#like i need to inject it directly into my nervous system

[spider-shoes-archive]

most perfect video on planet earth

[melodiousmonsters]

(Long ah post) Re-did my monster taxonomy again, now with more ranks and specificity. I shall now go into more detail about everything on there. Some taxons are grouped together for lack of anything differentiating them. Things in italics and parentheses are out of universe notes, everything else is information known to the monsters. Also yes this does mean the scientific names for the old monstiary pages are almost all inaccurate again.

Monsters are under the domain Monstra. To be put in the domain you need to be sapient and capable of breeding, some exceptions may be made for certain monsters that are clearly monsters but can’t breed. (The chart is nearly the same as the ones that are used in the modern day monster world, but the exact arrangements of species may be changed as some “monsters” aren’t even monsters but most don’t know that nor have a way to find out. Divina was added after the Wubbox were discovered, thus the addition of the last part of the previous in-world sentence as they can’t breed)

Kingdoms

(This was added after the original document was written) Divina is where the monster species made directly by gods go, a semi-waste bin taxa. The name “Divina” goes down to the genus allowing for unique species names. They seem to be immortal, and possess great power over their elements. The two monsters under the ranks are Divina mechana (Wubbox) and Divina simiservice (Enchantling). Organica contains the ordinary monsters made of living organic matter. They have living cells, can breed, and most of them need to eat, but that’s not a requirement. Inorganica contains the ordinary monsters that are made of primarily inorganic/non living matter while they are alive. They can breed, and none of them need to eat. They run entirely off of their lifeforce, but they eat sometimes for enjoyment.

Phylums

Beastia or beasts are critter-like monsters. Mondragora contains plant-like monsters (Mushrooms are plants in this universe, but there are true fungus like molds and yeasts, they just are barely researched). Reanimata or reanimated monsters are similar to the undead from ancient stories. These monsters are made of cells, but dead ones. Constructa are mainly made of non cellular materials.

Classes (not element classes those are different)

Segmenta or segmented monsters have an segmented exoskeleton composed of chitin, a nervous system primarily on their ventral side, hemolymph, a heart that is on the dorsal side, and molt to grow. Jellatina (through that to jellatidae) or jellatinous monsters are a very broad classification, a semi-wastebin taxon. Basically they don’t have a spinal cord, but aren’t segmented. Chordata or chordates have spines of some sort, even if they are very small and simple as in the inkfish(Atrapicidae). They have blood, and internal mineralized bones. Fungi (to Sporalis) or mushroom monsters have no leaves, are consumers, and aren’t like critters. They are actually a network of mycelium and what looks like their bodies are actually just puppets that are made for interacting with other monsters, and maybe aiding in breaking down food. They can shortly detach these and animate them for a bit while not connected to their mycelium, this behavior is most commonly seen in Sporalis sadisticus (Squot), but the others can do it too. Plantae (to Florales) or plant-like monsters are, well, plant-like monsters. They have chloroplasts and are autotrophs, and can absorb nutrients from soil through special membranes mostly on their feet, but some other monsters can do this too so it’s not a requirement. Instead of activating muscles with muscle fibers, they use hydraulics. They inject and retract water from special absorbent tissues that expand and shrink depending on how much water is in them. For transporting materials through their bodies they use xylem. Phantasma (to Phantidae) or phantoms are ghost-like monsters. They have no organs and instead use a special fluid called ectoplasm that does all their bodily functions like digestion, material transport, and movement. Speaking of movement ectoplasm can stay suspended mid air allowing them to float. Skelleosis (to Skelidae) or skeleton monsters are mostly made of calcified bones. They don’t need to eat, sleep, or do anything a living organism needs to do. Constructa(the class, to Mechina) are monsters that construct their bodies. They often start out by their egg morphing into their first form, and then as they gain more lifeforce as they grow they can support a larger body and add on to their forms. Incramentids (to Goleformes) are inorganic monsters that grow like an organic one rather than building themselves.

Orders

Arachnids ( to Vasucta) are segmented monsters that eat by liquifying their food with their digestive juices by injecting it into their food with fangs. Insectiformes are the segmented monsters that eat by chewing or sucking up already liquid food. Synapsids (to Mammalidae) have solid skulls with three holes in each side, differentiated teeth, warm blood, and are the only organic monsters that can have fur. Amphibians (to Amphibidae) are monsters with skin they can breathe through when wet, and solid skulls. Sauropids have solid skulls with five holes in them, and undifferentiated teeth. Piciformes or piscine monsters have skulls with multiple parts, undifferentiated teeth, and partial thermal regulation. Most have gills and lungs.

Families

Crustacean (to Crustata) monsters are Insectoid monsters that have filamentous gills that they use to breathe. Insect monsters are Insectoid monsters that breathe through spiracles. Reptilidae or reptilian monsters are cold blooded and are primarily covered in scales. Avidae or avian monsters are warm blooded sauropsids. Ossipicidae or ossipicids are piscine monsters with calcified bones. Cartelpicidae or cartelpicids are piscine monsters with cartilage bones. Atrapicidae (to Suctipedes) or inkfish are piscine monsters with beaks, very underdeveloped spines that are one or two bones. Herboceae or herbal monsters are plant-like monsters with no bark on them and instead have soft stems. Arboraceae or tree monsters are monsters with bark. Miniralidae (to Geologica) are monsters made of minerals, they typically eat the minerals that they are made of and they are then heated in a special organ called a kiln, the molten rock is then gradually pushed to the surface to cool and harden into the new surface plates of rock. How they move has been theorized to be magic based. Articinidae (to Artinzina)or artisan monsters are made of materials like wood, fabric, or other crafts materials. They grow and do everything in a magic based way.

Genuses

Insectidae - Dronsecta or dronesects are insect monsters that can open portals with their wings. Larvasa are neotonus insectoids that stay in their larval states for their entire lives. Colomu means colored wings and Colomu have colored wings instead of the clear ones other insectoids have. Insectidae is just a wastebin-taxon where the rest of the insect monsters go.

Jellatidae - Membrana have membranes around their fluid insides. Fluidum have part of their bodies as uncontained fluids, the only monster in this genus are Fluidum _____ (haven’t named the species yet) (Whimsies), wich boil the fluid to fill a sack they make to contain it, which allows them to float. Molluscus is a wastebin-taxon that contains the rest of the soft bodied monsters.

Mammalidae - Ferrae are carnivorous monsters that actively hunt things and have sharp teeth. Ruminanta are monsters that have more than 4 stomachs and eat grasses and other tough things that require a lot of digestion. Humammalia are bipedal omnivorous monsters with mostly flat teeth. Psudoreptillia are semi-cold blooded monsters with calcified skin that resemble scales. Thumpidae are monsters that share a morphological resemblance to or are Thumpidae thumpus (Thumpies), which means they have no ribs and primarily move with spring loaded bones retracted by muscles. Cabutoris exists to contain the species Cabutoris maw (Maws), which fit nowhere else.

Amphibidae - Anura have no tails, Squamosis have calcified lumps beneath their skin that make them look like they have scales.

Reptilidae - Lizardae have flat-tipped tongues. Dracoda have forked tongues. Dinodae have non-splayed-out limbs.

Avidae - Pluma have beaks and most are flighted. Humavia are bipedal and don’t have beaks, have bird-like feet, and no fur.

Ossipicedae - Squamifer have scales, Lenis don’t.

Cartelpicedae - Rayta have ray-like cartilage in their limbs, Serrata have serrated teeth which are mineralized.

Herboceae - Herbosa have proper leaves that are fairly thin, Suculata have thick leaves and store a lot of water.

Arboraceae - Ambularborae have no bark covered trunk, Trunka as the name implies, do

Phantidae - Banshee contains Banshee banshee (Whisps), and Banshee talona (Withurs). Felaspira contains Felaspira furrus (Ghatz) Felaspira serpenta (Xysters).

Skelidae - Carossis have some non-bone tissue, ossa are all bone.

[burntoutangel]

MECHANICAL SEX DRIVES

LEFT HAND AMMO AT 20% SHIELDS AT 10% ASSISTED AUGMENT SYSTEM RECOMMENDING IMMEDIATE RETURN TO BASE MISSION AT ACCEPTABLE LEVELS PILOT I AM BEGGING YOU TO TURN BAC-

Shut down the warning signs, disconnect the jack in your cranial nerves that lets the onboard AI inject suggestions tactics and orders from base command directly into you brain 

You dont need them now   

10-15 enemy units are closing in on your radar, 100 feet, 90 feet, tanks with jet engines jammed into them to allow increased maneuvers and speed. 500 feet shows an enemy mech, the one you’re chasing. So close now, just a little more

40 feet

20 feet

Enemy within range 

You slam yourself through the concrete walls of the civilian residence you hid behind, the trinkets and purchases of someones life atomized in a second, a careful move to throw off the lesser visibility of the tanks

The first two are crushed under a mix of rubble and reinforced steel beams, wires from the buildings power systems sparking and igniting fuel leaks. You’re already gone and grabbing tank 4 as a club, its rotors squealing in open air as you crush it on top of tank 5, crushing them underfoot for good measure, neural links sending the details of a fleshy squish under your metal boots

3 units that had the misfortune of jetting behind you are torched in your boosters, jets of black smoke from the meat inside being cooked within seconds, they weren’t expecting a mech of this class, metal boxes with guns strapped on top are barely above the lowest rank of the food chain of combat

You arent sure if you’re the apex of that system, but you’re damn close 

The radar blip of the other pilot starts moving and you kick the violence into overdrive to make sure you’re ready and unbothered for her arrival, tanks 6-9 shatter and melt under you remaining left weapon ammo, not worth the waste of time for a proper violent death

She’s so close now

A few of the remaining tanks and what looks like two support flyers have joined her, jetting along in her wake like parasite fish, using her cone of violence to protect them from you. Gnats. Annoying insects that get in the way

You can see her through the optical systems now. Shining armor muddied and covered in scrap and imbedded shells and oil. The jagged mark of you shoulder mounted rail guns shot accents the beauty of her machine, a hole bitten through her abdominal armor, dripping oil and coolant and countless other substances that come together to make the death-angel before you.

Your fluids will mix soon. One way or another.

“YOU PSYCHO WHORE YOU DENTED MY SHELL” comes through her mechs speakers in a flurry of anger. Right shoulder lancer raised, charging, adjust two notches down, FIRE. That takes care of her speakers. We don’t need voices right now. 

She cuts boosters and doesn’t even bother counter boosting, simply stopping her furious momentum by crushing another apartment block, hands dragging deep gauges in the remaining landscape 

The remaining tanks are hit by your last 6 railgun shots, smoking craters burned into the ground as the flyers pepper small arms along your visors, blinding flashes as 7.62 shots ring against the sensors and antenna.

Out of nowhere her hand swats one out of the air, surprising even you Into stopping for a moment. Flyer 1 clips 2 as it sails through the sky, propelled by metal claws larger than its entire frame. Both create a cascade of sparks and light as missiles flares and fuel ignite midair. An incoming message from the last enemy in front of you flashes on your side monitor.

“FINE, WE’LL DO THIS THE HARD WAY”. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Her heat knife eats through the plating of your left shoulder, jutting close to the collarbone before the blade snaps in your armor and imbeds itself to you. The pain is unimaginable, burning through the pilots nervous system as it screams loud enough to crack its own jaw slightly. The retaliation is immediate, a final spare railgun round rammed through your enemies leg, blowing her mechanical kneecap out, the arching head of her mech mimicking the agony her flesh-body is probably going through, metal jaw ripping open and spiked forehead crashing into your own as the final bit of shielding for both your bodies gives way with an ear popping CRACK and a smell of ozone and desperation. A fist that costs as much or more as this entire city unit crashes into your stomach, flesh body vomiting up a mix of pre mission meds and nutrient slurry as your nervous system tries to understand feeling pain without apparent source 

Your left leg boosts itself up at uncanny speeds, remaining boosters jetting it into her center mass, where a solar plexus would be if we were flesh and blood, her visor is cracking and you can feel the anger radiating off her core. Either that or a power system on the verge of collapse. Same difference. At the same time warning signs flash across your eyes, power running low, generator damage at near critical levels, heat rising to unacceptable perimeters, pilot neural-link and information stress at 88% and rising

Both of your bodies collapse, her failing knee dragging her down as metal screams under stress, her hands clawing you down with her, falling flat on your back, adjustment boosters spluttering as they fail to adjust the sudden horizontal nature of your body. Command is screaming at you over whats left of the comm system, and from the shivers of her body she’s hearing the same message, something about “reactor meltdowns taking out an entire populated area” and “blatant waste of company resources”.  The wires remaining in your brain make a pop as you rip them from sore and bleeding ports, last message being broadcast on a private mech to mech channel

“See you back at base baby, thanks for the good time <3”

[vampibutch]

watching riverdale feels like someone cracked open my skull and took out my brain and dropped it in one of those watermarbling tanks jenna marbles likes to play with, except instead of paint its filled with tar and pixiesticks. somehow through some divine intervention im now able to see past all the levels of bad writing and creepy sexualization and horrifyingly stupid plots into the core of it all. there are no expectations here, theres no way to be disappointed. it knows exactly what it is trying to be. watching this show makes me feel like my fucking bones are turning inside out. archie got attacked by a fricken bear.

[wefoundloveunderthelight]

Void of Extinction by GleefullyCaptainSwan

Chapter 8/9

Read on AO3: | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8

Or on FF

Stacy's Tortured Crew: @teamhook @kmomof4 @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @ilovemesomekillianjones @itsfabianadocarmo @mariakov81 @qualitycoffeethings @zaharadessert @jrob64 @jonesfandomfanatic @natascha-ronin @tiganasummertree @xarandomdreamx @therooksshiningknight @batana54 @superchocovian @onceratheart18 @ultraluckycatnd @snowbellewells @karlyfr13s @the-darkdragonfly @xsajx @deckerstarblanche @jonesfandomfanatic

Chapter 8: Confrontation

“Just give it to me straight, Ruby, don’t go making up tales now.” The dark-haired woman chuckled defiantly from her spot on the bed in the corner of the room, the plastic walls separating her from the rest of the occupants in the room.

“It’s not good, Mum.” Ruby said softly. “It started spreading the moment it got in your blood stream. The doctors said it matches the data they have on file for J2.”

“So that’s it then.” The woman nodded resolutely before turning her attention to Emma. “Did the message make it to Merlin?”

Emma bit her lip, and her eyes met his for a moment before turning back to Mary Margaret. “Not all of it.”

“Enough?”

Emma shook her head. “I think so, I don’t know.”

“Where’s Will?”

Killian took Emma’s hand when he heard her loud exhale, knowing that the tears would be coming shortly after. “He’s next door. He uh…” She sniffled and the woman sat up in her bed.

“J2.” Ruby responded softly.

“Dammit.” The demure woman cursed. Killian sighed and pulled Emma against his chest. “So, what’s next?”

“Mum, you need to rest.” Ruby demanded.

“Oh, don’t give me that crap, Red. You know I don’t rest.”

“I contacted David.” Killian said suddenly, causing all the eyes in the room to turn toward him.

“What?” Emma asked horrified. “Why would you do that?”

Killian gestured toward the woman in the bed. “It’s his wife, he deserves to know.”

“Killian.” Mary Margaret spoke softly. “Did he…did he say anything?”

“He’s confused, doesn’t understand why you were there. I didn’t tell him much, just not to trust Regina, things aren’t what they seem, J2.” He added quietly at the end.

“He must be so angry.”

“He’s a good cop, if I know David, he’ll do some digging, figure things out.”

“You could have put him in danger.” Ruby exclaimed.

“Compared to what? We aren’t exactly on vacation here, love! We need help on the outside, Dave’s a good man.”

“He’s right. My husband followed the Mayor’s lead because he believed in what she was doing, but things have changed, she’s not who he thought she was, he’ll follow the leads, do what he thinks is right.”

In his pocket, his communicator beeped. Killian held up his hand and pulled it from his jacket. “We need to talk.” David’s voice boomed in his ear. “Now.”

“Speak of the devil, we were just talking about you.” He said light heartedly, hoping to set the man at ease.

“You aren’t listening to me. We need to meet. I want to see my wife; I have information you all need to see.”

“I can come to you…”

“No, no deals. I come to you.” He demanded and Killian sent a worrying glance in the woman’s direction as she stared at him in the bed.

Covering the device with his hand he talked softly. “He wants to come here; says he has information we need to hear.”

“No way, it’s a trap, he’s not just going to walk in here, no questions asked.”

“He’s worried about his wife.” Killian said honestly in response to Ruby.

“Go get him, follow our protocols.” Mary Margaret demanded of the dark-haired woman who opened her mouth to protest and then stormed out of the room.

“We’re sending one of ours to the wall. Meet her there and follow her rules or else you don’t come, Mate.”

“Fine.” He paused. “Can you tell my wife…” Killian glanced at the woman on the bed, her face pale. “Tell her that I love her.”

“Aye, Mate.” The line went dead. “He’ll meet her at the wall.”

“Thank you.” She said with a nod.

“He said to tell you that he loves you.” The woman smiled sadly as Killian took his leave from the room, Emma following him closely behind. The moment she stepped from the room; she entered the one directly beside it that held the critically ill, Will Scarlet. She nodded to him, and he watched as she closed the door behind her. He wasn’t sure how they were going to get through all of this, he only hoped that whatever David needed to speak to them about didn’t bring about more sorrow and despair.

~*~

“There’s my girl.” Will said weakly when she entered the room.

“Hey.” Emma breathed nervously. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got stabbed and injected with a plague there’s no cure for.”

Emma frowned in anger. “That’s not funny.”

He coughed. “I ‘spose not, but what else you gonna do?”

“I hate you.”

“You love me, don’t even try to deny it.”

“What are we going to do?” She cried.

“Don’t cry Emmie.”

“I can’t lose you.”

“Oi, I’m too cranky to die, I’m gonna be around long enough to embarrass Henry when he dates his first lass, or watch you marry that gent out there that can’t keep his bloody hands off ya.” Emma couldn’t stop her laughter no matter how much she just wanted to cry. “So, what’s the plan?” He asked, as she sat down in the chair across the room.

“Ruby left to bring David here, he says he has something we need to see; I don’t know. I can’t help but feel like it’s a trap, but Killian trusts him.”

“Not like we have any other brilliant plans, eh. I guess we work with what we got.” He coughed again, blood forming at the ends of his mouth as he wiped it away with his hand. “Hey, I’m fine. Really.” He tried to reassure her.

“You know I can tell when you’re lying.” She teased as the door beside her opened and Killian stepped into the room, announcing David’s arrival.

“Good, give ‘er someone else to harass.” Will joked as she stood from her seat.

