#like the potential of washed out yellow and bright blue the potential of an endless steampunk-ish far west setting

[sludgeguzzler]

there is so much cool trigun art i want to ignore alllll my responsibilities and just look at it and draw a little bit too maybe i think this is my lifes purpose now

[mandoinevarro]

Deep into the Wilderness

Words: 4.7k (this was supposed to be short but, alas, i am an asshole) 

Rating: E

Warnings: Smut, sex pollen :0, dubious consent (see: sex pollen), a bit of size kink ö, multiple orgasms :O, light descriptions of blood, magic nature if you’re in the mood, incredible coincidences if you’re not

a/n: i genuinely thought this would be a lil drabble :/, also fuck snakes all my homies hate snakes

There’s something wrong about the stars.

Nights in the Tatooine desert are usually dim and still, as stoic as the Mandalorian who’s been journeying across the endless dune sea with you in your little caravan of two. These past few days, you’ve noticed that the jagged difference between coarse sand and smooth beskar are no obstacle for his ability to blend perfectly into his surroundings. For days, you’ve seen the bounty hunter cruise the barren wilderness like he was born in it, climbing the mounds of sand leisurely and offering his hand when the treacherous ground gives in under your feet and you tumble forward. Ever the gentleman. Silent and observant, he tends to adapt to the elements around him and mimic their energy, until he becomes part of the landscape. Tonight is no different.

The normally scattered and shy desert stars have all gathered in a cluster right above your modest campsite, blinking down at you white and yellow and red against an electric blue sky, bright enough to spare the need of a fire. You feel watched. The stars’ ghoulish eyes above trail your every movement. Waiting to witness something.

Yes, a meek voice inside lies for you, it must be the stars, as you purposefully try to ignore the crushing weight of the Mandalorian’s trained gaze on you, much heavier than the strong beskared arm resting on your upright knee. The tube of bacta ointment moves awkwardly under your fingers and, Maker, you know it won’t be enough. The small holes on the wool covering his arm reveal two angry red pupils gushing blood where the snake’s fangs pierced him; pupils that stare amused at the medical salve that they know and you know and Mando knows will do little neutralize the unknown toxin. You sit so close to him you can hear the hitch of his breath when you pinch the tube and white balm oozes onto your finger.

“I—Mando, I-I think we should get help.” It doesn’t help your nerves that the man to your left hasn’t stopped staring at you since the ruby red viper appeared from under the sand like a conjuring, going straight for the Mandalorian’s arm and slithering back inside its hiding place beneath the dunes before either of you could react. It was unnatural; desert creatures tend to linger in the shadows and never attack unless provoked. Then again, everything about this particular evening—including the bounty hunter—seems to be slightly off, like when something in a familiar place is moved, but you can’t figure out exactly what.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere,” the voice under the modulator scratches at a  lower register than usual, gruffier in a way that would excite you and warm your belly if you weren’t so worried about the liquid currently poisoning his bloodstream. It must be the pain. “Two days by foot to the nearest town. Just use the bacta.”

You gulp and nod as firmly as you can manage, trying to quiet the whisper saying that bacta won’t cut it this time as you get your finger closer to his arm. It’s strange that he asked for your help—the bite is right on the pulse point of his inner elbow, where he could easily do it himself. Maker, just focus. He must have had a good reason to ask you. Plus, you’re not about to miss the promise of even the slightest physical contact with the Mandalorian, even if the situation is not exactly as you’ve fantasized all these months.

Your finger presses lightly into one of the gaps, and with a bit more force when you hear a raggedy exhale leave him. The opening the snake left behind is too small for your finger, and most of the bacta gathers around its edges, while barely any gets to the wound.

“I, um…I need to cut it—t-the fabric,” you stutter and, stars, you sound like an idiot, getting nervous over applying balm when you’ve seen him cauterize his own injuries with a steady hand, much to your horror. You can feel the way his eyes feed from your words as they study you carefully, somehow strengthening the gravity pining you to the ground. A strange static crinkles in the air between you, so real you almost hear it, and for a moment you feel the weight of his stare move past your face, lower down your body. By the time he finally nods and signals towards the open medical kit with a tilt of his helmet, you’re warm all over.

Stretching your torso just the right amount so that his arm doesn’t slip from your knee, you reach straight for the scissors in front of you. Your fingers pinch the fabric to lift it while your other hand works the clippers, cutting with tiny snip-snip-snips that do little to fill the tense silence between you. Why it’s even tense to begin with is beyond you. Sure, Mando got bitten by some unknown creature that could potentially be lethal, but the invisible rope getting stretched from both ends more and more between your bodies has little to do with the mishap. Stars, it feels like it’s pulling you closer and pushing you apart at the same time, and the arm on your knee suddenly feels like it’s burning through your pants. What would happen, you muse as you crank your wrist, if the rope gave in?  

The scissors close their circuit, and you lift a small circle of cloth, leaving the clippers aside. It’s a little bigger than it needed to be, but the Mandalorian doesn’t complain when you properly apply bacta on the lesion, sitting like a statue with the visor shining dark blue at your face. The stars reflect distorted on his helmet with judging eyes, like they can hear your thoughts. Like they just know how being so close to the man you think about to warm cold nights is making your heart pump more blood that you need. To places that definitely don’t need it.

You raise your other hand and rest it on his bicep. It’s only to pull the sleeve a little higher. To give you more room to work. And it’s only with that touch that he flinches.

You immediately lift both hands. “Sorry, I—I’m sorry, does…does it hurt—?”

“—No.” Mando moves his good arm and grabs your hand roughly, bringing it to rest on his bicep once again. He clears his throat, unable to wash away the grainy strain on his voice. “No, it—it’s fine.” His large palm stays over yours for a moment, before pulling away slowly. Reluctantly.

You nod and continue your ministrations, massaging a little more bacta than necessary on the bite. Maker, you never want to stop touching him. The patch of olive skin burns hotter than the planet’s twin suns under your touch, and you feel under your other hand how every shift of your finger makes his bicep jump in response.

His flesh absorbs the ointment fast, and you’ve now covered even the surrounding area around the bite, so you lift your finger, a bit disappointed that your little moment of intimacy is over. Until you feel him tug at his end of the rope.

“Cut more,” he breathes, and you freeze before you can lift the hand off his arm, staring right at the visor with eyes round as moons.

“Cut—cut more? More cloth? Wh—”

“The venom will travel up my veins.” Mando’s voice is a little steadier, but it still doesn’t mask a strange tint of something that doesn’t sound quite like pain. “You need to check how far up it goes. If…if it goes into my chest…”

He doesn’t need to finish. You shuffle to your knees—a little clumsily because of the sand beneath—and let his arm fall to his side as you squeeze his strong bicep a little tighter. For support.

