggle and her hands fly into his hair and Diego goes to work, all thoughts of shame and guilt completely forgotten.

[writerly-owl-blog]

Undead: Chapter Three

Summary: It's been a year since the unexplained rising of the dead and mass infection of the millions, but Lance is managing to survive. He even thinks he's doing pretty damn well, as fighting for your life goes, until he meets Keith - the boy with the sword and quiet words and constant plan. Mix in Hunk and Pidge, and they've got a solid team of four and a solid method of survival, but when they stumble into a hostage, an experimental, mad genius, and the odd truth, keeping some semblance of a nice, unconfrontational life may not be as easy as they had originally thought.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Four

On AO3

CHAPTER THREE

“79 bottles of beer on the wall, 79 bottles of beer…”

“Lance, I swear to god, if you keep…” Pidge starts, slamming her head against the back of his seat in misery, too tired to even finish her argument. Lance grins a wicked grin, feeling it stretch across his mouth, telling of trouble.

“Take one down and pass it around, 78 bottles of beer on the wall…” he continues, his voice gaining volume.

“Whatever threat Pidge was about to make, I second that,” Keith sighs from the backseat, his voice scraped with exhaustion and the pure, unadulterated sound of somebody done with the cruel ways of the world. Including Lance’s awful voice. Even he admits his vocal chords were cursed at birth, but if the zombie apocalypse itself couldn’t stop him from singing every once in a while, neither can Keith.

“78 bottles of beer on the wall, 78 bottles of beer…”

“Lance!” It’s Keith again, hissing through his teeth, and when Lance throws his head over his shoulder with a teasing smile he sees nothing but Keith’s cherry-red, frowning face, his vivid violet eyes burning with annoyance.

Actually, they look pretty like that - more of a sparkle to them, something more than his usual contemplative, deep gleam.

Besides, Keith can survive one more verse.

“Take one down and pass it around, 77 bottles -“

Sput-sput-sput.

“No!” Hunk cries from the driver’s seat, slamming his large foot into the gas. “Stay with me!”

Sput-sput…put.

And the car rolls to a slow, steady stop, parking itself in the middle of the two-lane road.

“Damn it,” Pidge sighs, sagging back against her seat, wearily clicking her seat belt and flinging it off of her chest. “Guess we’re on foot from here, folks.”

“I thought we had more time than that,” Hunk sadly says, his hands plopping onto his lap.

“Such is reality, Hunk,” Pidge responds, her palm raised, fingers stretched out like a cop directing traffic at a broken light. “Nobody get out yet. Scan for them.”

Lance shifts to the edge of his seat, the jubilant shanty verses bleeding into the back of his mind like a movie soundtrack as his eyes scan to the left, the right, picking up on scrubs, trees, weeds sprouting through the cracks in the road like new carpeting. Nothing more, nothing less.

“I see nothing,” Hunk comments from beside him, his eyes squinted as he pushes his orange headband up, securing his bangs in place. “What about you guys?”

“Nope,” Lance answers, adding an extra pop to the p.  “Keith?”

“None.”

“Me neither,” Pidge finishes, her voice razor-sharp with worry. “This isn’t right. Where are they?”

“I don’t know, but we have to get out,” Keith tersely responds, his hand gripping around his sword with familiarity. “If we don’t, whatever’s around will find us eventually.”

“Wait,” Lance suddenly interrupts, still as a deer in the headlights. “Stop.”

“What?” Hunk asks, his hand braced against the car door.

“Shh.”

Lance pauses. Stops all of his limbs, steadies his bones, and <i>listens,</i> and as he falls silent, so does the rest of the car.

It begins as a subtle shuffling, dulled by the barrier of the car doors - something shifting, moving together, scrambling to be free. And then it erupts into a chorus of moans. A scream, piercing through the air. A yell, but not one that Lance recognizes from any living, breathing human or animal.

“Is it a hoard?” Hunk immediately asks, snatching his hand away from the car handle as if it had suddenly gone up in flames.

“It can’t be. There’s nothing here. I can’t even hear them running,” Pidge responds on the dot, mashing her nose against the car window in her attempt to get as close to the source as possible.

“But what if they’re just standing there?” Lance asks, voice quavering.