“I’ll be back soon.” She promised, trying to smile as she left the room. When the door shut, Killian stopped her by placing a hand on her forearm.

“Are you alright love?”

“Of course, I’m not. My best friend is dying, I have no idea if the message I sent reached Merlin, if all of this has been for nothing, and I am honestly running out of reasons to have even a sliver of hope.” His finger brushed against her forehead, the tickle of her hair tingling against her skin.

“If the message didn’t go through, we’ll find another way,” He laced her fingers with hers, “together. But you don’t give up, not my Emma.”

A warm feeling filled her heart as his blue eyes stared back at her. She wanted to curl into his arms and believe that there was still a chance for them to win, but knowing Will was laying behind the door, dying a slow painful death, overtook any feelings of hope that tried to grow roots within her.

Killian wrapped her in his arms, and Emma melted against him, enjoying the moment of stillness and peace they had been afforded. On the other end of the hall, she heard a commotion and the sea of people parted as Ruby waked through the center. Emma withdrew from Killian and motioned to the end of the hall.

David strode toward them, a look of apprehension in his eyes as he settled them on Killian. “Where’s my wife?” He demanded as he reached them.

Killian and Emma exchanged a glance. “We need to talk, Mate.”

“I’ll talk after you take me to my wife.”

“Aye, this way.” He turned and opened the door, leading David into the room that housed Mary Margaret.

Emma stood at the back of the room as the man hesitantly approached his wife, a look of fear in his eyes. “Why would you do this?” His voice was shaking as he spoke.

“David…” She paused, as if she were rethinking her response. “I did what I thought was right.”

He hung his head. “Perhaps you were right.” He turned and looked at Killian. “I had questions.” Reaching into his jacket he pulled out a folder. “Things weren’t making sense. So, I did some digging.”

“Gold?”

“I followed the money. It all leads back to him, all the transactions into the Mayor’s office, research money for the Gold Collective, military operations. Money that shouldn’t be there, man.”

Killian glanced at Emma. “It’s all Hive.”

“That’s not all I found.” He almost whispered. “I saw the message to Merlin.” He turned and looked at Emma. “Of course, I had to do a search on Emma Swan. Grew up outside the walls of Storybrooke, came to town at age 14, lived on the streets for a few years until you found your payday in Neal Cassidy.”

Emma grunted. “Trust me, I didn’t want his money.”

“Did he know about your run in with J2?” Everyone turned and looked at her.

“No. His father was so interested in testing people, his search for answers seemed to have nothing to do with wanting to help people. I couldn’t trust anyone.”

“When did you know you were sick?” David asked.

“I got sick when I was 16, I had a place on the docks where others gathered at night to stay warm. A few of them got sick that winter, they didn’t last more than a few days before they were pulled from the streets, their bodies drained of life. When the fever came, I resigned myself to death. I got picked up in a sweep, they took me to a hospital for treatment. But after a few days I got better. The doctors started asking questions, I got nervous, so I ran.”

“Your blood work is in the system.” David said, opening the folder in his hands. “It was housed in one of Regina’s databases, looks like Gold flagged the information about 4 months ago.”

“That was right after I took off.”

“That’s not all they found. See I thought finding someone who had survived J2, a plague with zero cure, was a miracle, but imagine my surprise when I found you aren’t the only one.”

Emma shook her head. “There’s someone else who survived?”

David looked at Killian. “Did you know?”

“Know what, Mate?”

David handed him the folder and Killian stared at the pages in front of him. He flipped the page in his hand, his eyes wide. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“What is it?” Emma asked.

“Medical records.” David answered. “Killian’s medical records, to be more specific. His bloodwork shows he had J2.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, the only time I’ve ever even been sick was when I was young. That was years before the plague.”

David turned back toward his wife, “Don’t you get it. They both carry the gene that can fight off J2.”

“What good does that do?” Killian asked.

“I don’t know, but we need to find out. Maybe they can use your blood somehow to save my wife, to save everyone.” He turned back to her, a look of desperation on his face. “Maybe if we take your blood and Killian’s blood, maybe together, together it means something.”

She paused, staring at the man in front of her and then looking at Killian. “Henry.” She said suddenly.

“He’s sleeping, love.” Killian responded.

“No, Henry is the key.” She rushed to the door and then turned back to look at Killian. “I know I said we needed to talk, and this is really not the way I wanted to do this, but…” He narrowed his eyes. “Henry isn’t Neal’s. He’s yours.” She blurted out.

“What?”

“I…I didn’t know, not until he was born. I thought he was Neal’s. We had been apart for a month when I found out, but I was so stressed out, I wasn’t thinking. When he came early, I thought it was because of the stress, but then I held him, and he opened those beautiful blue eyes, and I knew, I knew he was yours.”

“Henry’s my son?” His voice cracked and tears sprung in her eyes, she stepped back toward him and pressed her hand to his cheek.

“Henry has your blood and mine. What if…” His eyes sparkled as he stared at her. “What if he has been the answer this whole time?”

Suddenly Killian’s entire face crumbled in anger, he reached forward and grabbed Emma, pulling her toward him as she tried to understand what was happening. Then she heard a voice that made her entire body tense.

“Hello, dearie.”

~*~

Killian didn’t have a moment to deconstruct the information he had learned from Emma before Gold and his son appeared in the open door. Killian had only seconds to react, pulling Emma toward him, protecting her from the man who had caused all of her fear.

“And where is that grandson of mine?”

“You stay the hell away from him.” Emma yelled and Neal stepped toward her.

“You took him away from me.” He reached out, touching her hair as she slapped his hand away from her face. Before he could react, Neal’s fist had drawn back and made contact with Emma’s cheek. Killian stepped forward, grabbing Neal by the collar, and yanking him toward him. The man cowered for a moment before Killian heard the click of a gun and Emma’s shrill. Killian could see Gold standing next to Emma, a gun to her head. He released Neal reluctantly, holding his hands in front of him.

“Just saying, a gentleman never strikes a lady, perhaps you should have raised him with better manners.” He said with a shrug, looking over at Neal with disdain.

“Children have always been such a disappointment.” The man growled and Neal stumbled backward to step away from the group. “So, let’s change that today. Where’s the boy?” Killian glared at the man, no one in the room saying a word. “Regina.” He called out and the woman appeared in the doorway. “Bring me the brat.”

Emma shrilled as the woman left the room, setting off to search for their son.

Their son.

His son.

He had a son with Emma. He couldn’t think about that right now, right now they just needed to survive.

He caught David’s eye as the man stood on the other side of the room. Nodding his head, he stepped closer to the door as David reached behind himself, pulling the gun he always kept at his back. Things moved suddenly the moment the gun came into view. Gold twisted quickly and Emma used her shoulder to shove the older man to the ground at the exact moment that Killian rushed Neal.

The two men crashed through the open-door frame into the hallway. Killian used the man’s surprise to his advantage, punching him square in the nose before he could get his bearings.

“Killian…” He looked up to see Ruby at the other end of the hall.

“Save Henry.” He screamed, continuing his assault against the man on the ground in front of him. Ruby ran down the hall toward the rooms where Henry was sleeping. Neal watched as she ran, a sudden kick to the side causing him to lose his balance as Neal scrambled away from him.

Killian took one look into the room, watching Emma rushing at Gold, as David was shoved into the wall. He had to trust that they would be ok, he needed to get to Henry before Neal. Standing up he gave chase after the man as he ran in the direction that Ruby had disappeared.

When he reached Henry’s room, the door was open. Ducking into the room, he rushed to the bed to find it empty. Turning around he saw Ruby laying on the ground behind the door. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he lifted her off the ground as her eyes flew open. “Henry.” She exhaled.

“Where’s Henry?”

“Neal…he took him.” Killian leaned her against the wall. “Go, I’m fine. I’m right behind you.”

Killian rushed back into the hall, looking up and down to determine which way Neal would have gone. He heard a clattering at one end of the hall and ran quickly after it. He pushed through the door of the stairwell and began climbing, praying with each step that he would find his son at the top.

When he breached the door, the light flooded his eyes as he rushed into the room, the water swirling through the boat dock. He spotted movement near the boat and yelled.

“Neal.”

The man stilled his movement, spinning around with the boy in his arms.

~*~

The cane came crashing down against her arm and Emma grabbed ahold of the wooden stick, yanking it forward as the man tumbled to the ground beside her. Emma took advantage of his imbalance and climbed onto his chest, holding the wooden cane against his neck, pressing it harder as the man struggled to breathe.

“Emma.” David sent her a warning from his spot on the floor on the other side of the room as he recovered from his previous entanglement with Gold.

“He can’t live.” She cried. “He’s too dangerous.”

She felt his hand on her shoulder. “That’s not for us to decide.”

Emma slowed her breathing, trying to rationalize the need to remove Gold from the playing field with her need to make him pay for everything he had caused.

“He’s not worth it, Emma.” David warned softly beside her.

“He’s dangerous.” She cried, watching as the man’s eyes widened in fear below her.

“Your son needs you.” Emma flinched, relaxing her grip on the cane as the man slowly lost consciousness. She threw the cane to the ground, falling back against the wall beside her.

“Go.” She said turning toward him. “Go find Killian and Henry.”

The man nodded, turned toward his wife, and then left the room.

“All of this, because of one man.” Mary Margaret said from her bed. “Because of greed.” She said angrily.

“I’m so sorry.” Emma said as the tears fell from her face. “You don’t deserve to die.”

“Don’t you worry about me. I have faith and so should you.”

“How can you be so positive at a time like this.” She said with a laugh, wiping her face with her hands.

“I don’t know, I guess I don’t feel like giving up just yet.”

Emma smiled, she appreciated the optimism of the woman, even if she didn’t share it. Suddenly the wind was knocked out of her, a blinding pain hitting her like a lightning bolt against her back. Before she could react she was lying face down on the cold cement, a foot pressing against her head.

“Neal said you were smart, but I think he was just blinded by a pretty face. That boy of mine is not a good judge of character.”

Emma gulped for air, choking in muffled gasps. She swung her arms, trying to grasp the man behind her, if she could just get ahold of a leg of his pants, or even a shoe. Her vision was blurring, sparkles of light flashing behind her eyes as she began to lose her fight to breathe. Her hand dropped to the ground beside her, a crashing sound vibrating in her ears.

Suddenly her airway opened, she choked, sucking in breath as her lungs filled with air. Beside her a wooden cane with a brass top fell to the ground. Emma rolled onto her back, looking up at the silhouette above her, she blinked her eyes, trying to focus as a hand was extended to her.

“I’m up here doing all this work while you take a nap, eh?”

Emma grabbed Will’s hand and pulled herself up, wrapping her arms around him. “You’re supposed to be resting.” She said with a laugh.

“And miss all the bloody fun?” Will teased before coughing. “Now go.” He gestured to the open door.

“I can’t leave him.”

“I think Mum and I can keep an eye on him while you save the world this time.”

“We’re going to fix this.” Emma said, looking between Mary Margaret and Will.

“Go Emma, find your boy.” The woman demanded and Emma ran out the door.

~*~

Killian stared nervously at Neal as he dangled Henry over the water. “Put the kid down, Mate. He’s innocent. You want to hurt someone, come at me.”

“You know I tried to do this the easy way, all you had to do was go on with your new life. But you just couldn’t stay away, could you?”

Henry’s face was red, the loud cries echoing in the hollow corners of the room. “Come on Neal.”

“Don’t!” He shouted. “You took everything away from me. Emma. My kid…”

“He was never yours to begin with.” Killian growled, which caused the man to twitch angrily, and Killian immediately regretted taunting him. “Please.” His voice cracked. “Just don’t hurt him.” He begged.

There was a loud crash behind him, causing Neal to step backwards closer to the water. Killian kept his eyes on the small bundle in the man’s arms, desperate to reach the child and pull him to safety. Suddenly Regina crashed through the crates behind him, landing on her back on the ground. David came rushing out after her, diving against the crumbled form.

Killian used the distraction to rush toward Neal who looked up right before he reached him. A smile grew on his face as he dangled the boy over the water, a menacing look on his face. Killian’s heart raced as his feet tripped closer to the man just as he released the boy into the dark waters below them.

“No!” Killian screamed as the bundled child fell into the icy water and sunk below the surface. He didn’t stop as he rushed past Neal, pushing him away from the edge and diving headfirst into the murky depths below.

[a-mended-pact]

Unsteady Keys: Chapter Two!

Hey everyone! So this is part two! I'm still currently trying to figure out how to make masterlist and what not for myself so bare with me on that! I hope you enjoy! Please feel free to interact and ask any questions! My request are also open!

✒ Word count: 1,447

💬 Authors notes: thank you so much for the response of the first chapter! I'm still super nervous posting my things! The only ones I'm confident about are for the Sticks & Stones series that hasn't fully dropped with @fortheloveofcriminalminds .

⚠️ Warnings!: there is mention of drugs and torture and normal criminal minds based things⚠️

Part 1

Part 3

When I awoke it was to the sound of voices arguing. I couldn't make out what they were saying. All I remember is being ambushed into a vehicle and being speed off. What the hell was happening? Did they take her too? Did they take both of us?

I couldn’t see anything due to what I assumed to be a blindfold over my eyes. My hands were tied behind my back along with my legs tied to a chair. I was here years ago. Way before I ever met Y/N. I had been running to get to her. Something was off. I could feel it. The way her eyes were unfocused even though she was looking directly at me. She wasn’t really seeing me. She was unmoving.  The real question is who is doing this to us. Before I could even think of all the possible unsubs. I felt a sharp pain in the side of my neck. An injection of some sort I wasn’t sure, right before what was obstructing my vision was removed.

‘Time to wake up genuis.’ The voice sounded tired and drained. My vision still remained unfocused; it hasn't adjusted to the dark lighting of the room. Their hand came to hold my cheek and patted it roughly as they made me focus on them. That’s when I finally got a good look at their familiar face. This can’t be happening. The more I focused on their dark eyes the more I wanted to scream. The drug they put into my system must have started to kick in because the longer I stared at them the more their face seemed to melt like this whole ordeal was out of a hollywood horror. 

The jazzy piano music playing in the background did nothing to stop the nightmarish scene this drug was causing me. If anything it made it worse. I tried to make sense of my surroundings but I couldn’t get my brain to comprehend any information it needed. I couldn’t even remember the unsubs name which was absurd in itself. I knew I knew them but with this hullaction coursing my body I couldn’t even begin to come up with a coherent thought. Even if I wanted to. I hated it. 

My mind felt like it was splitting open as it tried to sense what was happening. The world and everything around me was so distorted I wasn’t sure what was real anymore. I heard footsteps rushing towards me. I felt peace in the fact that they sounded so familiar as if they were going to save me. ‘Ah ah ah Agent Reid, You aren’t going to want to miss this.’ That voice and the ghost before me all resembled my wife.

 The sense of safety it brought me was fake. That I already knew. So why did I let her get so close to me? She leaned forward, ripping open my cardigan and my button up in one swift stride. She was too weak to do that. Wasn’t she? Her hand touched my chest and in that moment it did. I felt a burning sensation course through my body as a loud scream erupted from my mouth. When my vision started to clear from the pain. I realized it was only my imagination laced with the drug that was given to me. There the unsub stood with a sharp heated up blade in their hand. 

The smell of burning flesh and firewood filled my nostrils. That must have been where they heated up the blade. How did I not smell it before? Was I really so gone with this damn drug that I couldn’t even notice the basic senses? You would think I had a higher tolerance to drugs at this point. My head was killing me and the blaring music of the blasted piano was enough to make me want to scream in itself. 

The unsub stalked close to me and brought the knife up to my throat where my permanent scar was from the night I saved Alex Blake. I winced as the heat got closer to the scar tissue. I could already feel blisters forming just from the presence of it being so close to my skin.

‘Tell me something Agent Reid? What’s gonna help you sleep through the night now?’

-----------------

Being woken up by Matt banging on my window was not how I thought I would wake up. What happened? I don’t remember much of anything but messaging Emily that I was going home. I was upset with Spencer. My eyes widened as I shoved my door open, almost hitting poor Matt in the process. Wait? Hadn’t that been locked? Panic began to course through me. I needed to find Spencer. 

‘Where’s Spencer?’ my voice came out rushed and worried. I started scanning the parking lot frantically.

‘What do you mean? He is upstairs interrogating Cat Adams. He hasn’t left, he would have to have told us any new information he got.’ 

 

I glanced at him before I went running inside to get to the interrogation room. Matt hot on my trail following after me only mere steps behind. ‘Y/L/N, You need to calm down. What are you so worried about?’  I stepped into the room. Cat Adams was sitting in her cage where she belongs. 

Spencer however was nowhere in sight.  

‘Spencer would have told you all the new info if he had actually gotten any from her. He must have come out after I left. I saw him coming towards me in my car. That’s all I remember. Matt. He is in danger. He would still be here doing his job if he weren’t’ the worry i was feeling became all consuming. How do I make him believe me? I didn’t have time to even try. 

I marched into Cat’s room without thinking twice. I realize now how big of a mistake that was. She knew of me. She knew my name but she didn’t know my face. I straightened my back and glared at her. 

‘Where is Agent Reid? Don’t tell me you don’t know. Do not tell me you have no idea of where your friend would have taken him.’ My voice was as calm as I could manage it to be. In reality all I wanted to do was bash her head against the table and make her tell me where he was the old fashioned way. No mind games. Just a beat down. I think it’s about time she gets knocked down a peg.

Her head tilted to the side as she looked me up and down with a sadistic smile on her features right before she licked her lips at me. 

‘Oh would you look at that you sure are cute. No wonder he doesn't wanna play our little game anymore.’ 

I was going to flip if she didn’t just tell me what I needed to know to save my husband. 

‘Between you and me though? You aren’t much of a challenge. That’s probably why he gets so bored with you. Why he keeps coming back to play my wicked little game.’ The sadistic smile she had made me want to scream. 

I leaned down across the table to get closer to her. My face smug. ‘You like playing games with a man that loses to me on a regular basis, why not play with me? I may not be your precious Spencie but I am in fact legally a Reid. You remember what he says though don’t you? A Reid never loses.’ She looked intrigued but severely irritated with the fact that I mentioned the fact that Reid would never truly be hers. Her hot breath fanned on my face as she got closer to me. 

‘I don’t want to play with someone who is just a pawn to be used to pass the time.’ 

The laugh that erupted out of me was unexpected by everyone including myself. 

‘Oh sweetheart, you really believe you are unique and worthy of the time he spends on you. When you and I both know you could die and no one would mourn you.’ I got closer to her with a look I hoped the others couldn’t see on my face as I whispered in her ear. 

‘You may not wanna play a game with me but we’ve already started. There’s a reason he married me. You aren’t the only one that challenges him.’ My voice is steady and condescending. 