“Tell me when to stop.” The blades cut away at the fabric, revealing a vertical line of lovely skin with each snip. They go higher and higher, higher and higher, and it’s you who decides to stop when they almost reach his armpit. You rest the scissors next to your legs. The slit uncovers the upper half of his arm’s underside, and you can’t help it when one hand moves to rest on the pauldron and the other slips under the crevice to caress his skin.

Mando’s chest puffs with more air and moves quicker, and—fuck—he looks so broad like this. Sitting and injured, he still towers over you with the beskar and the mass of muscle beaten into him through years of fighting.

He could crush me. The idea pools hot in your core.

“What, uh, what am I looking for?” Your own voice is thick. It’s wrong, but you’re honest enough to admit it’s arousal.

“T-the veins.” You hear him gulp and imagine the apple on his throat bobbing up and down. “Feel around. Che—check if they’re protruding.” You comply, dragging your fingers up and down his burning, strong arm, getting caught up in how he tenses under your touch. He’s pulsing, sure enough, beating like a drum under your hand—you even manage to raise goosebumps when you give a test squeeze—but you can’t feel any veins.

“No.” The hunter exhales with relief and nods once, but his arm doesn’t follow, as it remains taut as wood. You don’t remove your hand. He doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans into you.

An soft breeze raises a small cloud of sand and cools your face, whistling past you while it orders you to do it. “If it’s not pain,” you murmur, deciding it’s your turn to tense your end of the rope a little, “what do you feel?” You scratch your nails down his arm.

The gloved hand furthest away from you balls into a fist, clutching sand. “It—it, uh. It burns.” The words are dragged out and gritty, like they’re forcing their way out. He shivers and shuffles closer to you. “But—fuck—feels good. You—you feel good.” Encouraged, your nails sink into his flesh, testing the waters. Finally, it earns you a grunt, deep and rumbling its way between your thighs. In a split second, his arms fly to his shoulder, tugging at the cloak desperately, and you remove your hand from the opening to help him. It takes a few rough jerks, but the cloak eventually rips away from his pauldrons, and the Mandalorian throws it back. His hand travels to the side of his torso closest to you and signals. “Cut here.” He doesn’t offer an explanation this time.

Shit, you probably shouldn’t. But wetness is gathering around your folds and you’re not sure if you’ll actually get anywhere, but, Maker, you’re willing to try. Your hand is trembling when it finds the scissors next to you and you crouch slightly to cut away, eager and desperate to reveal more of the mysterious bounty hunter. This time, though, you don’t make a crevice, but instead cut a long rectangle from his waist to the side of his chest. You drop the scissors and the piece of fabric on top of the cloak and waste no time before your right palm crawls into the opening. Boiling skin welcomes your hand as it explores his naked torso, up a sturdy chest rising and falling rapidly, and back down again, savoring the sensation of soft skin over firm muscles flexing under your fingers. You stop at a trail of hair near his navel.

The Mandalorian growls. You scratch the hair lightly. The rope snaps.

Your hand slips outside when two hands grab your hips to lift you, setting you down to straddle Mando’s lap. You fall ungracefully, wobbling and grabbing at him to find your balance, until his steel arms wrap around your waist to press your chest to his. You grab his shoulders for support, and your warm breath clouds the beskar of his helmet. Your hips squirm unconsciously, making your core accidentally rub against something hard between the hunter’s legs. His grip on your back tightens and grinds you against him again, making him release a deep, primal moan against your ear. Fuck, you feel how hot liquid plops on your underwear as he ruts you against his erection, but somewhere in the back of your brain a puzzle solves itself in a snap and sends a pang of guilt to your chest.

“M-mando.” You sound whinier than you intended. “Mmando, I—I’ve heard about this, you’re poisoned, y-you don’t know what you’re d—”

“—Shut up,” he spits at you and pushes you roughly against him as a hand unwinds from your waist and wraps over your mouth. Your moans are muffled against his glove when a current shocks your body as your clit rubs just right over his bulge. You glance up at the stars, looking for guidance around the overwhelming pleasure threatening to break you, but they only stare back, burning brighter than before.

Suddenly, Mando pulls his hands away and pushes you off his lap. You fall back kneeling, worrying you’ve crossed a line somehow, but your anxieties disappear when you see him rip off his gloves and pull at your clothes hastily. You take the hint and help him undress you. The top garments he removes, but your underwear is ripped away and thrown to the side.

He whips around and finds his cloak, laying it on the sand and silently ordering with a finger to get on top. You shuffle on your knees until they reach the soft material, and—just when you’re about to turn around and beg him to touch you—the Mandalorian lifts the rectangle of cloth you cut away and wraps it around your eyes. Your vision gone but impossibly turned on, you feel his hands shove you back until you lay on the cloak.

Sand and hair tickle your face, and maybe it’s not the best idea to lay completely naked in the middle of a desert where you already know dangerous animals hide. The thought is quickly washed away by the heat of humid breath on your stomach. It throws you off for a moment, to feel a human gasp so clearly against your skin, but once you put two and two together the realization hits you so hard you slump limp on the ground.

The helmet…

You barely have time complete your thought. The Mandalorian climbs on top of you, a tuff of hair tickling your stomach. The trail of heat stops at your tits, where he takes a nipple into his mouth and bites down hard. You whimper to the sky.

“F-fuck, what—” He cuts you off when he laps at the injured nipple with fast, wide strokes of his tongue, before sucking hard on it. One palm holds down your chest, as the other comes up to squeeze your other breast, kneading and pulling the soft flesh like dough. You try to bite down your whimpers, but it’s too fucking much and they tumble outside urgent and needy.

Fuck, you should push him away. You both need to calm down before he forgets your body is attached to a living, breathing person and tears you apart. You—you—

The atmosphere seems to fall down on top of you when two thick fingers sink to the hilt inside your open hole effortlessly. You hum at the bliss while Mando’s wet tongue travels between your breasts, up your sternum, and leans into the curve of your throat, stopping only until it reaches your chin. You’re starting to cramp beneath him, trying to push down on his digits, but his body is too heavy over yours and fuck, fuck, you want him inside you.

His hand wraps around your cheeks and presses them together, making your mouth give in to the pressure and open up wide. His tongue—still salty with the taste of your own flesh—barges into the cave of your mouth and messily drags across its walls, your tongue, the roof, somehow everything at once with aimless movements that lack rhythm or pace.

And then his fingers start pumping. They start fast and hard and only get faster and harder, as they curl into a hook and hit something that makes you see the stars outside through the blindfold. Mando moans against your teeth, and you swallow every vibration.