“I don’t even hear footsteps,” Keith argues, pressing his cheek against the window to peer down the long, barren road. “Besides, I don’t see any. They’re not on the road.”

“They could be in the woods,” muses Pidge, pulling back from the window. Her nose had left little smudges, the green of the woods blurred as a consequence.  

“We would be able to see them if they were on the edges. It’s coming from somewhere else. Maybe deeper in?” Keith continues.

“We should get out of the car,” Lance suddenly starts, his heart thumping in his throat like a constant, brutal conga drum.

“Are you kidding?” Pidge yells, glaring in Lance’s direction so hard that he imagines it could give the back of his neck third degree burns in an alternate universe. Maybe even in this one. He puts nothing past Pidge, supernatural or not.  “We don’t even know where they are!”

“Let’s just walk out, get a scope of the place, see what’s there, and if the group’s too big, we run back to the car and wait them out. If it’s smaller, we can kill them and be done with it. Keep walking.”

“Sounds good to me,” comments a nonchalant voice from the back seat, calm as the wisps of clouds floating overhead.

Pidge whips her head to the side, jaw dropping. “Keith? What are-“

But before anyone can lock the door, Keith swiftly opens the door and rolls out at the speed of light, sword barely trailing against the ground as he trots forward, his entire body tensed and ready for action.

“See? Somebody trusts me,” Lance snorts, his fingers tightening around his pistol as he scoots his body toward the car door.

“Lance, don’t you dare, I will lock this car!” Hunk warns, eyes wide, but Lance is already halfway out the door, breathing in the rancid air, slamming the door shut behind him with a finality that shocks even him.

Keith, a few steps ahead of the car, jumps at the sound and turns on his heel, locking laser-focused eyes with Lance, his gaze charged with the kind of intensity that makes Lance feel like he’s the only thing in the entire world, as if everything else has melted away into soup and trailed down the street gutters. He stands there for a moment, jaw loose, his pistol lowered, but Keith doesn’t so much as blink, and Lance has no idea what’s going through his head, no idea at all, and there’s bigger things going on that he should be focused on, but -

“Can you turn those off?” Lance blurts out, forcing his gaze to the side, his ears registering the new volume of the dead, undiluted by the fiberglass walls and scratched paint slathered on the outside of the car.

Keith’s eyebrows soar high. “Turn what off?”

“Your…eyes.”

“What?”

“Never mind, just… Let’s go,” he finishes, shaking his head to clear it of its swarming.

“Okay?”

“Shut up,” Lance mumbles, clicking the safety off, checking his rounds. Just a few. He would have to make do, with the rest of the rounds tucked safely inside his backpack in the back seat.

“It’s coming from the side of the road,” Keith comments, carefully stepping into the grass, his shoes crackling over what remains of the leaves. “Pidge was right. They’re in the woods.”

“Maybe someone made a trap. People do that, right?”

“For that many?” Keith shoves a branch out of his way, ducking under it irritably as they crawl into the messy undergrowth. “I doubt it.”

“Then what the hell?”

“I dunno, guys. This is pretty creepy.” The voice comes from directly behind Lance’s left shoulder and Keith jumps, whirling around to point his blade directly at the newcomer’s stomach.

“Whoa, whoa!” Hunk raises his hands, his eyes widening as he takes a hearty step back. “Chill, Keith!”

“I thought you were staying in the car,” Lance says, bringing a hand to rub at his temples, a gesture he’s found himself doing more and more lately. He’s turning old for sure. Like his mother. Like Keith. “Go back. We’ll just scout, see what’s up.”

“And leave you to face the undead alone? Buddy, I don’t think so,” Hunk scoffs. “I may have lost my gun a while back, but I still have my fists.”

“Do you even know how to fistfight?”

“Well. Sort of. Not really, but -“

“I have a knife. Plus, you have a gun. Long-range.” Pidge pops from behind Hunk’s back, a sharp, long hunting knife palmed in her hand, the handle colored a deep forest green. “You need backup, even with two good weapons.”

“We’ll be fine on our own,” Keith argues, his voice scraping against the bottom of his throat, but Lance grabs his arm, ignoring the intense heat thrumming through the jacket. Why can’t he just take his jacket of before he catches on fire himself? Lance will never understand.

“We’ll be even more fine with some extra hands. C’mon. Let’s go.”