She’s very good at playing a game with a man that doesn’t want to play it. What happens when her opponent wants to play?

I supposed we’d find out won’t we?

------------------

Taglist! Thank you lovelies!

@sassymoon @rainsong01 @onlyhereforthefanfics

[detectivejay-chuckles-halstead]

Nervous Breakdown // Jay Halstead x Reader

Photo by @karihighman​

Description: Jay is there when you start to break down.

Words: 1539

Warnings: None

Pairing: Jay x Reader

A/N: So, this I wrote for me. The schedule Reader talks about is my actual schedule. The sign offs are the things I actually need. This was me last night, except I didn’t have someone like Jay to talk me down from my nervous break down, I just had it and then had to be at my clinical this morning (which I’m still at btw lol). But yeah. Hope you enjoy. And if my posting is sporadic in the next month or so, this is why. 

“Come to bed,” Jay told you softly, leaning on the doorframe of your bedroom with his arms crossed over his chest as he looked at you with papers spread across the floor, couch, and coffee table. 

Your movements were frantic as you tried to organize them all, trying to figure out the best system to keep everything together. Every section was chronologically ordered for the online documentation, paper clips holding each stack together. Then, there were the colored sheets that had even more important signatures on them. You had to make sure everything was in order as class was drawing to an end. 

“I’ll sleep when I’m done, Jay,” you snapped at him before closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I just-”

“I know.” He walked over, stepping around the stacks before sitting directly behind you in the only place clear of paper. “Come here.” 

You couldn’t stop yourself from leaning back into his chest, his arms wrapping around you. Grounding you as your mind went a mile a minute. You also couldn’t stop yourself from grabbing your calendar, flipping it open to this month.

“What’s the schedule look like?” His chin rested on your shoulder as he looked at the planner. 

“I have to help with the EMT class Saturday from seven to three. Then I start my shift at work at eight tomorrow night. Then, work Sunday night. So I’m going to try and catch up on some sleep on Sunday. I have my exam in Med Emergencies on Monday. Then, I have an ambulance clinical AM shift at seven. Same on Wednesday. A quiz in Med Emergencies on Thursday. Then, I work Thursday night. Off at eight on Friday morning, but I picked up a shift from two to ten Friday day. Then, ambulance clinical on Saturday AM shift. 

Same with that next Sunday. A quiz in Med Emergencies on the seventeenth. Then work that night. Work the night of the eighteenth, but I’m off at four in the morning instead of my usual eight. Mainly because I have an OR clinical on the nineteenth from seven to three. But then I work that night, off at five on the twentieth because I have an exam in Med Emergencies that day. Ambulance clinical AM shift on the twenty-first. Twenty-second, I have an ER shift from seven to three, then I work that night. Work Sunday night, so I’m going to try to catch up on sleep that day. 

Twenty-fourth I have another exam in Med Emergencies. Ambulance AM shift on the twenty-fifth and sixth. Then, we review for our Final in Med Emergencies, but I work that night. I’ll get off at six to get to my ambulance clinical on the twenty-eight at seven. I work that night, but off at five to get to my Maternal-Fetal Truck shift by eight. 

On the thirtieth, I have an ER shift from three to eleven. The thirty-first, I have my final in Med Emergencies, and then work that night. Off the day of the first, but I work that night. Then, an ER shift at three on the second. Then, I work that night, but I’m going to try to switch shifts just because my ER shift won’t finish until eleven. The third, we have our student evals. The fourth, I’m helping the junior class with their Ops day, and then I have an ambulance clinical that night. Off the fifth, but work that night. Off the sixth, but work that night. Seventh is labor day, so completely free. ER shift on the eighth at three. Then, on the ninth, OR shift at seven.

“After that, I don’t know because we haven’t signed up for our capstone. Which all of this,” you said, motioning to the mess of papers, “is me getting everything in order to make sure I have everything done and what I still need. Because we can’t start capstone until all of our skills check offs are done, and we’ve hit all of our demographics.”

“What do you have left to do for your skills?” That question got you to sigh, putting the planner down and grabbing a notebook. You had to push your glasses back up on your face as you looked down at your messy handwriting. 

“Five peer reviews for pediatric intubations. Two peer reviews for needle cricothyrotomy. Three peer and two instructor reviews for trauma assessment. Five peer reviews for trauma intubations. Two instructor reviews for joint splinting -- which I’m already an EMT, why the Hell do I have to sign off on the BLS stuff again? Same with long-bone. I need one peer review and two instructor for traction splint. Again, BLS bullshit. Seven peer reviews for medical and cardiac scenarios. Eleven peer reviews for IV starts, and one instructor. One instructor for IV piggyback. Five peer reviews for IO. Oh, and another instructor. Three peer for IM injection. Three peer for synchronized cardioversion. One peer for defibrillation. Three peer transcutaneous pacing. Four peer reviews and one instructor for adult team lead scenarios. Five peer reviews and one instructor for pediatric team lead scenarios. Eleven peer reviews for being a team member. Three peer reviews for being a team leader for geriatric scenarios. Six peer and one instructor reviews for adult physical assessments. And finally. Six peer and one instructor review for pediatric assessment,” you read off, letting the paper fall to the ground. 

He held you a little tighter. You felt bad. With all the stress you’d been under for the past month, and with how crazy his job was, the two of you hadn’t gotten to spend a lot of time together. And the next month was going to be even crazier. 

“When are you supposed to start your capstone?” He pressed a kiss to your neck, your eyes fluttering closed in response. 

“They want us to start September Ninth, but I’m going to be the last one who gets to sign up because I’m so far behind! Everyone is going to pick the cool preceptors, and I’m going to get stuck with the ones nobody else wants,” you vented before huffing in frustration. 

It was indeed very frustrating, stressful, and downright annoying that you were so far behind compared to everyone else. That’s what happens when you have to be off for six weeks because you tore your knee. Now, it was a constant game of catch-up. 

“Just breathe when I breathe,” Jay instructed in that calming voice, following his breathing pattern. It got your heart rate down as tears came to your eyes, despite your internal protests. You were on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Maybe you should email your instructor?” he suggested when you had your breathing under control on your own.

“And have her take me off all my clinicals and reschedule everything? No. No fucking way. I can’t just email her and schedule my nervous breakdown, Jay. She was very clear in first semester that if we took on too much and couldn’t handle it, she’d take us off our clinicals and completely reschedule everything. I can’t do that, Jay. I can’t because then I’ll be even further behind.” You were talking a mile a minute, Jay taking a deep breath behind you. You took the hint and matched your breathing again. 

“Okay, then don’t email her. But, I want you to come to bed right now. It’s two in the morning. You have an ambulance clinical in five hours. You need your sleep. All of this will be waiting for you when you come home tonight,” he insisted. You didn’t want to, but you knew he was right. 

The two of you stood up, walking into the bedroom. You couldn’t help it as you collapsed on the bed with a groan, much more comfortable than the hard floor in the living room. He wasted no time in joining you, pulling you close again. This time, you were able to see his face at least, tracing his features gently with soft fingertips. You missed him. 

“How about we do something Labor Day? Just you and me to destress a bit?” you asked, Jay nodding in agreement before lips met gently. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he said with a soft chuckle, kissing you again. “But you’re almost done. This is the worst of it. After your final, you’re pretty much done with lecture. Capstone is your last hoorah. Then, your tests and you’ll finally be a paramedic after over a year. Doing this through a pandemic. Through all your family crap. I’m proud of you.”

“You really know how to sweet talk a lady,” you joked, resting your head on his chest.

It was the exact thing you needed to hear. Jay always knew what to say. You were so close to being done. Then, you’d be in your dream career. All the hard work was going to be worth it. The thousands of hours in clinicals, the hundreds of hours in class. The countless sleepless nights and caffeine filled days. Yes. It would be all worth it. Just a couple more months to go. And Jay was by your side.

[forasecondtherewedwon]

WIN A DATE WITH SPIDER-MAN!

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle) Rating: E (explicit sexual content) Word count: 10,358 @spideychelleweek​

Spideychelle Week Day 4: Meeting Again After High School

Summary: The fact that MJ bought a ticket to this event doesn't mean she wants to be here. It's a favour for a friend, who is not the man someone in the room is about to win a date with. No, that guy isn't her friend, just a date-skipping, heart-breaking ex from high school. Whatever. She's out of here the second they draw the name. It better not be hers.

“If my name gets drawn, I’m going to murder you,” MJ informs Betty when her friend leans against the bar for a breather. She swallows the end of her drink. “Just so you know.”

“You won’t get picked,” Betty assures her.

She isn’t looking at MJ, but at the rest of the people assembled in the hotel’s large event room, a space generously donated for the occasion. It better be one of them, MJ thinks. Anyone but her.

“I could.”

“You won’t,” Betty insists, turning and flagging the bartender to request a glass of cranberry juice.

“Daring,” MJ mutters.

“I’m working, remember? Anyway, look around. Entry was fifty dollars―”

“That I remember. You’re totally paying me back for doing this.”

Betty rolls her eyes and continues. “It was fifty dollars per entry and how many times do you think they put their names in?” she asks MJ, pointing a subtle finger at a clump of socialites.

“Jeeze, hope nobody blew their allowance,” MJ retorts sarcastically. She’s tempted to get another drink, but more alcohol in her system isn’t going to help her get through this. It may, however, help her get over it afterwards, when she’s back in her apartment.

“Well, one of them’s hoping to blow more than their allowance,” Betty says with a knowing little cock of her head.

“Yikes, Betty, you speak to your grandmother with that mouth?”

Betty ignores her and takes a sip of the cranberry juice the bartender sets before her. She places the glass back on the bar, staring at it for a minute, before she winces―pre-regret, is the emotion MJ’s learned to identify the look as―and asks the bartender to add a splash of vodka.

“I have a lot riding on this,” she tells MJ after a heartier swig of her newly-adult drink.

“I know you do,” MJ replies in a softer tone.

“The event was my big idea and I didn’t think my editor would go for it and now we’ve done so much promotion and if it doesn’t work out...” She turns sharply to her friend. “Do you think it won’t work out?”

“It’s already working out. You got a great turnout. Hell, you got me here.”

“You’re my emotional support though. You don’t count.”

“Ouch. Is that what you tell your fiancé when he comes to these things?”

“I wouldn’t have to. Ned would kill to be here. He’d be laughing his ass off. In, like, a supportive way,” Betty clarifies.

“Guess their friendship’s still strong then,” MJ mumbles. She frowns when the bartender removes her glass. Now she has nothing to do with her hands. She thumps her elbows onto the bar.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know it is. I know he’s still on your radar.”

“He is not. Besides his picture in your paper―”

“It’s not my paper,” Betty corrects, but she’s flattered. Tonight’s event should land her a promotion and that’s one step closer to the editor-in-chiefdom she’s striving to attain by 35. Though she’s still got six years to capture it, she loves to come in ahead of a deadline.

“―I haven’t seen him in years.”

“Well, you’ll see him tonight.”

“Will I?” MJ glances sideways at Betty. “Is he even here yet?”

“Fashionably late,” is her friend’s positive spin. “But it’s fine because I built a twenty-minute buffer into the schedule just in case.”

“You’ll need it. He’s allergic to punctuality.”

Betty sighs so loudly that MJ sits bolt upright.

“Can’t you even say his name?” she snaps.

“Are you ok? Do you need me to find you a paper bag to breathe into?”

“Shut up. God, what time is it?” Suddenly frantic, Betty checks her watch, twisting it around her wrist. She glances up at the stage, where a man in a generic black suit is stepping out to scattered applause. “He’s not supposed to start his speech for another fifteen minutes! Sorry, I have to…”

“Go on,” MJ encourages. “Boss them around. Sort it out.”

“If you see Peter arrive…”

“You’ll be alerted by my loud screeches of aversion,” she promises. Betty hesitates at that, so MJ gives her a gentle shove.

When the back of her friend’s pale pink gown disappears through the crowd, MJ rotates on her stool to observe the room. She still hasn’t said his name and she wishes she wasn’t so aware of it. It’s come out of Betty’s mouth a hundred times today. Besides that, it’s printed on signs around the room, along with his face―unmasked, naturally, to help move tickets. Good looks are always for sale and the newspaper Betty works for isn’t above leveraging that. The money raised by this event is for a good cause though, MJ has to allow that much. Two new clinics to service the city’s vulnerable homeless population, one staffing mental health professionals and the other a safe injection site as NYC combats the opioid crisis. It’d just be nice to attend a fundraiser that wasn’t somehow all about him.

She slips from her stool and realizes cutting herself off at one drink was a good idea; she has unforgivingly-high heels on tonight, the kind that make grown men cry, and her balance is still intact. MJ’s not using the intimidating height the shoes give her to compensate for the secret fear being here inspires. She’s not. Smoothing the front of the silky material of her pants, she lets them fall back into place before circling the room. There’s an art to it, moving through the wealthy strangers without actually mingling, and MJ thinks she’s gotten pretty good at making people scared to meet her eye... until a lackey from the mayor’s office steps directly in front of her and presses a leaflet, featuring the evening’s itinerary, into her hands. MJ sighs and slaps it down on the first tall cocktail table she passes. She doesn’t mean to look, but the white letters on a red background catch her eye: WIN A DATE WITH SPIDER-MAN! No thanks, MJ thinks, walking quickly away in search of Betty. I try not to make the same mistake twice.

Half an hour later, with the mayor’s long-winded speech running over before finally wrapping up, MJ watches her friend step up to the podium that’s just been vacated, clapping and beaming. It’s not her stressed smile either. Fuck. MJ exhales slowly. That smile says everything’s going smoothly, which tells her Peter’s here. Where is he? How did she miss him coming in? In spite of herself, she cranes her head around to look, not paying attention to Betty’s speech that thanks everyone for coming before shifting into introducing the guest of honour. She’s heard it before. Helped her friend practice. MJ was open to that kind of thing, weeks ago, before Betty pressganged-slash-guilted her into buying a ticket for the fucking Spider-Man lottery. She’s right though―they’ve sold thousands of tickets. She’ll never win. If she’s really lucky, Peter will never even know she was at this thing.

Which is definitely what she wants, MJ reminds herself, adjusting the lapels of the tightly tailored blazer she’s worn with no blouse underneath. For him to not notice her.

When Peter steps out from a side door with a big wave and a nervous smile, she’s deaf to the fanfare. Belatedly, she starts to clap, glancing around and dropping her hands when everyone else does. She doesn’t want to be the last idiot clapping. He’d spot her then for sure. As she watches him mount the low stage and let Betty guide him into position, MJ thinks he looks fairly anxious. Like, he looks nice, presentable, but unsure of himself. It’s the nicest suit she’s ever seen him wear, but his all-purpose one back in high school didn’t set a high bar.

He says a few words, voice coming out high at first as his eyes dart around the crowd (MJ steps slightly behind a very tall man and tells herself she isn’t hiding), then Betty takes over again, lightly touching his arm and eloquently rescuing him while keeping her event on track. She’s exceptional, MJ thinks. Distinguished master-of-ceremonies and gregarious gameshow host at the same time. MJ couldn’t do this job, which is why she switched from journalism to a literary agency three years ago. She’s better at negotiating than pleasing, better at handling people one-on-one. Except for him. She sees Peter step to the side and try to look excited as Betty holds a red pail (ok, a little lame―one of the interns failed in prop acquisition) for the mayor to submerge his hand into and pluck out a name. MJ had him one-on-one, looking only at her, with no sea of people. She was fifteen, unaware of his secret identity that still was secret at the time, and things didn’t work out. People think dating a superhero is such a fantasy. Disappointment was the boring reality.

A name’s drawn and MJ starts clapping along with everyone else. It takes almost half a minute for her to realize the name was hers.

They want to get her on stage, but she balks. Betty makes an excuse into the microphone, something about MJ not wanting to take attention away from the evening’s mission. The fact that landing a date with Spider-Man wasn’t the evening’s sole mission might come as a shock to some of the whining voices around her. Normally, she’d glare at them or make a sarcastic comment about their noble motivations, but she can’t. First of all, she won’t jeopardize the success of Betty’s event. Second, her human wall has stepped aside and Peter’s looking at her. And MJ’s looking back. Betty gracefully wraps things up on stage, her diamond engagement ring catching the light stunningly to add glamour to her showmanship, and then she, the mayor, and Spider-Man himself are descending into the crowd.

Does she flee? Is this MJ’s one chance to run?

But no, Betty weaves through to find her and grabs her hand like she knows what her friend’s plotting.

“You have to find someone else,” MJ says hurriedly. “Draw another name.”

“I can’t. You won fair and square.”

“I didn’t want to win.”

“I know.” Neither of them are looking at each other; they’re both looking in the direction Peter will inevitably approach from when he escapes the impromptu meet-and-greet.

“Tell them I’m sick.”

“Wouldn’t work,” Betty says. “The date’s not tonight.”

“Tell them it’s the beginning of a prolonged and ultimately fatal sickness.”

“Not very on-brand for Spider-Man to skip out on a date with someone terminally ill.”

“I’ll make it extremely clear that it was my decision. Would you take a last-minute opinion piece on why I hate Spider-Man and publish it tomorrow?”

“Babe, you don’t hate Spider-Man, you just don’t forgive the people who hurt you.”

Betty’s assessment is presented so casually that it startles MJ. It’s absolutely accurate, but she’s horrified that she’s been so easy to read. That’s the problem with having close friends. They know you and on top of that, they bully you into entering contests to date your high school ex. She’s never making a friend again.

“Yeah, I know,” MJ sighs, and then Peter appears, shaking one last hand, before turning their way.

“I owe you, I owe you, I owe you,” Betty hisses. “Please don’t make a scene.”

People are looking. Jealous weirdos.

“Hey, MJ,” he says, eyes catching hers. She breaks that shit off immediately, looking up and away from him.

“I go by Michelle now.”

“She doesn’t,” Betty cuts in.

“Oh... ok,” Peter says with obvious and understandable confusion. “So, you wanna...?”

He goes to put a hand on MJ’s back and she dodges it.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demands.

He glances uncertainly from her to Betty and back.

“Betty said they’d need to take a picture of me with the, uh, winner.”

MJ laughs bitterly.

“This just keeps getting better.”

Betty mutters a reminder: “No scene.”

So she acquiesces, following Betty over to the spot she previously decided on for the photo, next to one of the signs for the event. MJ doesn’t let Peter touch or guide her and he doesn’t try again. A photographer―signaled by Betty―approaches and she tactfully poses her friends to make them look friendly without physical contact. Betty gestures for her to smile and, for her, MJ manages a brief closed-lipped one, standing stiffly at Peter’s side. She’s a little curious about what his face is doing; is he being Spider-Man, beaming and happy to be here, or is he as uncomfortable as she is and just faking it until this evening is over?