“Yeah? T-there?” His mouth moves away from yours and trails the edge of your jaw, stopping at the edge and biting your neck. The two fingers working inside you push upwards to make room for a third one, and the calloused pad of his thumb rubs your clit up and down. Your scream echoes in the empty space of the sterile desert, now buzzing with life. “R-right there? Hm?” His voice hangs thick in the air, mixing with the loud static in your ears. Through the haze, you wonder momentarily what his face looks like right now. Probably red and sweaty, popping a vein or two.

“Fuck, I don’t k-know…I—I have to…” The Mandalorian removes all three fingers at once, making you yelp at the emptiness that they leave behind. Your pussy clenches a second too late and pulses around nothing, as you move in the darkness to find him again. You open your mouth to beg, but he grabs your shoulders before you can even gather some broken vocabulary together and he turns you around, pressing your chest and face against the cloak.

Resting your cheek on the cloak, you grunt at the abrupt change of position. Five fanned out fingers press down between your shoulder blades, restricting your movements and compressing all the air out of your lungs. You can’t breathe and you can’t wait, too stimulated to backpedal now, but not enough to be satiated.

An arm wraps around your midriff and roughly lifts your hips. You hear heavy breathing behind you and some incoherent mumbling, as a zipper lowers.  

Something round and smooth pokes at your entrance.

Is…is that…?

It definitely feels like the head of his cock as it runs up and down your folds gathering moisture. It even twitches a little against your clit and he’s grunting with every movement but…but even without your sight to help it feels so big. It can’t be his cock, in what universe would he be that fucking bi—

A grunt and a slight retrieval of his hips for impulse is all you get as a warning before he slams into you, lurching you forward. It knocks every single thought out your head, jamming what little air you’d managed to inhale on your trachea. The stretch bites, straining against your walls at an uncomfortable angle. And then he grinds further inside, deeply and hard as the bulbous head of his cock stimulates just about every nerve inside your pussy at once. You choke on your own cry, desperately trying to hold on to some sanity as you focus on processing the burst of pleasure that casts a dark shadow over the pain. The feeling secures every muscle on your body so tightly you think your spine is going to snap.

And he holds there, pulsing angrily and breathing down hot against your shoulders. You feel a slow trail of flames burn your insides with every strong sequence of thum-thum-thums of his thick cock against your walls.

Stars, did he cum?  Is that why he’s throbbing so violently, did he cum? It’s hard to tell when you’re so wet you’re sure you’re going to dehydrate tomorrow and fuck you only get wetter with the strumming and Maker you know the snake was poisonous but…but could he really want you this much?  

He sucks in a gulp of dusty air through his teeth, grunts and holds you tighter, his arm strong as beskar around your midriff and a burning palm pressing you against the cloak, sinking it deeper into the sand.

Finally, the Mandalorian pulls out with a grunt, your hips following his with a sucking sound because of the grip of your walls against his girth. He stops right before the tip slips out, its ridge catching on your opening. And maybe whatever venom running through his veins dissipated because he doesn’t move for a second that feels like an eternity. Fleeting disappointment surges inside you because maybe…maybe it was just the serpent. Maybe he doesn’t really want you. You are the only fuckable thing for miles, and you’ve heard enough about the toxin to imagine how desperate he’d be. Stars, you feel like such an idi—

Mando’s hips suddenly crash against yours, sinking himself to the hilt.

You feel him everywhere. Fucking everywhere, even where he isn’t. The fat cock hammering into you randomly with no pace or metric, seemingly determined to taste every inch inside your cunt takes most of your attention, but the hand on your back kneads and pulls the thin skin there as best as it can. You try to brace yourself against something solid—anything—but when your hands form fists they find only handfuls of sand, and the delicate particles do nothing to steady you from the animalistic thrusts of the Mandalorian.

So you moan, long and high to try and release all the pleasure stockpiling inside of you with no exit routes. Mando answers with grunts all the way down in his glottis. A deep and angled snap of his hips hits you somewhere electrifying, and you feel something hot and liquid knot your pelvic muscles tighter. His skin slaps against yours obscenely, paired with the squelching of your pussy trying to engulf him deeper and deeper in spite of his size.

“T-take it,” you hear him growl behind you. Barely. Your ears ring and you can’t even listen to your own whimpers anymore. His length keeps coming, restless and infinite and fuck, you need to focus on something else, something outside to keep your head from slipping away. “Just—just f-fucking take me whole, you—"

Fuck, focus. Focus, count to ten, do something—

You grit your teeth and you can’t even warn him. Something drops into your pelvic muscles and you swear you can see the blue desert sky in a flash behind your eyelids and feel the blinking stars prickling the nerve endings on your back, making you spasm desperately. Your head spins, and you only feel pleasure. Only him.

Still half-passed out from your release, you hear it before you feel it. The wet sound contrasting the dry dunes of how he keeps using your cunt to get himself off. He’s not letting you come down, fall to the natural next step of your cycle and relax. Breathe. No, he keeps filling every last inch of you, faster now with the help of the additional wetness and holds you in that state of euphoria that keeps hitting you like a tide. Shit, are you cumming again?

“F-fuck—fuck—d-did you—ngh—cum? W-was that—” Another wave hits you and you clamp down mercilessly around him before he can get an answer. His long moan gets you wetter somehow, and you can’t even savor it before the strong forearm holding your waist pulls you upright against him.

Up is down as you try to figure out in the darkness where your body ended up. Something slumps behind you and pulls you down with it hard against the cushioning of the sand. You find yourself impaled on the Mandalorian’s cock, his chest to your back. He bends and opens his legs to grab yours, pulling them back and hooking them around his cuisses. Propped up with most of your weight on Mando’s hips, your feet barely graze the cloak below them.

You reach up to touch him but he beats you to it, wrapping his arms around your torso and grabbing the surely bruising skin of your tits. Your eyes roll back and you try you best to keep your head above the water, which proves incredibly difficult when you feel his lips on your jaw, his drool trailing down your neck. You turn your head and he doesn’t miss a beat before his tongue slips between your lips, tasting and exploring and almost drinking from you like you’re water in he’s been stranded in this desert for years.

Mando thrust up at you, resuming his senseless fucking. And maybe you’re a little greedy. Maybe it’s wrong, especially because you don’t have an excuse to act like this, but you roll down into his cock, wanting him everywhere and for as long as you can get him. His thrusts are almost impossible to meet and his thickness catches at your opening, but you work diligently—determined to have him buried as deeply as he wants to go. The beskar of his chest trembles against your shoulders with a vibrating, noiseless moan.