Keith works his jaw. Closes his eyes. And then steps forward with the rest of them, that same dangerous gleam still wedged in his eye, as if it’s an internal alarm for danger, almost the same look that had fixed been on his face earlier when the zombie had been on top of him. Frozen. Panicked. Harsh. Ferocious.

And back then, even now, Lance almost wants to scoop him, this half-stranger, into a hug. Tell him everything’s going to be okay, even if it’s a lie, for his sake as much as Keith’s - to calm his shaking hands and shaking nerves, as sensitive as a new sunburn.

But there’s only the grass, the trees, the dirt, and the humidity. No comfort. And Lance can’t exactly just ignore the rising screams, the wild things clawing into his ear cavity with sounds that remind him of fresh wounds and primality, something subhuman and not worth a moment of anybody’s time. Something that shouldn’t exist at all.

“There!” Hunk points his finger toward a pocket of the woods thickly guarded by trees and hedged with bushes wilting with dead pink flowers, drooping toward the long grass.

“What are you pointing at?” Pidge whispers, narrowing her eyes, and just then Lance sees it - a patch of grey amongst the blue and green colors of nature, wedged behind the row of oaks and tall, swaying weeds egged on by the breeze.

“That’s the side of a building,” Keith mutters, creeping almost soundlessly in the grass  until his half-gloved hands are perched on the bark of a particularly large tree, peeking out toward the structure. Lance follows close behind, his breath bated, his eyes picking and hashing through the individual strands of pine needles and leaves to catch the rusted warehouse that lies behind in a cleared patch of woods, the sounds louder than ever, seeming to reverberate off of the trees and screech through strong metal walls.

“Why capture but not kill?” Keith whispers, his fingers tightening around the tree, scraping into the bark.

“That’s a good -“ Lance starts, but Keith is suddenly darting faster than Lance had  previously thought humanly possible, sprinting out of the cover of the thick, safe bushes. Lance yelps, the sound like a gunshot as he dives forward, grabbing a heaping fistful of Keith’s jacket to yank him backwards, scooping him off of his feet.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, speed racer! Where do you think you’re going?” he hollers at him, hauling him back behind the trees with a strong arm fueled with pure adrenaline. Keith whips his head toward him, his soft mullet brushing Lance’s nose, and wow, they’re pretty close. Very close. He can see those eyes again, and they’re fascinating, but also terrifying. Extremely terrifying. This proximity, that is. Everything about this, really. Terrifying.

Time to stop.

Lance backs away, but it’s more like a leap, picking up the scraps of his composure to send a glare at Keith, eyes flashing with hot, sparking irritation.

“You can’t just go running in like that!” he yells, raising his arms, and Pidge smacks her  small hand over his mouth.

“Be quiet! We don’t know if there’s anyone in there!” Pidge harshly whispers, her face set in an angled scowl.

“Uh, excuse me? We know there’s dead people!”

“More than them, I mean! Alive people!”

“Let me take a look,” Keith urges them, his eyes wide, yearning for action. “I’ll be fine. I’ve got a sword.”

“Let you go in alone? That’s a no, Mr. Impulsive,” Lance bites back, but is voice is quieter, brought down a few notches.

“Guys, how about we all go in there? Deal?” Hunk says, his voice pleading, his hands raised in the air, patting up and down in their call for peace. “We’re gonna get nowhere, fighting like this. Let’s just check it out. Be done with it.”

“That’s what I thought we were doing in the first place!” Pidge sighs, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. “Let’s just go!”

She leads the way, crawling out of the bushes like a lithe gymnast, the green of her shirt blending in surprisingly well as she darts across the field, wildly looking around for any attackers. Keith follows, his long legs striding across the ground, and Hunk and Lance take off at the same time, weapons sweeping in all directions.

Nobody shoots at them. Nobody runs out, calling at them to get away while they still can. There’s nothing except the increasing calls of the zombies from inside the warehouse, scrabbling at the walls, moaning like they’ll never hear or experience anything good ever again. Like Beyonce’s album Lemonade. God, Lance misses that as much as he misses Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

The entrance is a pair of enormous double doors, almost like those of a barn, firmly locked with a large wooden latch that fixes into a hardy metal square.

“All right,” Hunk starts, sucking a breath in through his nose, out through his mouth. “Slow and steady now. Slow and - Keith!”