After a dozen rapid clicks of the camera, the photographer and Betty walk away, Betty seeming to tell him what else she’d like shots of. Peter can return to his adoring fans, but he hasn’t yet and with Betty occupied, MJ’s floundering for a polite way to excuse herself. She makes the mistake of meeting Peter’s eye and he gives her a soft smile.

“You look so good.”

Heart seizing, she turns and marches for the exit, leaving him standing there.

―

“Thanks for taking the time to say goodbye,” Betty says over the phone, sarcasm perky and damning.

MJ groans. She stretches out on her couch and mutes the TV. It’s the morning after the event and she’s unproductive, not that it has anything to do with seeing Peter last night.

“I’m sorry. I had to get out of there.”

“You know, I think you’re the only person in this city, aside from criminals, who runs the other way at the sight of Spider-Man.”

“I didn’t run.”

“You didn’t stick around either. Peter could’ve used you there.”

“I’m not even going to respond to that.”

“Look, MJ,” Betty sighs, “I’m on your side, but do you really think it’s impossible that he’s grown a little since high school?”

“I haven’t seen any proof of that,” MJ huffs. “What I remember is him always showing up late, if he showed up at all, and let me remind you that he was late last night.”

“It’s the nature of his work.”

“Sounds like you’re defending him and therefore on his side.”

“The world is on his side and not all of us are stubborn enough to disagree with seven and a half billion people!” Betty exclaims. “Fine, I am on Spider-Man’s side, as an admirer of the good things he does, but as a friend, I’m on your side. A hundred percent.”

“You’re still making me go through with this date, aren’t you?”

“I have all the details right here in front of me, if you―”

MJ hangs up. Betty will forgive her.

―

The date takes place in the middle of the day in Central Park. It’s been two weeks since Peter allowed himself to be auctioned off, which has meant two weeks of MJ pleading with an immovable Betty to find a replacement and about two hours of stoic acceptance (just this morning). The time and location were selected for them based on what would result in the best pictures. Oh yeah, there’s a photographer here again, ready to spend the next three hours (three hours?) trailing them around the park to take candid shots of their afternoon. The paper’s planning a big image gallery for their website. According to Betty, this follow-up to her event will be their main photo story of the summer. Fucking excellent. All MJ could really do to prepare was wear comfortable white sneakers and a light denim jacket in case a wind came up or something. She’s already regretting that, with the sun right overhead in the sky and the air totally still around her. She moves her hair off her neck and turns to the photographer.

“He’ll probably be late,” MJ warns.

She, like the photographer, was early. Wanting to get today over with, she paid more attention to her willingness to participate (which might not last) than to showing up a full forty-five minutes ahead of the scheduled time. If this was a normal date, that might look like enthusiasm. Peter, in contrast, probably forgot this is happening today. He’s probably asleep or off somewhere being... Nope, here he comes, bounding up the path. Why did MJ wear the jacket? She’s so overheated.

“Hi,” Peter greets the photographer first, shaking her hand. Perennial people-pleaser, she thinks, but she did the same when she arrived. It just feels so natural to be judgemental towards him.

“And is it MJ or Michelle today?” he asks her.

Ooh, there was a little bite to that and MJ raises her eyebrows at it, though, if anything, she’s impressed that Peter’s developed some measure of a backbone.

“Michelle,” she says. She doesn’t offer her hand. He doesn’t reach for it.

The photographer’s probably great at her job, she wouldn’t have been given this assignment otherwise, but patience must be her next best quality; MJ knows she and Peter aren’t making today easy for her. Things are tense between them, their body language is awkward, their attempts at conversation are worse. She’s done a great job at keeping him out of her life, despite their best friends being engaged, and she really doesn’t want to ruin that by talking about her work, her hobbies, her family, her apartment, her aspirations. None of it. That doesn’t leave a lot and MJ isn’t encouraging Peter to share details of his life either. She’s spent such a long time striving to remain ignorant of everything Peter-related. Basically since they graduated high school.

The best photos of them will probably be at the pond, where they fed ducks and MJ felt her expression soften, if not quite break out into a smile. Then, there was the ice cream. There should be a few useable shots there, seeing as eating doesn’t require smiling, meaning MJ’s lack of a grin won’t seem odd. The best images will probably come from right after. MJ’s ice cream dripped on her jacket, which seemed like divine intervention at first―she finally had a reason to remove it that wouldn’t look like she was trying to get Peter to watch her take her clothes off―until he stealthily grabbed the jacket from her hand while she was trying not to dump the rest of her ice cream. He hasn’t given it back. Probably looks so fucking chivalrous, carrying it around for her and all MJ can do is feel exposed and too aware of her bare shoulders in her green tank top. The self-consciousness makes her grouchy and there’s still an hour of this date to go.

“Michelle, I know you don’t want to be here,” Peter informs her while the photographer’s a short distance away, changing out her memory card, “but this isn’t about you. You could at least try a little bit.”

Her face floods with angry heat.

“I don’t want to be here? Neither do you. You wish I was anybody else.”

His head jerks back.

“What? No, I don’t. If anything, I’m relieved.”

“Are you?” MJ’s suspicious.

“Well, I was when the mayor picked your name. I thought it might be nice to catch up with you rather than have to entertain some rich stranger. You don’t know how exhausting that is.”

She laughs and he spins towards her, clearly upset.

“Why do you have to react like that, like what I do is a joke?”

MJ holds up her hands.

“I’m sorry being with me is so tiring for you. I guess that’s why you were never around when we were supposed to be together.”

“We’re talking about high school now? You know why I missed dates.”

“Or showed up late, or left early,” she continues for him.

“Nobody knew then, dammit! I was all on my own, trying to be me and Spider-Man and, at the time, being him felt more important. Now, I can apologize for that, but I can’t fix it.”

MJ snorts.

“Would you even want to?”

“MJ,” he says, giving up on calling her by her full name, “we were fifteen.”

“And that means what? That it wasn’t a real relationship?”

A laugh bursts out of Peter that the photographer may have caught because MJ can hear her snapping photos of them again. Hopefully, she can’t see the wounded, incredulous look on MJ’s face from that angle.

“It means I was crazy about you and I had no idea what I was doing.”

“You could’ve told me about Spider-Man,” she says, lowering her voice and smoothing her expression as the photographer circles them.

“I kept trying to figure out how,” he admits. She studies his face in silence for a few seconds. “You dumped me before I could.”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t very much fun being ignored.”

“I know. That’s been my life ever since.”

MJ rolls her eyes.

“Please. You aren’t ignored.”

“I meant by you.”

She opens her mouth but finds herself shaking her head instead of speaking.

“MJ...” Peter starts.

“Don’t,” she tells him. “Not... right now.”

MJ starts walking again, but not before seeing his eyes turn hopeful at the way she left things open. Peter skips to her side. They look sideways at each other and the atmosphere feels suddenly lighter. It’s been a long time, but also, maybe not so long. It pleases and terrifies her to see that he’s still Peter, even with the fame he’s gained over the years.

“Would you want to have dinner?” he asks quietly. “I think it’s pretty obvious that we have some things to sort out.”

She eyes him, wary.

“When?”

“Tonight?” Peter proposes. “Why not, right? I don’t know what these last two weeks have been like for you, but I don’t want to have to do that again. Sit around and wonder what you were thinking and how you could possibly still be so mad at me.”

MJ’s already told him she won’t get into that again at the moment, but now that he’s offering her an opportunity, she’s unsure if she wants to discuss their history at all. Maybe fourteen years later is still too soon.

“I’m wearing shorts,” she says, like that’s a feasible excuse. Peter looks down as if to confirm that.

“It’s not like I’ve never seen your bare legs before. MJ, come on,” he laughs when she strides away over the grass.

What is this looking like to the photographer? Playful? Adventurous? God, MJ doesn’t envy her or the person who’ll write the story, trying to weave a narrative out of this.

“You can go home first and change.”

“And where am I meeting you?” she asks, like she’s considering the idea.

“My place? Because it’s private,” he explains quickly at the look on her face. “I assumed you would’ve had enough of being watched for one day. If we went to a restaurant or something, everyone would stare.”

Ok, that’s reasonable, she supposes. She still doesn’t rush to agree.

“Just to talk?”

“Just to talk,” Peter confirms, jumping ahead of her and walking backwards so she’s forced to look at him. “I can make dinner too. What do you like? I have to buy groceries anyway.”

MJ halts.

“I’m not picky.”

“That means pasta, unless you say otherwise. Remember, I was raised by an Italian woman.”

“Fine.”

“Ok.”

Peter nods and gets out of her way so they can walk side by side again.

“By the way, all I meant by the leg thing was that I’ve seen you wear shorts before.”

He’s grinning. Such a little liar. MJ laughs loudly, surprising herself.

“Yeah, sure, Parker.”

They walk along in companionable silence for a few minutes, running down the clock on this date. Suddenly, Peter’s head tips towards her and he mumbles something. She asks him to repeat himself.

“Can I touch you now?”

“What?”

“Like, touch your back or hold your hand. Just so whoever puts this article together has something to work with.”

Yes, it’s the same thing she was thinking a little while ago, so she should agree to it, but she was also thinking that before he made another reference to her bare legs, and all the implication behind that comment. Would she say the fact that he brought it up surprises her? Yes. (Does that night still cross his mind?) Would she say there’s any sexual tension between them now because of it? Of course not. (Is she the only idiot here who just realized the feelings she swore she buried before junior year were in a very shallow grave?)

“Gimme my jacket back,” she says. When he does, she sighs and offers her hand in exchange.

―

“Theoretically,” MJ says, hunching and twisting to check her pinned-back hair in the bedroom mirror she hung a little low, “what would you wear to a first date at a guy’s apartment?”

Betty’s gasp comes across loud and clear on speakerphone.

“MJ, you have another date today? I know the one with Peter was technically fake, sorry to all the readers who are definitely going to ship the two of you, but don’t you pace yourself? I had no clue your dating life was so, um, active that you had to squeeze two in on the same day. And don’t tell me how that sounded. I hear it now.”

“None of that was advice.”

“You don’t really want my advice. I bet you’re already dressed. You just needed an excuse to call me because you’re nervous and too proud to ask me for a pep talk.”

“Ok, stop making me feel so fucking transparent!”

“Who’s the guy?” Betty wants to know. “What do we know about him? First date at his apartment, that’s―”

“It’s Peter.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say it’s Peter?”

“Yes, it’s Peter, so you don’t have to worry about me going over to his apartment.”

“But... how do you know where it is?” She can almost see her friend’s panicked expression.

“He texted it to me.”

“He has your phone number?”

“Why do you say that like it’s the most scandalous part of this situation? We exchanged numbers at the park this afternoon.” MJ steps back, still studying her reflection. She’s done the top half of her hair up and it looks pretty even.

“Right, at the park, on the date that you said would be the first and last time you cross paths this decade.”

“Maybe it’s like Cinderella and we get an unlimited number of meetings until midnight.”

“What if you stay later than midnight?”

“No reason to,” MJ assures her. “We’re just going to talk for a bit and eat, I don’t know, spaghetti or something.”

“Romantic.”

“Only if you’re a couple of dogs in a Disney movie.”

“Ok, now I’m curious,” Betty confesses. “What are you wearing to this absolutely not earth-shattering spaghetti dinner? If you say jeans, I’m staging an intervention.”

“Why not jeans?”

MJ says it to provoke her, reaching awkwardly around to fasten the hook at the top of her dress’s zipper.

“I love jeans,” her friend says, “but this isn’t a jeans occasion.”

“No?”

“MJ, quit it. Promise me you’re wearing something nice.”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’m wearing something nice.”

“Good. Put some condoms in your purse.”

“Betty!”

“Just one condom? MJ, it’s always better to be pre―”

MJ hangs up on her again. She’ll have to make up for this one.

―

His apartment isn’t what she was expecting. It isn’t a dump, but… Peter (or at least his alter ego) has to be one of the most renown living New Yorkers. MJ was picturing a space somewhere between ‘tasteful showroom of a modern furniture store’ and whatever the Spider-Man equivalent of Paris Hilton’s interior design sense is―red instead of pink and framed pictures of himself everywhere. This place isn’t any nicer than hers. Actually, it’s a little shabbier around the edges. She must have left her poker face at home because Peter (who, in her experience, is largely oblivious to her feelings) seems to know exactly what she’s thinking.

“I give most of it away,” he calls to her from the kitchen. He paused in his cooking to let her in, but he’s back at it while she tours his cramped living room.

“Give what away?”

He laughs.

“Whatever they try to give me. Free stuff, prize money for being chosen as Hero of the Year or something. I don’t know. I stopped paying attention. I just donate everything.”

“Are you trying to come off all noble and shit?” she accuses. She’s smirking though, with her back to the kitchen.

“No, just trying to guess at the questions you want answered. You don’t do much of your thinking out loud, you know that?”

“Why should I?”

She picks up a framed photo of Peter and Ned at the beach. When she sets it back down, she notices that the one beside it, clearly from the same day, is a shot of Peter and Betty doing a synchronized leap on the sand; Ned must be the photographer. What makes her almost knock it off the shelf is her jerky reaction to seeing Peter in nothing but swim trunks. With a surreptitious glance in Peter’s direction, MJ steadies the frame and steps away, face hot. Yeah, she’s seen his body before―when they were teenagers. Another decade and a half as a career ass-kicker and justice-bringer hasn’t exactly hurt his physique.

Ok, so he looks like a damn underwear model. Whatever. MJ can compartmentalize that and move on.

Joining him in the kitchen, she toys nervously with the box she brought. There’s a chocolate cake inside and she’s too wound up from nerves to be able to tell if it was the right thing to get. Is it too childish, like she sees this evening as some kind of Sixteen Candles throwback to the romance of their youth? Is it too decadent, like she’s trying to show up Peter’s cooking skills? God, she doesn’t know. MJ starts to wipe her clammy hands on her dress before spinning and hiding them behind her back instead as she leans backward into the counter to watch him.

She doubts this guy has experience cooking for an audience (and secretly, she’s relieved at the thought that there hasn’t been a parade of hookups through here). There’s food on his short-sleeved button-down, utensils gripped desperately in both hands, and his feet are bare. Not that it’s a problem, in his own home, it’s just weirdly vulnerable. Although, MJ’s are bare too. It’s summer and she wiggles her toes freely, anxiously, wanting to both have something to do and to stand here observing him without getting involved. Being in Peter’s apartment is already so involved.

“Can you grab the bowls for me?” he suddenly requests and MJ jerks, realizing she’s been staring at the way his shirt hugs his shoulders.

She does it without replying, retrieving the bowls from where Peter points and handing them off with a civil little nod. The closer she is to him, the quieter she seems to get. It feels wrong and like the complete opposite of what happened earlier today. This is her opportunity for closure, isn’t it? If this is really the end, like she told Betty it would be, then that’s why she’s here tonight; they’ll hash things out and spend the rest of their lives peacefully keeping their distance―as opposed to maintaining it irritatedly, the way MJ’s been doing. Why else would she have come?

“Aw man,” Peter sighs as he dishes up their food. He’s just noticed the stains on his shirt.

“Yeah, you were a bit of a hurricane in there.”

“Sorry,” he says, setting the bowls on his tiny kitchen table, “I’ll… I’ll just… You can start eating. I’ll be right back.”

MJ’s going to refuse for the sake of good manners, but her mouth closes almost as quickly as she opens it because Peter starts unbuttoning his shirt faster than he turns away. She almost knocks over her water glass. He might be the one with food on his clothes, but she’s a fucking mess tonight. Quickly, she averts her eyes as he stumbles to the door that must conceal his bedroom, presumably for a fresh shirt. She can only try to calm her heartrate and twist her bowl back and forth on its placemat in his absence. Conclusions. Endings. Closure. Renewed attraction, MJ thinks―staring down into the colourful splay of thin sauce, vibrant vegetables, and bright seafood―is not on the table.

And it really might have worked out the way she planned if Peter had redressed completely in his room, instead of walking out still pulling his t-shirt down. Instead of shuffling towards her as he tugged it into place. Instead of catching her staring at his naked stomach.

She’s flustered by being caught, hands fluttering over her silverware, and by the feeling of him looking at her. Why is he doing that? To make sure she knows he caught her? She’s embarrassed enough. When she reminds herself that she’s a successful, independent adult and not the teenage girl whose heart was broken gradually by neglect, she has the strength to glance up. He isn’t looking at her anymore. They eat dinner like regular people. If anything, they’re more courteous versions of themselves, skimming the details of the personal lives they didn’t discuss earlier in the day. He’s curious about her job; she asks after his aunt, her last memory of whom is a smiling face behind a camera on graduation day. This must be part one of how this goes: catching up.

Towards the end of dinner, when chewing has loosened MJ’s face enough to let the smiles slip out and the wine Peter eventually remembered to open has added more colour to his cheeks than their afternoon in the sun, they slide smoothly into part two: reminiscence. They’re not drunk, there’s just something awfully tempting about the freckles strewn across his nose. Self-policing the way she’s drawn to him makes MJ gawky and making conversation gets dicey. One minute it’s football games and decathlon practices, the next it’s the dates he missed and the passive-aggressive responses she gave him. He’s wounded, she’s flippant. He all but orders her to stay seated while he clears the table; she tosses her hair over her shoulder and swishes out of her chair to get the cake.

“You could’ve called me to say you weren’t coming,” MJ snaps, trying to unknot the ribbon securing the box. She presumed it was purely decorative; it turns out to be shockingly sturdy. “One of those times. Any of those times. But you just… never showed up.”

“I was preoccupied. I was saving people, on my own,” he retorts. She hears the dishes clatter into the sink. “I thought you were the one person I wouldn’t need to explain myself to.”

“I didn’t need a justification, Peter, but it would’ve been nice to know why you were never there.”

“Yeah, and it would’ve been nice if you could’ve been a little less selfish.”

His words land like a slap and she spins around. Likely spotting her movement from the corner of his eye, he turns from the sink opposite, bracing his hands behind him.

“I was selfish?” she echoes. “Because I was fifteen and naïve enough to think that when I finally let somebody in, they’d do the same and be there for me?”

“A lot of people needed me!” Peter insists. His chest is heaving.

“What have they ever given you in return?” she demands. “Money that you won’t take? Awards you can’t use? A date―” She laughs and gestures to herself, hands sweeping her body. “―you sure as hell never asked for?”

“That’s not nothing.”

“It is nothing! I gave you everything!” MJ shouts at him. The roar of it doesn’t stop her so much as convince her that she’s started something she can’t stop. “I went home with you after that party because your aunt wasn’t going to be there. Because you told her you were spending the night at Ned’s.” It’s controlled fury in her voice now and Peter doesn’t try to halt the recitation. “We were so shy with each other that we barely managed to hold hands in public, but I fucking felt something that night, so I got on your bed and said I was ready and when I woke up afterwards, you were gone.”