“You—you pretty t-thing,” he breathes lowly against your mouth. You grab his knees for support and push down harder. “I’ve want—wanted this—w-wanted you f-for so—so long.” He bites your lower lip. His voice sounds delirious.

Maker, it’s ridiculous. You’re bouncing your pussy on his stiff cock like an animal in heat, but his words warm your chest more than your core. You know it’s probably the poison talking, but you indulge in it. You let your hand cradle his cheek and bring your lips sweetly against his, pretending you’re his lover and not just a vessel for his release. He gasps into the kiss.

It’s with your lips that he finally lets go. It happens midthrust, so his cum spurts out of you and dribbles down his cock. It smears on your folds and, surely, on the cloak beneath. Stars, you’re shaking. Your legs spasm with the promise of another orgasm that almost—almost happened. Still holding you, Mando pulls out, and the rest of his seed spills on wool and sand.

What now? If not the sweat and the fucking, then his release surely evacuated the venom by now. The Mandalorian pants behind you, just as spent and exhausted, and what the hell are you supposed to say to each other now? You squirm uncomfortably at the dilemma, and your slit accidentally drags against something upright beneath you. Mando winces at the contact.

Maker, is he still hard? How—?

Fingers dig into your arms and force you forward and away from him. You fall on top of the cloak, barely pillowing your fall with your forearms before you feel the Mandalorian turning you around to face him.

You lay open below him, ruined and confused in the darkness as to what he’s planning for you next. Your clit pulses with equal parts arousal and apprehension at the uncertainty, but it decides for the former when you feel him dip his fingers in your entrance and scoop his cum and yours. The sound of him pumping himself faster and faster is muffled by his moaning. It’s filthy gibberish: loose words of everything he’s dreamt about doing to you; of how he’s going to fuck you over and over again; of how you’re going to take every drop of him; of how good it’s going to be for you.

Four fingers land on your clit and work it wetly up and down. A whine escapes you and you’re so sensible it almost hurts and your head swims and he’s still talking but there’s something…something sincere about his words. Something that hides beneath the frantic movements against your bud that feels almost reverent. Like the snake’s toxin only lifted a veil, revealing the Mandalorian’s pent up lust and primal instincts below his layers of unyielding discipline.

“S-so, so fucking good for me, so—"

You cry out when your walls tighten around nothing with powerful contractions, deciding at some point of the frenzy that consumes you that you’ll take advantage of this queer land and the limbo its night has thrown both of you into. Deciding you’ll let the Mandalorian explore his more primitive urges and fuck you into tomorrow, whatever “tomorrow” may mean for your relationship with him.

The sound of him fucking his hand quickens and you hear it closer to your body. You can’t tell exactly where.

“I—I—gonna c-cum.” His voice tightens in his throat. “Where?”

“Everywhere,” you answer breathlessly, and you mean it.

[deklaire-blog]

A Bad Decision {Whumptober Day 3- Prompt- Delirium}

{ When Peter doesn’t go to medical after an injury, the wound gets infected. Fearing the consequences if Tony finds out, Peter tries to take care of it himself. Unfortunately, it doesn’t go quite as well as hoped. Day 3 of Whumptober? Prompt 3- delirium. POTENTIAL T/W FOR INTENSE DESCRIPTION OF AN INFECTED WOUND, VOMITING, MINOR ANXIETY, AND MORPHINE TO TREAT PAIN. If any of these things may be triggering to you, please stay safe by doing what is best for you! @whumptober2019 }

Okay, sure, Peter had dodged medical. But they all dodged medical. He’d once witnessed Natasha claiming she could ‘stitch herself up’ whilst trying to hold her own intestines inside her body. It hadn’t been a big deal. It wasn’t a big deal. It was a scratch, really. His healing would take care of it, just like it always did. Or maybe not.

He prodded the flesh gently, his hand flinching away on contact. The cut was just above his lowest rib, festering and bubbling with pus. The skin around it was burning hot, sending a sharp pain through his body with Peter’s every move. He eyed the cabinet above his bathroom sink warily. If he went to medical like this, Tony was bound to find out. If Tony found out, he was bound to kill Peter and take his suit away, not necessarily in that order. His only choice was to take care of this himself, and the cut was going to need to be cleaned, ASAP. He took a shaky breath and opened the closet door.

Bottles of pills and first aid supplies lined the shelves. Tony wasn’t stupid, he knew his kid better than to think he’d have a doctor look at every cut and scrape. To make up for it, Peter had access to everything he’d need to take care of minor things. He glanced down at his bare chest again, wondering if this counted as minor.

First thing first, this was gonna hurt bad enough as it was, he could at least take some of his superhero-level prescribed painkillers. He grabbed the bottle, shaking a few into his hand. He slurped at the tap water from his sink, washing the pills down with some difficulty. He’d never been good with capsules.

Now was the hard part. Peter could do this, after all, he’d done it plenty of times before. A little peroxide, wrap up the wound tight, and he’d be all set. Hopefully. Before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed the brown bottle, screwed off the cap, and poured it directly onto the wound.

Spots danced behind his eyes, his entire body shaking, trying to reject the process. He forced himself not to stop, biting down hard onto his tongue when he felt nausea building up. He couldn’t help but let out a strained cry. He had half a mind to just call his dad, let Tony take him to medical. Stroke his hair while the doctor fixed him up. Telling him to rest but promising a proper lecture in the morning. The last part is was made him push on. When he realized he’d stopped pouring the liquid fire, he put his shaking hand back, making himself pour again.

He bit his tongue again, straight through the delicate flesh. It was the taste of blood that did him in, sending him to retch over the sink. At first it was dry heaves, barely escaping as he swallowed convulsively. He wouldn’t throw up. He wouldn’t throw up. Despite his efforts, the medication came up first, strings of half digested, chalky pills dripping from his lips. Another contraction of his stomach muscles and a full fledged stream of liquid left his mouth, snot running down his nose to join. His shoulders racked with sobs as his body set out for another round, and another, and another. It was all bile now, burning his esophagus as tears streamed down his face. His body didn’t stop though, convulsing until black spots danced in front of his eyes, his body begging for oxygen.

Slowly, finally, the torture stopped. He took deep breaths, eying the wound again. Now that it wasn’t filled with pus, he could tell it was deeper than he’d originally thought. Seeping out a steady stream of blood. He’d have to stitch it up. His eyes darted back up to the shelf. Apparently his dad hadn’t thought that was necessary supplies outside of the medbay. He’d have to make do.

Pressing a wash cloth against the wound, he ventured back into his room, heading for his desk. He gruffly shoved a drawer open, rummaging through the mess. Peter’s room may be pristine on the outside, but inside the drawers junk was littered everywhere. It took him a few minutes to find the old sewing kit. The one he’d used to stitch up his makeshift suit before his dad had found out he was Spider-Man and given him an upgrade.