Keith had ripped the wooden bits out of their rightful places, barreling his shoulder into the double doors to slam them open.

“Keith! Get back!” Lance strides forward, ready to grab him by the scruff of the neck again, his gun raised and ready, but nothing comes racing out, filled with rotting smells and broken teeth and grey, flayed skin.

Instead, they’re in cages. Larger-than-life cages, the kind that span halfway up the warehouse’s enormous walls, latticed in a pattern that keeps anything from getting in or out, padlocked to the max with thick silver chains. Long, skeletal fingers grasp through the holes in their containers, teeth closing around the wires as if trying to gnaw their way through, but they’d fall out sooner than they’d ever do that. In fact, some of them are already laying on the floor, yellow and cracked through, and Lance has a mental image of every movie he’s ever seen with a creature’s teeth strung on a necklace as a show of power. Do people actually do that? Even today? It would be odd to have a string of teeth, but still, if it would make him look like a person not to mess with, he’d be down for it.

Well. Actually. On second thought. Those are technically human teeth, no matter how much he thinks of the zombies as monsters with no humanity attached to them whatsoever, and that would be weird. So no. He wouldn’t be down.

He shakes his head again to untether himself from the random refuge of his own mind. Focus, Lance.

“Who did this?” Pidge wonders, glancing in the warehouse, her head poking even further through the entrance. The area is well-lit, furnished with a multitude of gas lamps and candles placed on the ground, illuminating the eight cages that are filled to the brim with the undead, the firelight bouncing off of their unfocused, glassy eyes. The farthest wall directly across from the entrance is packed with old-fashioned wooden tables, cabinets, chairs, all of them crammed with enormous glass jars that emit a strange purple glow, almost ethereal in nature.

But the thing that first catches Lance’s eye among all of the odd sights is the enormous structure in the middle that glows with a purple-black sheen, painted immaculately, covered with all kinds of symbols and nozzles that bow to something similar to an eccentric microscope in the center, surrounded with stove-like circular tops. And as if the piece of technology wasn’t weird enough on its own, a dilapidated cot bed stands beside it, a silent, sturdy body strapped to the frame with what looks like ripped-off seat belts.

Keith screams something. His voice cracks. It’s a name, Lance knows, but none that he’s heard before.

“Shiro!” He runs forward, past the grasping hands of the dead through the cages, past the machinery, a blur of excitement and emotion and something else that Lance doesn’t understand, but sees all the same. He scrambles forward to follow him, followed by Hunk and Pidge, stopping at the edge of the cot to finally see the man. A new-looking scar is stretched across the bridge his nose, a puff of white hair drifting onto his forehead, and as Lance trails his eyes down him he notices the tattered, ruined clothing, the deep wounds, the purple bruises -

And the missing arm. That too.

“Shiro! Wake up!” Keith yells, grasping Shiro’s jaw, slapping his face. His face is pinched, his eyes watering, his teeth gritted as he gazes down at the place where his arm once was, where it should still be. “Who the hell did this to you? Wake up!”

Shiro’s eyes squeeze. He lets out a weak cough, but the sign of life is enough for Keith, who grasps his shoulders with an iron grip.

“Keith, who is he?” Lance asks, his voice colored in shades of worry.

Keith doesn’t listen. Shiro’s eyes are opening.

“K-“ He starts, but the syllable ends in a gag reflex, and then a choke, before he tries again, wheezing thin breaths through his chest. “Keith.”

“Shiro!” Keith shouts, his voice slamming through the air, causing the zombies to hop in their cages in stimulation. “I thought you were dead! What are you doing here? Who took your arm?”

“Keith,” Shiro starts again, licking his dry lips, his eyes fluttering closed. “Go.”

“Are you serious?“

“Leave!” Shiro shouts - or his voice hits as close to a shout as he can in his current state, at least.

“Who’s-“

And then it all happens at once.

The door opens behind their backs with a creak that only wood can make, bending on its hinges. Something smacks into the back of Lance’s leg, hot and steaming and surprisingly comforting, unlike the solid floor that his skinned knees slam into at the last second. His chest is down, his cheek is pressing against the floor, impossibly squished, and he would probably think it’s uncomfortable if he weren’t too busy passing out, swimming into a vat of nothing at all.