“There was an emergency,” Peter murmurs.

“Oh yeah?” Her voice isn’t loud, but it flicks out like a whip. “What was it? Can you remember? Do you remember it better than you remember us taking each other’s virginities because, honestly, Peter, I think my memory of realizing I’d been left all alone in that apartment is stronger than what happened before that.”

“Don’t. Don’t say that.”

“So it’s nice, actually,” she continues sarcastically, “if us having sex only comes in second place for you too.”

“Of course it doesn’t.”

“I. Don’t. Believe. You.” Well, she hasn’t cried, so that’s something. She points beside him, hand shaking slightly, at the black block holding a selection of knives. “Pass me a knife.”

“What? No.”

“It’s to get the stupid cake box open. Pass me a fucking knife!”

Peter pushes away from the sink, hard, and holds her eye as he nudges her out of the way and snaps the ribbon with his hands. She’s breathing heavily.

“I don’t know if you like chocolate ca―”

“No,” he says firmly. “We’re not done talking about this. You hurt me. I never meant to leave you there, ok? I came back and you were gone and then the next day you dumped me. It tortured me that I left. It seemed like I was doing the right thing, going out to help people, but how could the right thing have made me lose you? I thought about that night constantly. Not the part where I walked out on you or you walked out on me, but the good part, and I felt guilty about that, like… like I wasn’t supposed to enjoy it? Because it must’ve been wrong since things went downhill for us so fast after that.”

“A mistake,” MJ summarizes. Voice flat. Dead, even. All these years she’s kept that memory and meanwhile, he’s been thinking it never should’ve happened.

“It wasn’t the mistake. I was.”

As mad as she is, she can’t let Peter put this on himself. It just wouldn’t be factual.

“You couldn’t be a mistake. It’s not in your DNA.”

“I never felt like that again,” he admits, offering her something in return for her reassurance. “The way I did the night we were together.”

“You haven’t had sex since then?”

“Oh, no, I have, it’s just never had the same…”

“I know,” she sighs and ignores the look he darts at her. She can’t stop him from replying though.

“Your sex life’s missing something too?”

“That is absolutely none of your fucking business.”

MJ flips the cake box open and crosses to the knife block, extracting a blade with a smug smile. She returns and slices the cake cleanly.

“Plates, please,” she instructs.

“You asked me first,” Peter points out.

“I didn’t make you answer.”

They are not talking about this, she will not talk about this. Not when she’s seen too much of his skin and they’ve finally dumped some of the baggage they’ve been lugging around this hellish airport of a somewhat-grown-up life. No, she’s far too attracted to him right now, with his glorious abs and his emotional intelligence. MJ is going to serve the cake and secure herself some goddamn closure.

“I just think it’s interesting,” Peter observes. He leans on the counter beside her. Sonofabitch, look at those forearms. “That neither of us has experienced anything like that with anybody else.”

With the flat of the blade, she lifts a slice and lays it on its side on the plate he lazily holds up for her.

“Probably just a numbers thing,” she says lightly.

“Meaning we are gonna have sex like that again?”

“Not with each other. Don’t get your hopes up, Parker.”

He grins and she realizes that, in the process of attempting to dissuade him, she might’ve just flirted with him. Completely by accident. MJ rolls her eyes and gets her own piece of cake. With a jerk of his head, Peter leads her over to his couch. When she sits at the far end, he doesn’t try to get too close, taking the other end. They spend a couple of minutes eating. She’s relieved that the cake’s good and that he seems to like it. He did a nice job on dinner.

“I’m a little embarrassed about the t-shirt,” Peter says eventually. She glances over and he looks down at his chest. The temperature’s changed again though; he isn’t being coy or suggestive, just genuinely humble. “I should own more dress clothes, but… I don’t really have an excuse.” He laughs. “I don’t really like them.”

“You’re fine. You’ve always been a t-shirt guy. Maybe this is an ‘if it ain’t broke’ situation.”

“You look really pretty.”

MJ blushes and feels silly about it. Her eyes drop to her plate and she watches herself push chocolate frosting around before piling it up on the cake she has left.

“I think I might be too old for ‘pretty.’”

“Bullshit.” Peter edges nearer and she looks up at him to see him pointing his fork at her. “You’re not too old to be called pretty and I’m not too old to be excited over chocolate cake.”

“It’s good, right?” she agrees with a smile.

“When you opened that box, I just about lost my mind.” He grins at her. “If we hadn’t been fighting when…”

MJ frowns when he trails off.

“What is it?” Her shoulders fall slightly. “Did you sense something? Do you have to go?”

“Unless there’s a meteor headed for Earth, I’m letting the cops handle things tonight,” he promises. “You just… you have chocolate on your lip.”

He traces the spot on his own face and she wipes at hers. Without Peter touching her to do it himself, this shouldn’t feel as intimate as it does, but the other thing he said won’t let her move on.

“Why should I believe that?” MJ asks. There’s no nastiness in her tone. She sets her empty plate aside and after the final bite of his cake, Peter copies her.

“Because I learned my lesson about priorities really, really well a long time ago.” He shifts closer again and she angles her knees towards him, heart clamoring.

“Are you sure?”

“I think so,” he tells her, face full of honesty. “I’ve never officially tested it because…” Peter shrugs. “…there was never another you.”

“She could be out there.”

“There’s only you,” he says softly, shaking his head. MJ didn’t quite notice when the space between them disappeared, but his hand is gentle on the side of her neck. “And you’re right here.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I just happen to take my fake dating responsibilities very seriously.”

“This one isn’t fake.” His fingers slide around to the back of her neck.

“I’ll have to update Betty,” MJ says with airy thoughtfulness as her gaze dips to Peter’s mouth.

“I think you might still have some frosting on your lip…”

Apparently, he can still be as much of a cheesy idiot as he was at fifteen and she’d smile if she wasn’t so terrified. Their lips brush lightly, then Peter seals them together, holding her fast. She cries out a little at his certainty. That’s what it feels like, but certainty in what? In his kissing abilities? In them, here together? MJ isn’t sure where she stands on that issue, only that it’s far from where she started this evening, with her self-delusions on closure and walking out of this apartment either more at peace or completely unchanged. So much for those possibilities. She hadn’t accounted for what their second first kiss would feel like.

They aren’t kids anymore, so she can skip the tentative shit.

MJ grabs his face with both hands, fingers curling beneath his jaw, and kisses him back with a greedy feverishness. There, let him see what she wants. If he rejects her, he rejects her. He’ll never do worse to her than he already has. But Peter doesn’t ease off, doesn’t try to backtrack to a scrubbed-clean Disney kiss that compresses romance to two dimensions. He lets go of her neck and grabs her by the hips, hauling her forward. She takes his shoulders and settles her knees on the couch on either side of him. Right away, he pulls her down and she doesn’t resist, grinding in his lap with her dress accordioned between them. Peter’s hand finds the edge of her skirt and snakes up her inner thigh to cup her over her underwear. In the same motion, he rubs his fingers against her through the lace. She breaks the kiss wetly and pants next to his ear.

“I wanna take you to my bedroom now,” he tells her, still rubbing while she rubs right back, seeking the friction with a jerk of her hips, “unless there’s some other way you want tonight to go.”

“No, I think we definitely better fuck.”

With that unambiguous assent, Peter hitches her hips against his and stands up with his hands secure beneath her ass and thigh. MJ wraps her legs around him and crosses her ankles.

So, this is Peter at 29. His feet slap the floor of his apartment and their mouths meet over and over with passion and imprecision. He makes it from the living room and into the kitchen without hitting anything; the air smells like dinner as they pass through and what wine the pasta in her belly hasn’t absorbed makes her press her abdomen against his cock while she’s still in his arms. He shoves her to the nearest wall and rocks hard between her thighs, squeezed close by her heels digging into his firm ass. At this point, MJ doesn’t particularly care if they do this on a horizontal surface. There’s a lot stoking this fire and while there wasn’t this much heat in their history (they had sex one time and it was gentle, caring, unhurried), the small flame’s kept burning all these years, ready to be fanned high at the first opportunity.

Peter gathers her against him and heads for his bedroom instead. His willpower’s something, with how fucking solid he is in the front of his jeans. (Jeans, Betty! MJ thinks. Goddamn double standard.) He doesn’t stop to turn on a light―taking her right to his bed and never letting her go as he lays her back―but the late summer sun provides a fading glow through his window and the door he didn’t shut behind them lets warm light spill in from the kitchen. MJ’s breathing hard as her hands, trembling with impatience, peel the t-shirt off of the adult boy she knew. Briefly, he hoists her hips to remove her underwear. She’s embarrassed when he draws them down her legs with a look of realization on his face and holds them up for the light to shine through the lace.

“Even with the denial, it didn’t seem impossible that we might end up here,” MJ offers before Peter can comment. She sighs and admits the rest. “I also have a condom in my purse.”

“We won’t need it.”

He dives down, kissing her neck as his hands smooth her dress up her thighs. With her knees bent, it doesn’t take much to make the material pool at her hips. But MJ pushes at his shoulders and Peter lifts his head.

“Like hell are we not using a condom.”

“No,” he says, expression earnest (there’s his face the first time he asked her out), “I just meant we won’t need the one you brought. I, uh, I didn’t only buy groceries before you came over.”

“Good.”

“Yeah?” Peter grins down at her. She nods.

“That means I’m not the only one who…” Felt something. Hoped for more. MJ can’t quite say that yet, so she shrugs and moves on. “Also means I don’t have to go get my purse.”

He agrees by returning his mouth to her throat, sucking until she gasps, then bucking his hips into hers to make her moan.

“Stay right here.”

“Mmm,” she consents, scraping her fingers through his hair.

Noticing him leaning into the sensation, MJ closes her hand into a fist and gives his hair a tug. Peter groans against her neck and wraps his arms around her. With his hands wedged under her back, she can feel him hunting for her dress’s zipper. She’s lying on top of it and there’s the little hook to fiddle with. It's not that she doesn’t think he can figure it out―it’s that she doesn’t want to wait that long.

“Let me do it,” she murmurs, tapping his arms this time to get him to lift off of her.

He looks dazed when he does, flinging himself to the side, which leaves MJ temporarily leaning back with her skirt up and no underwear on. This is completely not how she saw today turning out. It does make her pause and think for a second, to see if this feels wrong or thoughtless or otherwise emotionally harmful to the person she might go back to being when it’s over. Maybe if she waited longer, her inner voice would say something else, but there’s a consensus of tens from the judges (her brain, heart, and vagina) that she should absolutely nail Peter Parker. If they didn’t share this history and he was a guy she met through mutual friends or a dating app who held off on disappointing her long enough for them to get here, would she sleep with him? With those eyes and that ass, yeah, why not? Maybe the rockiness of their mutual past should make this feel worse, but, in this moment, it feels better. It feels like that thing from fourteen years ago. And this time around, she has a confidence in her body that she couldn’t even see on the horizon at fifteen.

MJ scrambles off the bed and turns to look at Peter. On his back with his shirt off in the dying light, he could be selling an expensive cologne. He’s probably been approached. The obvious bulge in the front of his jeans makes it a little racy for ads though. She’ll just have to appreciate it on behalf of Spider-Man fans everywhere. After all, she’s the one who won a date with him.

“The condoms are… where?”

Peter points to his nightstand and her hand hovers in front of the drawer with a second of hesitation. What if there’s some kind of raunchy sex toy in here and she’s about to find out that his bedroom escapades with other women are not something she’s prepared to compete with. Or what if there’s a photo of another ex-girlfriend? She hasn’t had the right to feel possessive of him for a small eternity, but seeing some other woman’s smiling face would be a blow. MJ opens the drawer. Besides the unopened box of condoms, she sees a travel pack of Kleenex, a cord for a cellphone or a tablet, and a couple loose aspirin that he should at bare minimum be keeping in a container, if not in a bathroom medicine cabinet. Overall, she’s relieved. It’s the sort of stuff she would’ve expected if she hadn’t spent the years since high school trying to hate him. She gets the box open and tosses him a condom that he’s alert enough to snatch out of the air. Then, MJ turns to face away from him as she reaches back to unfasten the hook.

“Wait,” he says when she starts on the zipper.

Somehow, she knows what he wants. She drops her hands and takes a step back towards the bed, drawing her hair over her shoulder and twisting it around her hand. Soon, Peter’s hands land on the middle of her back before he lowers the zipper. MJ can hear him breathing. With that done, she shuffles the straps off her shoulders and lets the dress slip to the floor like an exhale. She didn’t wear a bra.

She turns and climbs on top of him. Their kisses are sloppy and demanding and Peter’s got one hand between her legs with the other groping her breast in about a second flat. He discovers how wet she is―it’s wetter than she gets for just anybody―and plunges two fingers inside her, which is really distracting since she’s trying to get his jeans open. Giving in for a minute, MJ holds Peter by the back of his neck, lets her head fall back, and pumps up and down on his fingers while he swears like she’s never heard him swear. No, they never could’ve produced this at fifteen.

Forcing herself to remember that she could have his dick instead, she rides his fingers more shallowly and refocuses on his button and zipper. On the downside, he removes his hand to help her get his jeans and boxers off (Peter, she thinks, you still wear boxers?), but on the upside, those same hands get the condom on with speed and precision. Carefully, she removes the pins that have started to become snarled in her hair and tosses them backwards. Sounds like they skate across his nightstand and fall onto the floor. She isn’t concerned at the moment.

“You like being on top or do you wanna be on the bottom?” he asks, sagged back with his elbows propping him up and MJ perched on his thighs.

“Let’s not ask,” she suggests.

Normally, that isn’t what she’d say at all. She’s big on telling her partner what she does and does not like. Even if it’s someone she’s been with a few times, sex can be a bit of an interaction―you do this for me, I’ll do that for you―with the end goal of both parties walking away sexually satisfied. She wants more from Peter than an orgasm. Not being able to say that out loud doesn’t negate it. She trusts his intuition and, more than that, she trusts this thing between them. Whatever it is, MJ’s leaving everything to it. She’s surrendering control because the thought of cutting this up with questions to make it fit the mould of what sex is like with anyone else makes her sick. She takes a slow breath and speaks again.

“Let’s just… be here.”

He’s nodding so maybe she didn’t sound stupid, or just not stupid to him.

“Ok,” Peter agrees softly. “I’m not gonna fuck it up this time.”

She can’t ask whether that’s a promise to her or to himself because he sits up abruptly to meet her lips with his. As he fills her mouth with his tongue, she relaxes into him, draping her arms around his shoulders and shifting her hips forward. She can feel his cock, rigid and hot. MJ starts lifting up, hinting for Peter to slip inside her, but he flips her onto her back to continue blowing her mind with the desire in this French kiss. He holds his hips back to leave space for his hand to once again work two fingers into her, this time also using his thumb to play with her clit. She’s woozy with how good he makes her feel. Just when the kiss has her thinking they’re slowing things down (and the kiss is getting particularly dirty now, making her clench around his fingers), Peter brings her to climax by sneaking a third finger into her channel and curling all three in a sudden stab at her g-spot. Gasping against his mouth, MJ breaks the kiss, hips pitching onto his hand for almost a full minute from when the bliss first hits.

“Shit,” she breathes.

Peter laughs with disbelief as he draws back to look at her.

“That’s something I never thought I’d get to see again.”

“Yeah, lucky you,” MJ congratulates, smirking liquidly.

He seems ready to proceed beyond foreplay now, withdrawing his fingers and grasping her hip, but she decides to enjoy him a little more thoroughly first. She lets him settle between her legs without pressing inside and winds her fingers into his hair again as she nudges her mouth to his. Peter thrusts slowly along her wetness, making her legs quiver when he bumps her clit. Arching up, her chest skims his and she’s sure that, with a little bit of time, she could come a second time from the way he’s grinding against her and the rub of her nipples over the hard planes of his chest. Spider-Man looks good outside the suit.

When she tumbles him to the side, he goes willingly and matches her fleeting, sultry smile. MJ shifts her weight to encourage Peter all the way onto his back, then gets herself positioned on top of him, still riding his erection without taking him inside. She wonders what’s making her start to sweat―a failure of his air conditioning or the buzz that’s getting stronger with every pass along his sheathed erection. Bracing her hands on either side of his shoulders, she bends to kiss and lick across his chest, finding the same faint saltiness on his skin. He grabs her hips and guides her more forcefully along his cock. MJ’s moaning in short pants, Peter’s groaning brokenly. He rolls her onto her side and their legs tangle before he lifts her upper thigh to make room to fit his hips into the gap and, with their foreheads pressed together, push into her.

She has to close her eyes. Her body takes him in immediately, but her mind needs a little longer.

Peter doesn’t rush her, but he doesn’t back off entirely, the way he would’ve when they were a couple of kids hanging all their hopes on it turning out right. MJ’s not putting that kind of pressure on the sex this time around. Back then, part of how badly she wanted it was that she harboured this belief that being physical with him would fix things; it was finally a way to guarantee his focus was completely on her. For Peter, well, she can only guess, but maybe he needed to feel more grounded in himself when he was living so much of his life in secret as this whole other entity.

“You want me?” she asks him now, opening her eyes to observe his face, so close it’s blurry.

“Yeah, I want you.” Sensing her resolve, he thrusts harder and she makes her leg slack so he can hike it up onto his hip.

“You wanna be anywhere else?”

Peter shifts his head back and she becomes aware that they’re on the rumpled sheets of his unmade bed. It’s so familiar that her heart surges even before he stares her right in the eye.

“Nowhere else,” he swears.

She gives him a sharp nod before her tear ducts can get any ideas and kisses him fiercely, swinging her hips down to meet his upstroke. There’s a choked sound from Peter’s throat and he tips her onto her back with a mumbled, “Oh god, M.”

On her back, MJ reaches to grasp the edge of the mattress and Peter pounds into her. She’s tempted to shut her eyes and drown in the sensations, but she fights it to gaze at him. Initially, she thinks he’s like a machine; strong, efficient, accurate (fuck, he found her g-spot before and he’s hounding it ruthlessly now). On second thought, he is what he made himself; perceptive, considerate, real despite the persona that’s grown and grown and grown. The action figure it’d probably be easy to slink into the shadow of. It’s clear to her that he separates them better now and that somehow embracing his other identity is what allowed him to do that. And she wasn’t around for any of it. Has she just stepped back into his life now that it’s easier for her? MJ has to admit that, on some level, of course. That’s exactly what she’s done, but she didn’t plan it that way and the intervening years haven’t been smooth for her either―changing careers, struggling to stay present with partners, maintaining friendships only with the couple of people who wouldn’t let her dissolve from their lives. It seems to her that she’s ready to hang on at the very moment Peter’s ready to be hung onto. This already wasn’t supposed to happen. The draw she wasn’t supposed to win, the date that she tried to get Betty to find her a replacement for, the invitation to dinner, everything that spilled out between dinner and dessert, and finally, how they came together on his couch. Both of them making that choice.