He reluctantly carried it back to the bathroom, opening the bag and spilling out its contents. He grabbed the biggest needle he saw, dousing it in alcohol before doing the same with a black spool of thread. He found it harder to thread the needle than originally planned. His hands were trembling, his vision doubling. It was only by dumb luck that he managed to pull the string through.

He swallowed heavily, staring at the wound. It’s just like sewing up your suit. He quietly promised himself. Nothing to worry about.

Before he could think about it any more, he pinched his skin together and stuck the needle straight through it. The needle was all the way through before the newest wave of pain caught up with him, and he had to grit his teethe hard to quiet the sobs racking his shoulders. His eyes watered, making his vision fuz all over again. He’d done it, though. He’d stuck the needle straight through. That had to be the worst part, right? Wrong. The friction of thread against skin, pulling pain stakingly slowly, finally sent him over the edge.

He let out a strangled cry, letting go of the needle so the string dangled loosely from his flesh. He tried to steady himself on the sink basin, but his hands were slick with blooding, slipping off of the smooth surface. He fell, his head smacking porcelain and tile. His vision burned bright white, and then went black.

oOoO

Tony was in the zone. Music blasting loud enough to burst his eardrums, tools being handed to him before he even had to say it, his AIs and drones and robots all working in sync has laser focused on his newest projects. This could change lives, save lives, end world hunger and-. “Uh, FRIDAY? Why did you just turn off my AC/DC?”

“Sorry boss, but I believe Peter is in distress and may need assistance.” Tony was up and walking at that. Or, more so running.

“What kid of distress are we talking here, FRI? Panic attack? Stomach bug? I swear to Thor if he caught another asgardian stomach bug I-“

“Peter appears to be suffering from a seizure” Tony’s blood ran cold.

“Call Cho, get her up here now.”

“Already done, boss.”

The ride up the elevator to the next floor felt endless, like the trip was miles long. He was out of the door as soon as there was enough space for him to squeeze through. Tony was practically tripping over himself to get into Peter’s room.

The room was empty, contents from his desk drawer strewn across its surface, and the bathroom door ajar. He could just see Peter’s bare foot, shaking sporadically.

“Peter? Pete?” He dashed forward, and the closer he got the worse it was.

Blood was everywhere, red hand prints streaming down the sink, dark liquid pooling on the floor, already drying brown on his kid’s face. And then there was the wound. The blood was almost bubbling up from it, the skin puckered and sickening red streaks spread out from his skin. Yellow pus and cloudy liquid leaked out with the blood. Infection. Worst of all a string with a needle hung from it, a single sloppy stitch cutting through his skin. He’d actually tried to stitch himself up. Tony dropped to his knees and prodded the blood-covered forehead, cringing at just how hot it was. How had this happened?

There was protocol in place for this. Karen should have alerted him, or FRIDAY, or one of the hundred of AIs and drones and robots he had flying around this place. Medical had strict instructions to always check the kid over, even if he seemed fine. The kid was a seasoned liar with little to no self preservation.

“Kid, please wake up.” He clutched the sticky hand. “Please.”

His only response was more convulsive shaking from the kid’s body. He wanted to stay there forever. Just clutching onto his baby. But Cho was shoving him out of the way, strong arms were holding him back, someone was putting Peter on a stretched, carrying him away. He caught a hint of blue on his kid’s lips, lacking oxygen and color. He all but collapsed into Steve’s arms.

oOoO

“Can’t you give him something for the pain?” Cho’s eyes studied him like Tony was a hurt puppy dog.

“The best we have is Steve’s morphine, and you know the consequences of that can be-“

“I don’t care!” Tears were prickling behind the man’s eyes and he desperately blinked them away.

“Tony,” Steve’s soft voice washed over him, always grounding. The younger man’s calloused hand rested on Tony’s shoulder. “Just take a deep breath, then decide.”

Reluctantly, he did as he was told. The first inhale was choppy, anxiety racking his system. But the next was a little easier, easing the tension built up in his shoulders.

“I just… Look at him.” Tony’s eyes flickered from Peter’s trembling form to Steve’s pinched expression. “He’s hurting.” Cho nodded in understanding.

“It’s your call, Tony. I have to hear you say it though, and you’ll need to sign off on some paperwork.”

“That’s fine, just… give him whatever it takes to stop hurting.”

oOoO

Someone was stroking Peter’s hair. Long, calloused fingers allowing the curly strands to slips through their finger tips over and over again. Peter liked that.

He blinked his eyes open, trying to adjust to the light. Where was he? Everything was white, and blurry at the edges. Like the entire world had become soft. Someone hovered just to his right, but not looking at him. He slowly attached the arm to the fingers in the hair. Same person. Looking down at something small and glowing. A phone, maybe, but Peter was too tired to really tell. A halo formed around the light of it though, and Peter was pretty sure that was weird. In fact, halos were forming around all the lights. He blinked hard but it didn’t go away.

“Pete?” The voice was floaty, almost far away. “Peter, you feeling alright, bud?” Peter’s eyes drifted lazily towards the noise, apparently coming from the man next to him. He recognized the face, but couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He just knew that face made him feel really good. In fact everything felt really good right now. Even if he couldn’t get any of his thoughts into a straight line.

He smiled wordlessly at the man, and the face smirked back. “Go back to sleep, kiddo. You’re gonna be feeling pretty out of it for awhile.” The voice was still floaty and sing songy, like a lullaby. My tried to tell him to keep talking but only a jumbled mass of sounds came out of his mouth. He frowned a little but the man just chuckled. “It’s okay bambino, I’m not going anywhere.” The voice didn’t stop this time, and Peter let his eyes drift closing, knowing it would still be there when he woke up.

{ @whumptober2019 }

[iamjustthemoon]

i’m missing finland again

I'm missing Finland again. an ache, in the deepest parts of where my heart starts, through the end of my stomach, with a flowing throb into the deep trenches of my upper intestines and a slow trickle down through the other organs that sit inside my waist. it’s an ache like the missing of a person.

.

My nostalgic memories of my every summer habits tattooed into my being, start pulling at me wondering why I am not revisiting these places. The smells and places growing strong in the storage sections of my brain. They sit deep within my hippocampus to neocortex, iron clad in the almond shaped amygdala forever binding these memories into the emotional whirlpool of what I consider me.

.

I ache when I leave, standing in the airport. That part hurts, just like the leaving of a lover, or a friend, or a family member you cherish. But then once on that plane, you look ahead, shift gaze forward, and it's onwards from here. You let the sinking sadness of the place float gently in the airwaves you are rocketing through, knowing you will be returning sometime, this pain is not forever.