MJ cries out, one hand dropping to grab his shoulder, then cup the back of his neck, her gaze roving the ceiling.

“You can shut your eyes,” Peter huffs, driving forward. “I’ve got you.”

She does. He has her. Twining her legs around the backs of his, MJ urges him forward blindly. Peter sucks her nipple, runs his mouth up the side of her neck until she shudders, then does it some more. His hand tilts her hips and he slides into her just that much better, striking the right spot with fiery fixation.

“Peter! Peterpeterpeter,” she chants. Her eyes open and his face is right above hers. She orgasms with a flinch that lifts her mouth to his. A new reflex―to kiss him.

His thrusts are short and quick as he finishes, humming against her mouth, a long M. She can’t believe she tried to make him call her by her full name. She’d rather hear ‘MJ’ from Peter, and she’s rather hear it just like this, his lips vibrating against hers, feeling all the years between them and yet, not feeling them at all.

[johannestevans]

Vampirism: What Is it?

Wrote out an article about vampires, as applied to vampires like those in Heart of Stone, and in my other original work! Thinking I might start making semi-regular Wiki-style articles with world-building like this.

Tip Jar

Vampirism is a disease communicable by a magical, blood-based virus (sanguinavirus A) originally found only in the infernal bat (Desmodus infernus), a species that came from Averna, the nether dimension commonly known as Hell, which came to Earth in approximately 9000 BC. Observing that some of these bats were very hardy and resistant to damage, in the vicinity of what is now known as Northern Iraq, some sorcerers at the time chose to examine them in detail, and realised they were infected with the aforementioned disease. By artificially cultivating the virus for human transmission, they created a strain intended to infect mundane and magical humans (sanguinavirus B), and thus created the vampire. 

Today, according to records from the International Vampiric Council, there are approximately thirty to forty thousand vampires spread across the Earth, with the vast majority of them originally having mundane or magical humans that were infected with it.  Sanguinavirus B is an extremely hardy virus that immediately makes changes to its host's make-up in order to ensure it can safely exist within it and sustain itself, and thus triggers what is broadly known as the vampiric disease.

What is a vampire? 

The term "vampire" commonly refers to a human - ordinarily but not always from a magical community - who has been infected with Sanguinavirus B, and has subsequently contracted the disease known as vampirism. This is not to say that only humans can be vampires, however - many animals are capable of contracting vampirism, as are many fae species. 

Once it has been transmitted to a new host, the sanguinavirus establishes itself in the core of its host's body, around the heart, and forms new matter that has been compared by some academics to a hindbrain. It devotes itself to initially changing the make-up of its host body, and then focuses itself on defending the host from threats, boosting immune response, strengthening the host, and ensuring it retains a temperature low enough for the virus to remain healthy. The vampiric core allows vampires to heal from even severe injuries very quickly, and makes them heavily resistant to damage or weakness. 

As well as priming its host to resist damage or attack, the sanguinavirus creates in them a heavy thirst for blood, specifically for the iron-rich protein haemoglobin, and the vampire will be driven to quench this thirst in the same way they would be hunger or thirst for water. 

A human vampire will typically develop an ability to extend two of their canine teeth, which will become very sharp, in order to pierce a victim's skin, and after making this piercing, they can lap at or suck from the blood that comes from the wounds. These teeth inject a vampiric venom, which is made up primarily of two parts - an anti-coagulant, to ensure free blood flow while the vampire drinks, and a strong analgesic that will impart a feeling of euphoria upon the victim. As a vampire ages, their venom typically becomes more potent, and stronger venom's effects can last for several days, and even have hallucinogenic effects, or induce memory loss.  

One of the primary changes in the vampire's body is in the increased density and number of tightly corded fiber that makes up their muscle: muscle becomes very tightly packed and heavy in make-up, meaning that many vampires are far stronger than their undiseased counterparts. The skin is also thickened and hardened, and the veins are tightly constricted in order to help keep them safe from harm and to ensure they are appropriately insulated by the heavy flesh. As a result of this strengthening of both skin and muscle, a vampire is typically far, far heavier than their human counterpart, and most non-vampires would struggle to lift or support the weight of one. 

With the thickening of the vampiric skin, the vampire ceases to sweat, and in such cases as the vampire becomes overheated, the veins will further constrict and the skin will become slightly thinner in an attempt to ensure heat can escape. In the case of the latter, the vampire's skin will seem chalky and strangely static in appearance, and these are the elements a doctor should look for as signs of fever, as opposed to a sweaty brow. 

Vampires do still need to eat food and remain hydrated, on top of their appetite for blood, and studies have shown that vampiric appetite is not noticeably different to that which they had whilst human, although some particularly strong-tasting or aromatic foods can become overpowering and thus less palatable once the disease has been contracted, owing to the enhancement of vampiric senses. With that said, vampires can survive starvation or extreme thirst for far longer than their human counterparts, even if they are also deprived of blood. 

 The sanguinavirus thrives best at lower temperatures, and the body temperature of a human vampire typically stands at approximately 23° Celsius, or approximately 73° Fahrenheit. Vampires are subsequently very cold to the touch, as well as their flesh being hard when pressed upon, and their bodies are often compared to corpses in physicality. Vampires prefer cooler temperatures, and although due to the magical nature of their disease, they can often retain their homeostasis up to much higher temperatures, if a vampire contracts a fever, or if they are under threat from fire, it can rapidly become very dangerous for them. 

Many vampires - although not all - are highly sensitive to direct sunlight, and have to shield themselves from the sun. It's generally recommended for vampires to shade themselves as best they can, wearing clothes that cover the skin, carrying a parasol or remaining in the shade, and to use a high-factor sunscreen. 

Those vampires sensitive to sunlight will often begin to burn and blister within minutes of being under direct sunshine, and there are documented cases - although none in recent history - of vampires dying from combustion following exposure to sunlight alone. 

Many of the vampire's senses are heavily enhanced following the contraction of the disease, particularly their senses of hearing, taste, and smell. Due to the enhancement of the latter, some vampires find themselves sensitive to some strong scents - such as garlic, fish, or some strong chemicals - and vampires typically have strong enough hearing to keep track of the heartbeats of anyone else in their vicinity.  

Although the vampire's sense of sight is not particularly improved by the contraction of vampirism (it has been noted that both colourblind vampires and vampires with myopia or hyperopia, as well as vampires who are blind or partially sighted, retain their impediments post-turning), many vampires find that the extent to which their eyes take in light is heavily improved, meaning that they can see in low-light conditions, as well as being able to navigate by ear in complete darkness. As a result of the former, vampires can develop photosensitivity, particularly to the shine of bright sunlight or to strong fluorescent lighting, and will wear sunglasses in public. 

Vampires' homes are often lit by candles or by low-impact, warm lighting that is easy on the eyes. For ancient vampires particularly, although these are problems many vampires have, adjusting to the modern world in the aftermath of the Industrial Revolution has been difficult because of the constant hum of electricity in wires, water moving through pipes, and particularly the high-frequency noises of motors and light bulbs.

 Due to the aggressive nature of the immune system after the vampiric disease has been contracted, some vampires also develop overpowering allergies, particularly to plastics, cleaning chemicals, and diesel and petroleum-based products. In urban and industrial areas, it is common to see vampires wearing clothes that cover them from head to toe, and to wear sunglasses or even goggles, and to wear some form of face covering, such as a mask or piece of gear to breathe through, and perhaps ear plugs. 

Many vampires have highly developed sound proofing in their homes, or choose to live away from urban and industrial centres in order to avoid overstimulation. Vampires are widely regarded as immortal, due to the fact that the effect of their disease is to ensure that they do not appear to age, and vampires can live for centuries upon centuries, if not millennia. 

This is not to say that the vampire is immune to damage - common causes of vampiric death are exposure to fire (although unlike humans, they do not die from smoke inhalation, but from the heat), hyperthermia, and as a result of fever from another contracted illness. 

Because of the effects of the vampiric "hindbrain", which encourages ultrafast healing in the vampire, and because the vampire's flesh is so resistant to being pierced or cut, it is difficult for a vampire to be injured. They can recover swiftly even after breaking a bone or severely injuring an organ, although they do not regenerate limbs. 

In cases of severe head injury, the "hindbrain" has been known to suddenly swell and take over many unconscious processes ordinarily controlled by the prime brain, such as control of the nervous, circulatory, and respiratory systems, giving the brain much needed time to heal itself.  With that said, vampires are not capable of limb regeneration, and they cannot regenerate lost limbs, nor regrow their head once they have been beheaded. 

A traditional method of execution for a vampire is to drive a hard stake made of iron or heavy wood through their heart while they are lying on their back - this is because a hammer is needed to work up the necessary force to pierce the vampire's hard, dense chest, and the stake must pierce directly through the "hindbrain" to prevent it from assisting the vampire in later healing.

  Sanguinavirus can be transmitted between parent and baby, although there are some additional health risks concerned for expecting parents - some vampires struggle to drink enough blood whilst pregnant, as all the protein is consumed by the foetus, occasionally necessitating a regular transfusion. 

Contrary to popular belief, children who've contracted vampiric disease do continue to mature and grow, and although they have the teeth and a mild venom from birth, they do not form the strong, dense flesh, or sensitivity to light, that is typical to vampires until they reach puberty. 

Young vampires tend to grow more consistently throughout puberty rather than having the sudden growth spurts human children often have, and as a result, many of them have complaints of sustained aches and pains until they're fully grown. With that said, on average, vampiric youths often grow taller on average than their human counterparts. They usually cease to visibly age at around the age of twenty-five.  

Being an artificially cultivated magical virus, sanguinavirus takes two elements to be transmitted - first, the new host must be bitten by a vampire, or to somehow have an infected vampire's venom in their veins, and secondly, they must then ingest the vampire's blood, or have it enter their bloodstream.  

A common myth among noble vampires, which has been roundly debunked by academics, is that the working class and poor vampires came about because they would capture and eat infernal bats that had drunk their blood. In actuality, there are vampires of all socioeconomic classes, because even at the advent of the vampiric disease's introduction to humanity, there were different sorcerers at work upon it, and later, noble vampires would often transmit the disease to their favourite servants or slaves, or to merchants and tradesmen in their communities. 

It has been posited by many academics that there is a risk of sexual transmission of the sanguinavirus between a vampire and a partner from whom they have fed, because there is a potential for blood-to-blood contact because of tiny abrasions during sex. It is recommended that vampires use appropriate prophylactics during sex, even if they are using a chemical birth control, and to use plenty of lubricant. 

Full guidelines for safe sex for vampires can be found on the website of the International Vampiric Council.

[blitzturtles]

Title: Heatwave

Rating: Teen and Up

Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure: Vento Aureo

Pairing(s): MeloGhia / GhiaMelo

Summary: To say that Ghiaccio hates the heat would be something of an understatement. He can’t stand it. Can’t exist in it.

Notes: I read that Ghiaccio having problems with/hating the heat is a bit of a fan favorite in terms of headcanons, and, since I am heat intolerant, I thought I'd inflict something called dysautonomia on him.

Dysautonomia basically means the autonomic nervous system (heartbeat, breathing, etc...) doesn't functioning correctly. And one type of dysautonomia is POTS, or Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. This can cause an increase in heart rate, lowered blood pressure, orthostatic intolerance (difficulty with standing, which is usually caused by an abrupt drop of blood pressure and a significantly elevated heart rate), heat intolerance, etc...

-

To say that Ghiaccio hates the heat would be something of an understatement. He can’t stand it. Can’t exist in it. Because the heat hates him just as much. It builds under his skin, while his blood collects in all the wrong places, apparently he’s too weak against gravity for his body to continue to circulate properly.

Every attempt at moving brings about a response wherein his heart pounds away painfully in his chest. It’s an attempt, on its part, to try to correct the problem, but it’s really only making it worse. The inner chambers of his heart squeeze too hard, and the bounding of his pulse can be felt through his clothes-- not that he’s wearing much more than a tank top and a pair of boxers at this point.

He’s tried to use White Album to keep the worst of it at bay, but he’s running out of energy. Partly because this particular wave of too-hot days has stretched on for nearly a week, and partly because his body is exhausting itself in its effort to recapture homeostasis.

Nausea bubbles up on his guts for the umpteenth time; a sure sign that all the blood in his body is being shunted away from anything deemed non-vital. He hasn’t eaten much of anything in days simply to avoid the repercussions of an underactive digestive system, and that certainly isn’t helping.

He knows he isn’t drinking enough water, either. Knows that it’s vital for someone like him, but he can’t bring himself to care when he’s splayed out on the cold floor of his bedroom with limbs spread in every direction. Every time the floor warms, he simply scoots to a new spot or rolls himself over until it becomes necessary to repeat the process all over again.

Being on the floor has the added bonus of reducing the amount of energy that goes into his body fighting gravity. If he were to try to stand right now, the dizziness would hit him so severely that he might not be able to catch himself before blacking out. All of his blood would rush down into his legs, and his brain would momentarily blip out on him. The last thing he needs is a concussion.

He’s too caught in his own thoughts to notice someone popping the door open (it should be locked anyways, but when has that ever stopped anyone in this godforsaken house?)

“Ah,” Melone says when he looks into the room and sets his eyes on Ghiaccio. He makes his way over to the sprawled man and peers down at him through a curtain of lavender hair, “Body being a bitch today?”

“You’re being a bitch today,” Ghiaccio snaps back, but there’s no heat to it.

“Aw,” Melone juts out his lower lip, “Now is that any way to talk to the one that brought you presents?”

“I don’t give a fuck, Mel, go away,” the nickname is the only thing that betrays his attempt at sound pissed. He isn’t really. Not at Melone, but he’s miserable and sick to his stomach and overheated and kind of over the whole living thing.

Melone pretends to consider the request-- it’s not one-- before grinning, “No. Don’t think so. Up with you! Wait, no. Don’t move.” He disappears out the door, though only just outside of it. He comes back a few seconds later with a massive duffel bag that only makes Ghiaccio groan. He has no idea what Melone is up to, but he can tell when Melone’s scheming, and that doesn’t always bode well for Ghiaccio.

Without asking, Melone settles down next to Ghiaccio on the floor, right in his next cold spot, and that gets Melone a glare that he, of course, ignores. “Relax, the internet said this’ll help.”

“The internet says all kinds of bullshit,” Ghiaccio mumbles with a roll of his eyes, but there’s no stopping Melone now.

At least not until he pulls a needle, and Ghiaccio suddenly finds the energy (adrenaline) to quickly sit up in an attempt to escape. His vision rapidly fades out, and it’s only Melone’s hands that stop him from hitting the ground.

“Have a little faith, Ghia!” Melone whines, but he’s still grinning.

Bastard.

“Whatever,” now Ghiaccio is losing patience with the man.

“The science is sound! You’re low on blood volume, and I’ve got a pretty easy fix for that. Plus some ice packs,” Melone resumes digging into the bag and pulls out several, soft freezer packs. Ghiaccio takes them with a little more eagerness than he means to let on, but Melone only smiles in response. A softer, more genuine thing that makes Ghiaccio’s heart flutter for an entirely different reason.

“How are you going to ‘fix’ my blood volume?”

“You’ll see,” Melone answers, earning himself a roll of the eyes from Ghiaccio.

It takes Melone awhile to set up whatever he’s doing, and Ghiaccio gives up figuring it out only a few minutes in. He’s gathered that it has to do with some sort of injection. Possibly more than one, given the tourniquet, but he doesn’t know enough about medical supplies to put any of the other pieces together. Instead, he closes his eyes and tries to focus on the feeling of the freezing sensation against his skin from where he’s stuck the packs against his stomach and legs. It’s both a relief and a comfort. Cold is an old, reliable friend and his only solace in times like these.

Eventually, Melone breaks him out of his daze to ask, “Ready?”

Melone wraps the tourniquet around Ghiaccio’s upper arm as he speaks, and Ghiaccio simply shrugs with his other shoulder. He doesn’t think he actually has much say in this. When Melone sets his mind to something, he’s going to follow it through, and that goes double for medical experiments. It’s not the first time Ghiaccio is on the receiving end, and he has to admit that it hasn’t ever gone too horribly for him in the past.

“Okay,” Melone grabs the needle again. He pops the cap off and holds it up to his good eye for a moment before he lowers it toward Ghiaccio’s elbow. “On three. One, two-”

“OW! Fuck you!”

“Three,” Melone smiles at him with a feigned sweetness, like he doesn’t know why Ghiaccio might want to pull the needle right back out of his arm and stick it between Melone’s eyes.

Melone doesn’t pay him the slightest bit of attention as he slides the needle out and leaves behind a small catheter. He screws something into the end of it and slaps tape over it. It’s then that Ghiaccio notices the bag of fluids already hung up on the nearest surface, which just happens to be his dresser.

“There,” Melone says when he finishes setting up everything to his liking, “That should do it.” He taps the bag with his pointer finger, “Saline. An easy and safe way to up your volume.”

Ghiaccio doesn’t particularly like the implication that there’s an unsafe way.

“Well, mostly. Technically this isn’t the most sterile environment, so you could get an infection, but I’ve done worse on the kitchen table on Pesci’s day to do dishes, sooo.” And there it is.

“Please stop talking,” Ghiaccio says with a groan and tries to push away the anxiety that’s building at the mere thought of sepsis.

“Aww, have a little faith. You’ll be fine, and this should make you feel a lot better. For at least a day or two, and maybe the heatwave will finally go away,” Melone beams at him before he starts to clean up his mess. He gathers it all up in a trash bag he must have brought with him, though that doesn’t exactly answer why the duffel bag is so large.

“What else do you have in there?” Ghiaccio asks against his better judgement. He still isn’t so sure about this saline thing, but his curiosity has always been a bit of a problem.

“Oh, more fluids, in case you need them, and some uh- well, let’s just say a snack for our resident pseudo-vampire. It has to stay cold until it’s… used, so I’ve got it in a cooler.”

Ghiaccio hums and as he processes the words. Seems he isn’t the only one suffering through the heat, though he has a feeling Risotto’s situation is more of a repercussion from his most recent hit. Then again, maybe the heat is getting to the man. It’s not often that Risotto’s left in a bad enough state where he needs Melone’s help. He usually has Prosciutto for that.

“I’m going to go take care of that, actually. You should be fine here for a bit. That bag will finish in about forty-five minutes, so just stay put,” Melone says like Ghiaccio has any intention of going anywhere, regardless of the ice and saline. He stands with the bag slung over his shoulder and glances between the door and Ghiaccio, obviously not wanting to leave, but knowing that he’s needed elsewhere.

“Go take care of Ris,” Ghiaccio mumbles in lieu of a thanks. He’ll repay Melone for his efforts later. When he’s feeling more human.

“Yes, sir!”

Ghiaccio groans and rolls his eyes, “Get the fuck out.”

Melone laughs and dashes for the door before Ghiaccio can hurtle a pointed chunk of ice directly at his head.

It’s barely twenty minutes-- and only half a bag later-- when Ghiaccio finds himself able to sit up without the world spinning.

“Huh,” is all he can say into the empty room. Leave it to Melone.

[itsdoctorhouse]

Pilot/Everybody Lies

CC (Chief Complaint): Conduction aphasia and grand mal seizure

Dx (Diagnosis): Neurocysticercosis

(I’ll be writing definitions/explaining each medical term mostly because its fun and good practice for me, thanks. It’ll go in chronological order for the episode even if it doesn’t pertain to the final diagnosis, which I’ll then explain itself.)

Conduction aphasia:

Patient is unable to articulate full words, she starts speaking gibberish

What’s important is that she recognizes that she isn’t able to form her words properly and that she’s still able to write on the white board legibly (”Call The Nurse”)

The previous point is important because there are different types of aphasia - “the loss of ability to understand or express speech”, I won’t go too in detail about all the different kinds except for what I reasonably think matches the patients symptom and another complementary type.

Broca’s aphasia, aka Expressive aphasia: the loss of the ability to produce language, although comprehension generally remains intact. So, in context of the episode, that’s why she wasn’t able to form full words/sentences, but was able to recognize it and write down a legible call for help.

Wernicke’s aphasia, aka Receptive aphasia: wherein individuals have difficulty understanding written and spoken language. Can demonstrate fluid speech but lacking meaning, for example, “Sugar may be house phone.” It’s technically grammatically correct, but doesn’t mean anything in context of a conversation. The individual might also be unaware of the lack of meaning in their speech (more in s2e10 “Failure to Communicate”)

I like to think of the previous two as “opposites” concerning types of aphasia. Which might be obvious by their names Expressive versus Receptive :)

Both types are common after an infarct (loss of blood supply to a specific region resulting in death of tissue), aka a stroke.

Grand mal seizure:

The most common types of seizures are as follows:

“Grand Mal” or generalized tonic-clonic: the one shown on all TV shows and movies (probably because it’s the most visually interesting), includes unconsciousness, convulsions, and muscle rigidity

Absence: a brief loss of unconsciousness 

Myoclonic: Sporadic (isolated), jerking movements

Clonic: Repetitive, jerking movements

Tonic: Muscle stiffness, rigidity

Atonic: Loss of muscle tone

If you’re familiar with latin roots a lot of the medical mumbo jumbo makes a lot more sense, for example these seizure names all look the same at first glance but the prefix a- means without, so knowing that tonic means “continuous muscle contraction”, you already know what kind of seizures tonic and atonic will be just from the name. P.S. myo- is for muscle.

Pulmonary edema:

Simply put, it’s when there is excess fluid in the lungs, so that it’s difficult for the oxygen exchange to occur. Meaning that the patient can’t get rid of the carbon dioxide inside their body and they can’t get new oxygen into their blood.

Can lead to a whole lot of complications because everything in the body needs oxygen and an abundance of carbon dioxide can cause respiratory acidosis (which is a whole other post because I love how the respiratory system works)

aka lung congestion, lung water, and pulmonary congestion

The most common cause is congestive heart failure (CHF), which is when the heart can’t properly pump blood throughout the body, so a backup of blood builds up, increasing the pressure in the small blood vessels of the lungs, causing a “leakage”

Symptoms will depend on the type/etiology of the pulmonary edema, but generally the patient will have a hard time breathing (technically it’s an issue with the oxygen exchange, not the actual mechanics of breathing) which means their body will try to compensate by breathing faster, aka hyperventilating (there are also so many different types of breathing which I won’t go into, but my favorites are Kussmaul breathing and Cheyne Stokes)

The patient “had an allergic reaction to the dye used in the contrast study.”

I’m not saying they’re wrong but...

People allergic to contrast dye usually show adverse reactions cutaneously, meaning skin symptoms: rash, redness, swelling, etc., and usually more than 24 hours after injection.

For the most severe reactions, which is what the patient might have had, anaphylaxis and death is a small possibility. It’s a 0.008% chance to develop pulmonary edema as a complication to contrast media.

It’s not a true allergy, rather a pseudoallergy, because there is no antibody that causes the reaction. It’s the contrast dye itself that directly stimulates histamine release.

... so they’re not wrong really, just super unlucky.

Vasculitis

I don’t even know why they suggested this as a differential and then started treatment for it. They don’t even mention what type of vasculitis it might be. I’m reasonably sure they only included this so that they’d start treatment with steroids (prednisone) so that they patient would get better then worse again.

Neurocysticercosis

First and foremost, the way that he phrases it in the episode, he would have realized it was neurocysticercosis sooner, if not for the fact that he believed she was jewish (because Wilson lied to get him to take the case)

Reasoning behind this: that the parasite for neurocysticercosis, Taenia solium, is mostly found in pork (which religious jewish people are not supposed to eat). Which, first of all, as a non-religious jew myself, that’s some supposition right there. Immediately thinking all jews are religious and/or don’t eat certain foods because other jews don’t. 

And secondly, that he didn’t double check her religion status, so immediately discarded a diagnosis based on that erroneous fact. Like, I get it’s the pilot and they wanted to establish personalities and relationships right off the bat, but that’s the one annoying part of the show, if only he had gotten to know his patient he probably could have diagnosed her earlier (but that’s why we love House, his charming personality)

Life cycle: Eggs or gravid proglottids (pregnant segments of the adult parasite [tapeworms as a whole have different segments to their body called proglottids, their “head” is called a scolex and is mostly different for each species, the head is connected to the neck, which then connects to the first immature proglottid. Depending on the species they all have different amounts of proglottids, ranging from 5 to 1000. The further away from the scolex they get the more mature they become, and when fully mature they’re impregnated, one segment at a time, with each segment breaking off from the previous so that they can find a nice home in the body]) are found in feces and passed into the environment, from there they’re ingested by an intermediate host, usually a pig, but in the case of cysticercosis, a human. The eggs hatch and liberate larvae, aka oncospheres, which penetrate the intestinal wall and circulate to musculature. They mature into cysticerci over 60-70 days, and can migrate to the central nervous system, which is what causes neurocysticercosis.

The same parasite can cause another disease called taeniasis. This differs primarily through the acquisition of the parasite. The pig is the intermediate host in this case and a human the definitive host. It is ingested through uncooked/undercooked pork containing cysticerci. Wherein they will evaginate and attach to the small intestine by their scolices (head and suckers). This disease will normally only cause intestinal issues.

A primary infection of taeniasis with Taenia solium can cause a secondary infection of cysticercosis which can lead to neurocysticercosis. So it is possible for the patient to have neurocysticercosis even though they explained it using taeniasis.

Neurocysticercosis is one of the main causes of epileptic seizures in many less developed countries (not so much for a pre-school teacher in New Jersey)

Treatment can include steroids (which is what they gave her for vasculitis, and the reason why she seemed better for a time) but ultimately an anti-parasitic is needed, suggesting albendazole or praziquantel for about 2 weeks.

[sondepoch]

XIX: Saeyoung's Route (Y/N)

Where Futures Begin

Life used to be simple for you. Peaceful. But the Savior had other plans for you, and in moments, she ruined what you thought was your one shot at happiness. Blinded by anger, you escaped the Mint Eye, but that triggered a series of events that would bring you further into the world of brothers Saeran and Saeyoung. And further into the twisted world of your love for them.

Neutral Route: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | ✔

Saeyoung’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | ✔

Saeran’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | ✔

MASTERLIST

You couldn't be sure what time it was when you next woke up.

You knew that it had been afternoon when you were last awake, but as you stared out the windows, only darkness could be seen. Early in the morning or late at night, you concluded, after a moment of thinking.

Either way, a decent amount of time had passed. Saeyoung, still next to you, was in different clothes and his hair was washed, the fiery red now tamed and combed neatly. "Saeyoung?" You asked, using your voice to stir him from his slumber rather than your body, too afraid to move and bring forth a new wave of pain.

His eyes scrunched up and then opened, surprised. "You're awake?"

He sat in the bed and helped you into a sitting position, bringing a gentle hand to your cheek as if you were going to break at any second. "How do you feel, (Y/N)?" He picked up a glass of water and brought it to your lips. "Are you ready? The doctor is already here. We had him explain everything to Vanderwood so you don't need to worry about protecting your identity. We'll have the doctor on standby in case something goes wrong, but for the most part, Vanderwood will administer the-"

"My identity? Why would my identity need to be protected?" You asked.

Saeyoung looked away. "Let's talk about that when the Elixir is out of your system. We still don't know what it's doing to your mind."

The redhead extended an arm toward you, and you took it, allowing him to guide you toward a room you had never been in—Vanderwood's.

You poked your head in, surprised. The sheets had been changed and a tarp had been placed over the floor, the entire room converted into a makeshift hospital. There were several large pieces of equipment, and Vanderwood stood in the middle of it all, his hair pulled back into a low ponytail and his hands gloved. He pulled a surgical mask over his face. "Sit on the bed," He instructed.

You hesitated.

The only time you'd even come close to being in a hospital was when your orphanage had handed you off to a pediatrician's clinic for a week, and the worst of the machinery there was the needles they used to draw blood.

"What are you going to do?" You asked, not moving from your place.

"We'll filter the Elixir out of your blood. It's a pretty simple process...your blood goes into the machine and back into you. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. The doctor didn't give us any anesthetic, though, so..." Vanderwood nodded toward Saeyoung. "You should stay here with her, Lucie- erm, Saeyoung. This might hurt."

The redhead nodded, gently pushing you toward the bed, giving you a soft kiss on the forehead when you'd finally laid down on it. Knowing that he'd be with you the whole time made you feel a little better. Surprisingly, the fact that there would be no anesthetic didn't scare you much. After your primary and secondary commitments, and then having the Elixir directly in your bloodstream, you had built your tolerance for pain up. When Vanderwood made the first cuts into your skin, you barely felt the scalpel as it pierced your skin. 

Saeyoung squeezed your hand.

You thought about telling him you were be fine, but then realized that if you did...he'd pull his hand away. In all honesty, the thought of him doing that disturbed you more than the notion of pain, so you kept your lips shut and squeezed his palm back with a small smile.

Interestingly enough, your mental state had stabilized a bit between when you first were injected with the Elixir and now. Originally, the pain was so unbearable you could do little other than groan and shake, but it was as if your body had built grown accustomed to the pain. Is that a good thing, though?

You turned your head away as Vanderwood began pulling back the skin on your arm, easily grossed out by blood.

"Does it hurt?" Saeyoung asked, worry written on his normally relaxed face.

You chuckled. "Not as much as you probably think. I can handle this much." You flashed him a grin, as if that would prove your words, but Saeyoung still looked nervous.

He was about to respond when Vanderwood interrupted the two of you.

"Alright, everything's set up," The brunette took a step back and began removing his surgical gloves. "All we need to do is wait for the machine to filter your blood over the next few hours. Saeyoung, just monitor the numbers on the screen, and if you think something looks even a little wrong, make sure you tell me so that I-"

"I know, Vanderwood," Saeyoung said, chuckling. "I've helped you with medical missions before."

Vanderwood sighed, running a hand through his hair. Even he had his eyebrows scrunched up a little more than usual. You smiled. He cares about me more than he lets on, you realized.

He grumbled in protest, but Saeyoung ushered him out of the room.

"He acts all indifferent about you, but he he has a soft spot for you, ya know?" Saeyoung blurted the second the man was gone.

You grinned, having reached the same conclusion only seconds before. "Yeah," you mused.

"Everyone in your life cares about you, (Y/N). I hope you know that," Saeyoung mumbled, getting serious once more.

You bit your lip.

There were certainly exceptions to that. MC seemed to hate your guts, V (kind as he was) knew about the hostage trade and didn't stop Saeyoung. The Savior obviously resented you, and perhaps worst of all, you still had no news of Saeran.

Would the boy always think you had abandoned him? That you had never cared and that it was all a lie?

You could bear the thought of the others hating you, but no matter what happened...Saeran would always hold a special place in your heart.

"I want..." You began, unsure of how to communicate your desires. "I want to talk to Saeran."

Saeyoung's eyes widened, but you went on before he could say anything.

"You...You said he was here. At the cabin. I've been wanting to speak to him but," You laughed softly, but not in humor. "But I don't think he feels the same. I haven't seen him once since...since getting the injection."

Saeyoung's eyes rounded in surprise. "(Y/N), I promise you, Saeran doesn't feel like that. You've been awake for less than an hour in total over the past two days, so you might not have noticed, but he's checked on you every day. Even when I was with you, he came in and asked about your vitals and if you'd been drinking water and if-"

"Really?"

What Luciel said brought you so much hope.

You'd thought that your relationship with Saeran was unsalvageable. That with all the wrongs you had done against him and all the ways he had wronged you, he'd still be bitter.

For years now, he's been your closest friend, and often the only person to stand by you without fail. The past two months had been disastrous, a special circle in hell crafted just for you, but that didn't change the fact that Saeran and you had a history together.

And you were willing to do as much as was necessary to make sure that your friendship didn't go to waste.

"Should I bring him in?" Saeyoung offered, seeing the new light in your eyes.

You nodded your head and began mentally preparing yourself for what you'd say.

Barely thirty seconds passed before the twins were before you again, and as you stared at the two, you wondered why you hadn't realized earlier that they were related.

Truly two sides to the same coin, they were copies of each other, the only differences being the stark contrast in hair color and eye color. 

And the look of horror and pain on Saeran's face as he gazed down at you.

"Saeran, you're..." Saeyoung murmured softly, not willing to complete the sentence that you all knew the answer to.

Crying.

You watched for the first time ever as silent tears ran down Saeran's cheeks. He'd never been this vulnerable in front of you. Never.

"Don't..." Saeran began, the word sounding raw and shaky. "Don't look."

He took a step back, and you thought he was going to leave the room, but he simply hit the light switch and the room darkened. The only light source was the computer monitor which displayed your vitals, something that wouldn't be shut off any time soon.

The sound of sniffling filled the room, and you found yourself at a loss for words.

"(Y/N), I..." Saeran began. "I'm so sorry."

In that moment, you wanted to rip the tube out of your arm and run to the boy, hug him and hold him and cry with him. Instead, you bit your lip 

"Saeran..." You said, not sure where to begin. But the boy took your hesitation for anger.

"No, (Y/N), you don't have to say anything. I understand if you never want to see me again. Everything that happened was my fault, if only I could have been stronger, none of this would hav-"

"Saeran." Your eyes widened.

You had been the one who opened your mouth to interrupt, but Saeyoung had beaten you to it.

"Saeran, don't blame yourself," The older twin murmured. You couldn't see it, but you had no doubt that Saeyoung was hugging Saeran. "You were under the Elixir. I saw you. If you had enough in your system to be vomiting blue afterward, then there's no way you can be blamed for what your mind tricked you into doing."

You frowned, surprised by this revelation. "You...you were under the Elixir?"

The boy didn't respond, but his silence was an answer in itself.

You let out a sigh of relief. "How...how long, Saeran?"

You heard Saeyoung nudge him, and Saeran finally responded. "The Savior began giving me higher doses around the same time MC joined the Mint Eye. It doesn't excuse what I've done, (Y/N), I know that, and I'm so..."

You let Saeran ramble for a moment, giving him the opportunity to apologize when he didn't need to.

He was on the Elixir, you thought, the revelation giving you hope. Every time he ignored me and hurt me...it wasn't out of free will. It was all the Elixir.

It was a cruel liquid, the Elixir of Salvation.

The Savior used it for everything. She used it to brainwash disciples who questioned her authority. She used it to convince believers into believing in the magenta. She used it as a test during Primary and Secondary commitment. She used it to torture those she thought deserved punishing.

How many times did she give Saeran the Elixir? You wondered, slowly beginning to understand why he had looked at you with blank eyes so many times. Eyes are windows to the soul. When he cared for you and loved you, you saw affection in his eyes. When he was angry or disappointed, you saw the frustration in his eyes.

Over the past two months, though...his eyes had been blank. As if his mind were possessed by something else entirely. In your desperate search for answers as to why Saeran suddenly seemed to hate you, you had assumed that the blankness on his face was a product of his anger to you but now, you realized that the whole time, it was the Elixir.

Even when he injected you with the Elixir, it had been a decision reached under influence.

That goddamn liquid, you thought, suddenly more worried for Saeran's health than anything else. If the boy was throwing up blue, something you hadn't done during even your secondary commitment, the Savior truly must have gone overboard.

"(Y/N), please...I won't ask you to forgive me but just..." Your ears perked up as you heard Saeran's broken voice continue. "Just please don't die. I've caused you so much pain...but if you die because of this I won't be able to handle it. I know I deserve the pain and the blame and the grief, but please...please."

You wanted the lights to be on. You wanted to look Saeran in the eye and tell him everything would be okay.

That you were already feeling better and your life was most likely no longer in danger.

But you knew he wouldn't believe you, so instead, you simply said, "Saeran, come here." The boy moved forward, standing a foot away from you, unsure.

But you didn't waste a moment in hesitation. You grabbed his hand and pulled him into your bed, right next to you, and embraced him.

It had been nearly two months since the two of you had this level of closeness, and that seemed to push Saeran over the edge. He returned the hug for a moment, resting his head in the crook of your neck before the tears began flowing from him all over again.

Saeyoung left the room, shutting the door quietly, leaving the two of you.

It was a peaceful moment.

No words needed to be said.

You closed your eyes and shushed him as he mumbled apology after apology, holding him close for what felt like the first time in forever.

There was still a lot to talk about. A lot. But for a moment, it really felt like everything would be okay. 

MASTERLIST

Neutral Route: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | ✔

Saeyoung’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | ✔

Saeran’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 |

Word count: 2.2k

Notes: Avatar: The Last Airbender is suchh a good show everyone should watch it

Comment & Like

Next Update: 3/12/20

I do not own the rights to Mystic Messenger or any of the characters within it.

[itracing]

Audi Celebrates 20th Anniversary of First Le Mans Win 

Twenty years ago, Audi’s R8 race cars crossed the finish line of the Le Mans 24 Hours race in 1-2-3 formation. The Vorsprung durch Technik brand’s sports car racing program ran for 18 years, during which time Audi won the epic endurance race 13 times – a 72 per cent success rate. We hear from Denmark’s Tom Kristensen, who won for Audi in 2000, 2001, 2002, 2004, 2005, 2008 and 2013, and celebrate the cars that beat the opposition, and the clock.