.

Now, in this global crisis, this ache of missing has started to throb from the absence of this place, as I physically cannot go. The missing started like a whisper, and as the days tick past, the weeks then months, my body’s muscle memory starts to pull at the parts of me that remember

.

I start to use my imagination again. I tap into the pieces of my brain I haven’t actively exercised to their full potential. The child in us, who used to imagine everything; I use her now to get somewhere I want to be, but can’t. I let the shifting weather, with her cool whispers, remind me of the late summer Finnish days, always cool enough as the purple light of midnight sets around me. The clearer air and soft bird song, I let any inkling of similarity catapult me into a deep memory that I pull into and over me like the softest of blankets, covering my face and body into a sea of memory.

.

I use sensory triggered imagination to reach the spots of memory in my brain, then unlock them with the most powerful potential, as scent is the most rudimentary of senses. Smell has roots trailing back to single celled organisms interacting with the chemicals around them, tapping into our brain now wired with over 1,000 smell receptors, versus the 4 we have for sight, and 4 we have for touch. Smell unlocks the deepest parts of our

.

One whiff of a cool breeze, or the scent of cardamom, a mossy patch in the woods, or the laundry detergent my grandmother always uses, sends me rushing back into the space that I ache for. I hold on tightly to this space i’ve been catapulted to and sharpen my eyes of imagination to keep me floating there.

.

I miss crisp summer days, midnight sun; where evening turns to dusk turns to purple blueish pink light that lasts up to eleven o'clock at night, and the darkness only sets in for about two hours, and even then it’s a dark blueish dark, not completely black. the sun starts to rise again around 2 am, and once your eyes open fully at 7 or 8, the sun has already danced it way high into the sky and you feel as if you’ve just risen at half past noon.

.

I miss the clearness of the air and the forests, The simplicity of the birch trees and pine trees. the straightness of their trunks, and the mossy rocky undergrowth that blankets the forest floor. The sparse undergrowth of trees and small bushes. The stark contrast of the paper white birch trees; trunks of white with dark streaks of black that look painted on with deliberation, amidst the stick straight trunks of the dark brown pine trees. Small blueberry(bilberry) plants cover the forest floor. Unassuming and low to  the ground, their small green leaves hidden amongst the piles of moss and other small greenery that speckles the ground. But once the season hits, little blue berries dot these small green low lying plants, and the abundance of these powerful sweet berries is overwhelming.

.

I miss the quiet of Helsinki. the stone walkways and smooth buildings with beautiful doors. The seagulls and the soft scent of salty air from the brackish Baltic sea. pastel painted old stone buildings that sit nestled together in a myriad of colors. the sloping dips of the stoney streets bordered by lines of soft colored stripes of buildings on either side. Burnt oranges, sandy yellows, deep ochres and mint greens.

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I miss the marketplace hustle of vendors selling blueberries, strawberries, apples, lingonberry (puolukka), snow berries (lakka), large sugar snap peas, fish of all kinds (salmon, muikku), wooden bowls and spoons, reindeer leather, small metal souvenirs. The scent of cardamom and cinnamon lingering sweetly in the air from the freshly baked yeasty sweet breads all Finns eat with coffee.

.

I miss the clear bright blue sky. The clarity of it’s color cascading down to the tops of the trees and forests that are never far from sight. The reflective surface of the lakes that dot the quiet countryside, of rolling meadows and small, red wood houses, each one with it’s own small black sauna that sits on water’s edges.

.

I miss the glassy still lake at sunset, when the surface reflects the purple blue streaks of sky, the colors that bloom just after the sun touches the backs of the trees and disappears for only a few summer hours. The stillness of the water creates a mirror to amplify the watercolor sky that turns the whole view into a vivid painting. The hot, smoky heat of the wood smoked sauna still lingering on bare skin as i step into the cool, still, painting. I dip my legs in purple, pink, and slowly sink myself into the cold ripples, watching the heat steam off my warmed flesh and into the evening sky. The extreme contrast of temperatures brings me to a sense of rebirth, as I submerge my head underneath the cold water and bring it back up to surface. Nothing feels better than this.

.

I miss the grocery stores; the potatoes in massive barrels. New potatoes are smaller than the ones in the states; about the size of an egg. You can buy them cleaned (washed and scrubbed) in one barrel, slightly dirty in another barrel, and then completely dirt covered, no cleaning yet, in another barrel. This being the cheapest option, as you take them home and scrub them in the sink, or lake, with a potato scrubbing brush, or glove, or by rolling them in the sand at the shores of the lake, as we did in Puumala when I was a kid. the aisles of endless milk products. rows and rows of cartoned yogurts in every flavor, quark and cottage cheese, and plastic packaged blocks of squeaky cheeses. the meat and seafood counter with the majority dedicated to slabs of fresh fish. Salmon. Fresh salmon, salted salmon, dill salmon, smoked salmon, plank salmon.

.

I miss the smells of raw birch and finnish pine; smells that linger in beautiful well designed buildings. Classic Scandinavian architecture with it’s clean lines, light wood, large windows; perfect use of space and light.

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I miss the ferries that meander around the island speckled coast. the salty air and ocean spray. the tiny little islands still inhabited, with traditional little houses painted in red, or yellows, sometimes whites. the quiet of the calm Baltic, softly wavy waters and continuous string of little islands as far as you can see.

.

I miss the rolling coastline of the edges of helsinki. the small islands that dot the surrounding baltic sea, and the small bridges that connect them. I miss kallios, the epically smooth rock that reveal themselves at the edges of water, and speckled in forests. their smooth skin peaking like the backs of whales cresting the ocean surface. the secrets of time told by these rocks, smoothed down by the weather over eons of years. The silkiness of this stone is so gentle, it sends soft tingling sensations down to the bottom of my feet when I run my hands down the sides. with especially large ones like small mountains, kids like to make slides out of their smooth curved surface, marked by silky ribbons of use cascading down the sides.

.

I miss the Helsinki airport. It's quiet silence, not eerie but welcoming. soft, padded sounds in a pristine clean space, light wood and floor to ceiling glass windows. Sometimes soft bird chirping sounds are heard in the bathrooms as ambient noise. The quiet in the airport is what gets me. It feels as if only two or three planes land a day, and spaced so evenly apart that the scattered speckling of people makes the space feel like not a bustling hub of international air travel, but a quiet abandoned, but well kept modern shopping center, hushed but breathing. the portal to my entering this sacred spot of mine.

[therainroguefanfiction]

🔥 ℝise Ⱥbove I̾t ◈ Chapter 010 [Unfairness]

📑 Table of Contents | ◂Backward

Word Count: 2,552 ☁

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

〈“There’s a demon inside. Just like Jekyll and Hyde. All this anger inside.” Five Finger Death Punch, “Jekyll and Hyde”〉

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

I could feel a presence hovering over me. “Don’t even think about it,” I muttered, opening my eyes to glare at Toshi. His hand was hovering by my cheek, ready to smack me awake.

“Oh, you’re already awake?”

“Unfortunately,” I muttered, rising up like a corpse from a coffin. “I barely slept.”

“Excited?” he grinned.

“Something like that,” I glanced at the clock as I stood up, heading for the bathroom.

“I must be going!” he called. “I will see you at school!”

I flushed the toilet, heading over to the sink to wash my hands. Man, I look like shit. I splashed my face with cold water, hoping it would help to wake me up. Toshi was gone by the time I made it back to the couch. My phone buzzed on the table and I grabbed it, glancing at the clock again. It was only five o’clock and class didn’t start until eight-twenty-five. I took a shower last night so I just had to brush my teeth and get dressed. The phone buzzed again, then again a minute later.

With a scowl, I opened up the gaming app. There were five messages, all from Murder and sent within the last twenty minutes.

‘Oi, extra’

‘Wake the fuck up’

‘I cant sleep’

‘ARE U FUCKING IGNORING ME’

‘ILL KILL U BITCH’

Damn, this kid has some serious anger issues. I settled down under the covers, putting on my headphones and turning on some rock music before replying to him, ‘Keep ur damn panties on. I can give u the name of a good therapist seems like u need 1’

‘Fuck u’

I laughed, ‘When is ur bday? I can send u a diary to vent all that repressed anger fam’

‘FUCK U TACO!!’

I laughed again, tossing my phone onto the table. I closed my eyes, intending only to relax for a bit and listen to some good vibes, but the rock music thumping in my ears lulled me back to sleep.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

I winced at the bright light shining directly on my fucking eyes. I really hate those sheer curtains. I pulled the headphones off my head and yawned, reaching for my phone. Eight o’clock. I yawned again, standing up and stretching my arms above my head. I hope there’s some Dr. Pepper left. I need to stop by the store after… school…

My eyes widened as the realization hit me.

School, fuck! I’m gonna be late on my first fucking day! Tosh is gonna murder me, ugh! I got dressed as fast as I could and ended up stubbing my big toe on the fucking coffee table which received an angry kick in retaliation, flipping over onto the floor with a loud thud. I grabbed my phone, shoved my feet into my sneakers and rushed out the door, only to rush back halfway down the stairs because I forgot to fucking lock the door.

It was eight-twenty-one when I made it to school.  I stifled a yawn, tugging at the red tie around my neck. Every school I had ever attended was a public school with barely any rules regarding clothing – as long as no one showed up naked, anything was fair game.  Being stuffed into this stupid ass uniform made me feel uncomfortable and even a bit claustrophobic, but at least Toshi had convinced Nezu to let me wear the boy’s uniform. I’d fucking drop dead before getting caught in that short ass skirt the girls have to wear.

“You’re late,”

I turned around and deadpanned. Aizawa was standing in front of me, his body completely hidden within a yellow sleeping bag, save for his face which was framed by fluffy black hair. “What the fuck are you wearing, Aizawa? That can’t be the proper apparel for a teacher.”

“‘Sensei,’” he corrected, hopping down the hall like a bunny.

I followed, stuffing my hands into my pockets. “Do you know how stupid you look, though?” When he sent me a glare, I added, “Asking for a friend,”

“Can you at least pretend to take this seriously?”

Bitch, I ain’t the one hopping around in a sleeping bag, okay. I shrugged at him, looking away from his penetrating gaze. “Hey, Aizawa.”

“What,”

“I’m sorry,”

He stopped hopping, but I continued on, rounding the corner. A boy with a mop of messy green hair and a bright red face stood in front of the open classroom door, a round-faced brunette girl geeking out about some punch or some shit. One-Punch Man? Did that even exist in this world? I should head to the book store and see, cause that manga is lit.

I stopped in my tracks, feeling dread settle in my stomach. Wait, maybe it’s just because I didn’t eat breakfast. I noticed movement by my feet and sweatdropped at Aizawa as he inched along the floor like a fucking worm, stopping behind the two. No one noticed him until he spoke up, and the look of horror on their faces was priceless.

“If you’re just here to make friends, then you can pack up your stuff now. Welcome to U.A.’s hero course,” he sighed deeply, tugging down the zipper just enough so he could drink from a pouch of juice.

Aizawa, you’re a literal child and I fucking love it.

He stood up, pushing the zipper down the rest of the way so he could step out of the bag. “It took eight seconds before you all shut up, that’s not gonna work. Tims is precious. Rational students would understand that.” He waved his hand to me and I entered the room, glancing at the seating arrangement pinned to the board.

I’m in the very back row, an odd number. Guess that makes sense. I threw my bag onto my chair before leaning against the desk, my eyes scanning the room. I didn’t recognize anyone but two people. The first is Fumi, who wasn’t paying attention to me. And the second was that damn prep from the exam. Damn, why did he have to be put in this class?

“Hello, I’m Shouta Aizawa, your teacher.” He dug around in the bag and pulled out a gym uniform.

Okay, seriously – what is with the U.A. staff and having endless space? First, it’s Granny with damn endless gummy bear supply and now this fucker with an endless amount of space in a sleeping bag.

“Right, let’s get to it. Put these on and head outside.”

The students hesitantly headed to the locker rooms to get changed into the new uniform, which looked like something you’d wear to the gym. The first thing I did was check to see if the pants had pockets.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

Aizawa looked over the group, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere else but here. “We’re going to be doing a quirk assessment test,”

“But… what about orientation?” The brunette asked. “We’re going to miss it!”

“If you really want to make the big leagues, you can’t waste time on pointless ceremonies. Here at U.A., we’re not tethered to tradition. That means I get to run my class however I see fit. You’ve been taking standardized tests most of your lives, but you never got to use your quirk in physical exams before. The country’s still trying to pretend we’re all created equal by not letting those with the most power excel. It’s not rational. One day, the ministry of education will learn.”

That’s pretty deep, fam. I closed my eyes and grabbed my chin. I guess in a way it makes sense. It’s like participation trophies back home. Even if you didn’t do jack shit, you still got a trophy for participating, so even if you lost you still ‘won’. It prevents kids from trying their hardest to reap the rewards.

“Bakugo, you managed to get the most points on the entrance exam.” He looked at the red-eyed blonde. “What was your farthest distance throw with a softball when you were in junior high?”