Tom Kristensen won Le Mans nine times. Here, he recalls Audi’s first victory in the famous 24-hour race in 2000. 

‘I was invited by Doctor Wolfgang Ullrich, then Audi Head of Motorsport, to a meeting at Ingolstadt in autumn 1999. He introduced me to some of the Audi Sport engineers and mechanics, and showed me a drawing of the R8 race car.  On the spot, I said I would like to be part of the team. We shook hands, and that was the best decision I ever made in racing.’

Victory first time out ‘I tested the car before the 12 Hours of Sebring in the US in March 2000. It was an interim car between the older R8R that Audi had raced in 1999 and the new R8. The front end was still the old car, while the rear was from the R8, but Frank Biela, Emanuele Pirro and I won Sebring in it, which was very important.’

A strong team and a level playing field ‘At Le Mans 2000 I drove with Biela and Pirro again, and we had two sister cars – one crewed by Laurent Aïello, Allan McNish and Stéphane Ortelli, the other by Christian Abt, Michele Alboreto and Rinaldo Capello. Dr Ullrich showed great commitment and passion, and he made sure that we all worked well together and shared all the feedback. He ensured we all had an equal chance and that there was never any additional support for one crew over another. Dr Ullrich always did his utmost to create a level playing field, and that was very motivating, not only for the drivers but also the mechanics and the engineers.’

Reliability was the number-one priority – and it paid off ‘Some people would say Audi took a conservative approach with the R8, certainly compared with some of the more state-of-the-art and – shall we say – ‘bananas’ race cars that followed. The philosophy was, “If there is any problem, we need to be able to fix it,” and that came all the way from board level down. The number-one priority was reliability. Without reliability, you cannot have 100 per cent trust in your equipment, and you cannot perform. It was the perfect approach for Le Mans.’

Finding one set-up to please three different drivers ‘The R8 was the first LMP1 Le Mans prototype I drove with power steering. I was used to heavy steering that took a real effort to turn into corners, which gave me a lot of confidence. It took me some time to get used to the lightness of the R8’s steering, whereas Frank Biela was very happy with it. He used to say, “It gives you quick hands, and you can control it faster.” But it took a long time to get the set-up right for everyone because the input from the drivers was different. Eventually, it became smoother and more progressive, and in the end we were all happy with it.’

A wild ride at Le Mans ‘We had a bit of an issue with the brakes – we had to change discs and pads. The car was very fast, but in that first year the twin-turbocharged V8 engine had a lot of turbo lag, followed by a very aggressive response. It was like a delayed time bomb – nothing, nothing, and then BOOM! That improved a lot the following year when Audi introduced the FSI system, which injected petrol directly into the combustion chambers. That was very helpful for the drivability of the engine, and it was also a lot more efficient and an excellent development for road cars. The first R8 had a lot of understeer, too. So, you had a car with a wild engine response that was set up to feel settled and more consistent as the tires wore, but as a result  felt quite nervous and twitchy on fresh tires.’

Drop your guard for a split second and you're off ‘In an LMP1 car you are going at the speed of a small aircraft, and you are just trying to keep it nailed to the ground. You always have to be alert. The cars are very aggressive at the limit. If you are alone on the track, it’s fine, you can be calm. But in traffic, or in close fights with your rivals, you always have to look out for aerodynamic upset caused by the slipstream of other cars, which can buffet and bounce your car around. These things aren’t visible, but they can be pretty dramatic, and if you don't expect them, you can be sure you will go off when they arrive.’

It’s not over till the final minute ‘We were holding the lead towards the end of the 2000 race. Frank Biela was cool as ever – as long as you gave him time to have his cigarette. He was fit, he was strong, he was calm. Emanuele was always Italian – always emotional, you know? Ready to celebrate the victory before the end, which was something I hated. Maybe you would say my approach was pessimistic, but I didn’t want anything – no handshakes – before the checkered flag.’

Crossing the line 1-2-3 ‘About 30 minutes before the end, Dr Ullrich froze the race order, and we were able to cross the line 1-2-3. And the colors of the cars were red, yellow and black, as in the colours of the German flag.’

The R8 went on to become the most successful LMP1 car ever ‘The Audi R8 won four more Le Mans, and I was part of the winning driving team each time. You could win in that car at Mont-Tremblant in Canada, at Mid-Ohio, at Sebring and Laguna Seca in the US, at Donington in the UK, at Jarama in Spain and at Le Mans in France. You could win in the R8 at so many different tracks all over the world.’

Photo L to R: Audi Head of Motorsport Dr. Wolfgang Ullrich, Emanuele Pirro, Tom Kristensen and Frank Biela on the podium.

[pumpkin-spice-whump-latte]

Whumptober #7: Isolation

Hey guess who can’t write something without it turning into a goddamn novel? IT’S ME! I got a little carried away with this one, but it’s a concept that I’m actually super interested in.

contents: Sensory deprivation, hallucinations, unreality mention, drugging

_________________________________

“Test number 13: Keller injection administered. Subject–”

“What the FUCK did you just stick me with you sick BASTARD?”

Dr. Tillman paused during the outburst, looking down at the man strapped to the table indifferently, then continued.

“…Subject restrained. Begin phase two.”

Ben could feel a cold finger of fear start tapping it’s way up his spine as soon as he’d felt the needle pierce his skin, and it was only made worse by the fact that he wasn’t even being told what was in it. He had no idea what drug had just been forced into his system and wouldn’t know until something started hurting or growing or peeling off… Oh god. It was the vast unknown of it all that was the worst thing.

“At least… Goddammit, at least tell me what this is supposed to be testing for, huh Doc?” There was a tiny bit of pleading his voice that he hadn’t meant to let slip, and it made his cheeks burn in shame. Might as well have said “pretty please, oh Mr. Mad Scientist sir, with ice cream on top?”

The man above him simply checked to see the straps around Ben’s wrists and ankles were tight enough, scribbled something down on his clipboard, then turned to leave the room.

“Hey!” Ben yelled after him. “I’m asking you a question! Hey!” It did no good. The scientist didn’t even pause a step to look back before the door slammed shut behind him. Ben would have kept on screaming out demands and threats, turning all of his fear into anger, if his vision hadn’t started to suddenly fade away.

The room started going dark gray and fuzzy at the edges, and he quieted down a little in nervous confusion. Was he passing out? No… No he was still awake. It was the room that was going away. It was his eyes that were rapidly failing him.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.” He whispered this to himself, since he’d long since given up on the possibility of anything else out there hearing him, but then that too started to fade. His mouth opened and closed and he could feel breath being pushed out over his tongue and teeth, but he could hear nothing.

At that point his vision had blacked out completely as well.

He was strapped to a goddamn table, alone, and unable to hear or see anything around him. He knew it was useless but screamed anyway, forcing out a great rush of air in the way his body remembered, compressing his chest and opening his mouth wide as he could. There was no one around to hear it.

-----

“Bennnnn..” It started softly. His name called from somewhere far off, in a voice that sounded vaguely familiar. “BEN!” There it was again, only this time sharp like the crack of a whip. He tried to call out an answer but, when he couldn’t hear his own voice, he knew it had to have been auditory hallucinations. That happened a lot with sensory deprivation. The brain had gotten used to hearing or seeing so when it was suddenly taken away, the brain compensated by flinging out random images and sounds. Memories.

Ghosts.

Even so, Ben figured he could handle this. The scientist’s experiment had become clear; total isolation and it’s effects on everyone’s favorite kidnap victim.

Great.

He tried taking a few deep breaths, focusing on the sensation of air moving in and out of his lungs. Feeling the way his chest expanded and contracted to remind himself of his connection to the waking world. It was okay. Whatever this was would be temporary. The drug in his system would wear off.

…Wouldn’t it?

____

After only six hours Ben wasn’t so sure it would. Of course he had no way to tell it had been six hours; his entire world consisted of darkness and nothingness and trying to count the seconds had gotten tedious after ten minutes.

But now he had a lot more to deal with than just boredom. Like the fact that he was still hearing things, and could no longer tell if they were real.

“Of course I’m real, man.” Carlos’ voice. The other captive he’d met not too long ago. The one who’d been a doctor too and had gentle hands. Ben was hearing his voice like he was sitting right next to him.

“Ben. Ben. Ben. Ben.” The voice kept repeating his name over and over until he pushed out more air in another frustrated shout.

Then came the sensation of fingers on his arm. He twitched and tried to flinch away, but he was still strapped down to the table. He couldn’t move an inch and

something was touching his arm.

He tried calling out Carlos’ name, tried demanding he do something to let him know this wasn’t a hallucination.

“Tap my arm three times if you’re real.”

The ghostly fingers only moved down to tap at his leg instead. What did that mean? Real, but not real? Here, yet not here?

Was he going insane????

------

After fifteen hours he began to forget things. Strange, random things like what pizza tasted like. Big, important things like what an hour of time even felt like, let alone meant. He had started to feel vaguely detached from the idea of having a body and being alive at all, and now it had grown into a full blown existential crisis. What if…

What if he had actually died?

What if this was Hell? This was his punishment for snitching on his boss back when he was a free, unhurt man. Jerry had never gotten over it but you weren’t supposed to be stealing opioids and managing a hospital at the same time.

Maybe this was limbo. Maybe he’d stay like this for the rest of eternity, unable to move or see or hear anything….

Except he could hear things, couldn’t he? Sometimes it was a woman’s voice humming directly next to his ear. Sometimes it was his father, saying some garbled nonsense he couldn’t understand. But most of the time it was Carlos.

His brain had apparently latched onto to the man out of a sense of desperate camaraderie. The only other person he’d seen in ages that was alive and didn’t cause him pain and terror. Carlos was beside him a lot during that time, and it was getting harder and harder to convince himself it was just a hallucination.

“Tell… Tell me a story. Tell me how the scientist found you.” It was getting harder to tell if his voice was making it out of his throat. Or if it mattered.

The shadow of Carlos didn’t answer, but Ben was able to feel the soft pressure of someone laying their head on his shoulder. Tears slipped out hot and rolling from the sides of his eyes, and he sobbed out noises he couldn't hear or even properly regulate.

“Tell me how we’re gonna…” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. There was no point in it anyway. Tell me how we’re going to get out of here? Ha. Funny.

A great feeling of heavy sadness washed over him then, cresting so far above his head that it felt monstrous, and his brain decided that was enough. The hallucinations, the tortuous uncertainty, the maddening need to scratch his nose and not being able to, he could deal with all that.

But the feeling of utter loneliness–the sense that he really was the only person in this universe, and Carlos and Dr. Tillman and his boyfriend back home that he didn’t let himself think about, they had all actually been hallucinations–that’s what ended up breaking him.

It was at hour thirty that the drug finally started to wear off and allow his senses to function properly again, but by that point he no longer cared. By that point he responded to anything Dr. Tillman said or did with mindless screaming, prompting the scientist to drag him unwillingly back into a holding cell and toss him onto the ground.

Ben was ninety-nine percent sure he was still hallucinating (or hadn’t been, maybe this was a dream, maybe he was asleep) but couldn’t help himself as the scientist was walking away again. Whether this was real or not his entire body screamed in unison for the company of another living soul. For the reminder that he was a person and shared this earth with other people.

“Wait! Please! Don’t!” He might have been able to see again (if his eyes could even be believed) and he might have been able to hear again (if his ears could be trusted either), but it meant nothing in that moment if he was to be left alone again. As much as he hated that damn scientist’s face, it was the only one he’d fully seen in thirty hours.

He broke down into helpless sobbing as the door was slammed in his face.

“Please… Please don’t, I can’t deal with this I can’t…” That wave of sadness stole over him again as he pushed his face into the cold metal floor. Looking around to see if Carlos or his father or his old boss Jerry had stuck around now that he’d regained his senses…

But it seemed like they hadn’t.

Now more than ever, Ben felt completely alone.

[soymilk-scribbler]

An Apple a Day

Bright eyes peer out from a small gap in the molding oak. Wooden planks securely board up every possible entrance in the run-down cabin. The trees surrounding the cabin cast shadows as the sun sets, enveloping everything in an orange-tinted darkness. Streams of dim sunlight desperately crawl through where termites have eaten away at the wood. What once used to be a flourishing, bustling campground is now an abandoned site.

It’s been a month since they’ve taken over. They took everything—my wife, my friends, and my livelihood. All quarantined in that wretched institution where they promised to care for us—to give us what we needed to live a healthy life. In reality, they used their authority to torture us with all their experimental equpiment. The propaganda they spread brainwashed the unlucky half of the city, and the  others, well, only a few are left still fighting for their freedom. Including me.

At first we thought we were safe in the city, but people pillaged everything from supermarkets to homes in desperate search of the Antidote, unafraid of hurting each other. This chaos was what they wanted; it gave their institution money and power. My family and I planned to lock ourselves inside our homes, but it wasn’t a sustainable idea. Eventually, we began to run low on the Antidote, and so we were forced to venture into the woods where people said it would be easier to gather more. I thought it would be safer there but the isolation ended up working against us.

We still had two hours left when my wife was quarantined. I was only gone for a few minutes to scout the area, but upon returning I saw them come out of nowhere and take her away right in front of my eyes. God gave me no time to mourn. The hand tightly gripping my pistol shook as I pointed it towards them. One of them hoisted her limp body over their shoulder and ran off, zig-zagging between the thick grove trunks to avoid my bullets.

It was the first time I saw one in person. They were as chilling as the others had described—all uniformly dressed in white from head to toe, with some kind of technologically advanced helmet covering their heads and a mask covering the rest of their existing facial features. The only things visible were their unwavering eyes targeting my back as I bolted away. I ran for at least a few kilometers before I stumbled upon the decaying cabin I’m currently in.

It’s almost been a full twenty-four hours since I last took the Antidote; I have half an hour left until my immunity wears off. I’d thought that of all places, the forests’ inhabitants would have an abundant supply of the Antidote, or what they—the common folk—call them: apples. That’s right. Apples. When it was discovered that these fruits were the only protection against their control, all the Granny Smiths, Ambrosias, Fujis—all of them were looted as soon as the news broke out. Unfortunately, an apple could only grant us a resistance to those rogue bastards for one day, so we would have to constantly replenish ourselves.

The M14 rifle I picked up on the run here teeters back and forth as it rests on an imbalanced windowsill. I take ahold of the gun and cautiously glance outside. Before I can fully scan the perimeter, the hunger pains hit me again and I double over, accidentally letting go of the gun’s trigger. It drops out the window, but I decide to retrieve it later. Big mistake.

I can hear them. The sirens blare—the ones I hear people say can deafen you from miles away. The ear-splitting noise increases in volume as they near the camp. The rumbling of the ground signifies that there’s more than one vehicle heading this way.

Panic engulfs me. The air becomes heavier, weighing my body down as if I was drowning in anxiety. The nervous, throbbing lump in my throat is growing so fast it could explode and blow me to bits. Some kind of intangible force clamps my airways shut like my body was trying to kill me before they could. Even that would be better than resigning my life to these vile creatures.

The wooden planks by my feet threatens to collapse with its noisy creaking as I pace back and forth. An immediate plan needs to be devised, but I’m battling against time—a cruel thing. God, the list of things I would do to get an apple right now is endless.

Just as I debate pulling the boarded planks apart and jumping out the back window, I hear the sound of dull metal slamming against itself in a disordered sequence. Scheming chatter resounds nearby. Too nearby.

“We’re here to help you!” several voices call out simultaneously. A shiver crawls up my spine and goosebumps prickle my skin at their robot-like behaviour.

Fear and disgust were my initial reactions when I discovered their existence, but at the same time I pitied them for falling victim to the higher-ups’ manipulation. People say that the higher-ups spend years, possibly decades, training their recruits to abide by their rules and practices. They were once like me, like us, but the system morphs them into villains who believe they’re truly helping by stealing other people’s livelihoods.

The front door downstairs crashes open and slams onto the floor. The walls shake, causing a framed photo of a group of kids labeled Junior Science Camp for Medicine to fall behind my back. The antique-looking frame cracks and the glass shatters into millions of pieces, the noise revealing my location.

“He’s upstairs!” a hoarse voice calls out from below. 

At best, my immunity will only last another ten to fifteen minutes. There’s no other choice. If I’m taken, my life will be over. I’d spend the rest of my days lying in an empty, white cell, hooked up to their machinery. To make matters worse, they’d confiscate all my savings that I spent years working for as a normal, contributing citizen. I’d be paying for them to torture me.

I look at the half-boarded window that I’d debated escaping out of earlier. It’s the least guarded area in the entire cabin, but it’s situated next to the stairs that would lead them directly to me. Not only that, it’s three storeys high.

I imagine the way I’d land. The sound my legs would make as the bones cracked, the sickening way it would look all twisted and turned in directions it wasn’t supposed to, and the adrenaline not being enough to mask the agony I’d experience.

Then, I imagine the blur of white suits storming upstairs, violently tackling me to the ground as they’d inject their drugs into my body. Finally, they’d imprison me in their jail where they’d monitor me twenty-four hours a day and strip me of all my freedom and privilege. Either way, I’m a goner.

The stomping gets louder as they make their way up to the third floor. My vision goes hazy as the blur of whites I envisioned becomes a reality.

This is it. I’m not going to make it. They’re here.

The Doctors.

[psyncin-in-the-restrain]

ok so this is probably really dumb but i assumed bc its the future and aiba gives date his medicine 'secretly' and aiba is connected to his nervous system i assumed it was injected painlessly through date's nervous system by aiba, the same way the secret psync works basically? and i kind of just assumed bc they did a whole thing about how 'ai' means love and oxycotin is love, that was like, the connection. am i just a dumbass? lmfao.

Lemme just shove my thoughts under a read more, okay? It’s not bad, just lengthy. LOL

Anyways, nope! You weren’t the only one! In fact, I still think AIBA’s the one that injects Date’s medicine because it’d take a lot of work (and money, thank you HQ) to install something into Date’s head. Additionally, she’s directly in his eye. Remember that the medicine can be “injected”, which means it HAS to get into Date’s body somehow!

I mentioned before that in Date’s car, he has a port that charges AIBA. I believe it’s safe to assume that said port also has some sort of special connector that holds an extra supply of the medicine in Date’s car. I’m sure ABIS needed some sort of clearance to install that sort of charger in his car before actually doing it. If not, I’m sure they would’ve found other means to hide Date’s medicine.

In a nutshell, oxytocin is what helps people socialize better, no matter the kind of relationship you have! And yes, you can definitely say that oxytocin is a connection of sorts to love. After all, you need love to handle people you may not like on a daily basis!

So yeah!, you’re definitely not a dumbass. You actually were able to grasp the message of the story, which is pretty good! (it too me days to do that. OTL;;)