“Sixty-seven meters, I think.”

“Right. Try doing it with your quirk.” His eyes followed the blonde as he stepped into a circle drawn onto the earth with white chalk. “Anything goes, just stay in the circle. Go on, you’re wasting our time.”

“Alright, man. You asked for it.” Bakugo stretched his arm, clutching the modified softball. “DIE!!” The ball took off into the sky with an explosion propelling it.

Damn, son. That was a bit excessive but mkay.

“All of you need to know your maximum capabilities.” Aizawa’s phone beeped. “It’s the most rational way of figuring out your potential as a pro hero.” The screen on his phone showed 705.2 meters.

I whistled, folding my hands behind my head. That’s kinda impressive. I wonder how far I can throw it?

“Woah, 705 meters, are you kidding me?”

“I wanna go! That looks like fun!”

“This is what I’m talking about. Using our quirks as much as we want!”

Aizawa narrowed his eyes. “So this looks fun, huh?”

Oh boy, he’s about to get all dramatic again, ain’t he?

“You have three years here to become a hero. You think it’s all going to be games and playtime? Idiots,” He smirked, but it looked kinda sadistic. “Today, you’ll compete in eight physical tests to gauge your potential. Whoever comes in last has none, and will be expelled immediately.”

Called it.

Everyone started to freak out at the statement and I sighed, looking up at the clear blue sky. I had grown to know this man pretty well after spending every single day with him for months and I had no doubt in my mind that he would expel anyone he deemed unworthy. It sounds cruel, but I know he has his reasons, whatever the hell that was. I feel like, more than anything, he’s just trying to ruffle some jimmies. And it’s working.

“Like I said, I get to decide how this class runs.” He pushed back his bangs with his hand. “Understand? If that’s a problem, you can head home right now.”

“Pfffttt,” I tried so fucking hard to hold back my laughter, I really did, but the bitch looked like a little kid trying to act tough to intimidate someone older. He snapped his glare to me and I quickly turned my back to him, trying to control myself.

“Is there a problem, Winchester?”

The way he said my name told me that I was definitely going to get hit later. I coughed a few times, banging on my chest before turning around with my hand covering my mouth. “Ah, no, not at all, sensei.” cough cough. “Sorry, I’m recovering from a cold, don’t mind me.”

The other students were staring at me with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

“Wait a minute, you can’t send one of us home!” The brunette exclaimed. “I mean, we just got here! Even if it wasn’t the first day, that isn’t fair!”

Oh no. She said the F word.

“Oh, and you think natural disasters are? Or power-hungry villains, hm? Or catastrophic accidents that wipe out whole cities? No. The world is full of unfairness. It’s a hero’s job to try and combat that unfairness. For the next three years, U.A. will throw one terrible hardship after another at you. So go beyond -”

“Plus ultra style,” I stepped forward with a grin, locking eyes with him. I had heard the ‘fairness’ speech before, shortly after we started training together. He hated it when I used that word against him, and he always repeated the same thing each time, drilling it into my head that the world just isn’t fair. That isn’t something parents tell kids when they can’t have their way, it’s a real, life lesson that kids gotta learn the hard way.

He nodded at me, the corners of his lips twitching. He totally almost just smiled. “Show me it’s no mistake that you’re here. Now then, we’re just wasting time by talking. Let the games begin!”

“Jen~!”

I turned just as my vision was overtaken by a black and purple blur. My eyes widened, body seizing with fear as I remembered the darkness surrounding me. My breathing grew heavy as Gramp’s lifeless face flashed in my mind, my body beginning to shake as my skin grew hot. I could hear muffled voices, but only one stood out to me.

‘I have come to bring you home, Jen Winchester.’

“Jen!”

A familiar feeling settled over my body, like someone had slammed the door shut before my power could escape. My vision started to focus, settling on Fumi who stood in front of me in a defensive posture. Shadow hovered behind him, tears in his eyes as he stared at me in fear. I glanced to the left, scanning the scared and wide-eyed expressions of my classmates. And then I met Aizawa’s red, glowing eyes. He’s using his quirk… on me?

The block on my power ceased and Aizawa speed walked over to me. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, a small puff of smoke escaping my lips. My body was trembling, the pendant around my neck like a block of ice against my skin. He put a hand on my arm and helped me to my feet. When had I fallen to the ground?

“Go see the old lady,” he ordered into my ear.

“What? But – the test -”

“You don’t need to take it, just go.”

“I-I’m fine, really, Aiza -”

“I wasn’t asking,”

“Sensei, I can take her.” Fumi’s posture relaxed a bit as he stepped forward.

Aizawa was quiet for a moment. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,”

Fumi held his hand out to me and I hesitantly took it, feeling confusion bubbling within me. Did I… try to attack Fumi? But why the fuck would I?

He gently tugged on my hand, leading me toward the school building. I could feel everyone staring at us as we left and I just wanted to disappear. When we stepped into the building, he turned to me with soft eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Did I… try to hurt you?”

“I’m not quite sure…” He held his hand up to his mouth. “I believe Dark Shadow startled you and you blacked out temporarily. Your quirk may have activated as a self-defense mechanism.”

“Did you get hurt?” My eyes scanned his body, but he looked unharmed.

“No, I’m perfectly fine. You just startled Dark Shadow.”

Great, I’ve got fucking PTSD now because of that stupid ass shadow man. I put my hand on my face and huffed. “Sorry, Fumi…”

“No need to worry. Dark Shadow shouldn’t have rushed at you like he did.”

“I’m really sorry…” Shadow mumbled sadly, sticking close to Fumi’s shoulder.

I forced a smile, holding my hand out to him. He looked at it for a moment, looked at Fumi, and then back at my hand. Slowly, as if not to startle me again, he placed his clawed hand on mine. His cold body was calming against my warm skin. “Forgive and forget?”

He nodded happily, rushing toward me only to stop and shake his head. He approached slowly, nuzzling his head against my shoulder. I smiled for real this time, patting him before we continued on to the nurse’s office in comfortable silence, Shadow lingering between us.

⊱ ────── {⋅. 🔥 .⋅} ────── ⊰

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[ecotone99]

[FN] The Key to Everything

Hey guys, potential for more if you enjoy. First time really writing a story, hope you like it.

​

Some people say they have skeletons in their closets. Others may guess, rarely correctly I’ll add, that their house is haunted. I’ve even found myself having to hold back a laugh when a friend once told me he had 'inner demons'. Until you've smelt an actual demon, you have no sense of what one truly is. The smell touches all of your senses simultaneously; it smothers your skin, sticks to the back of your mouth like mustard, and sounds like the hum of electricity, an uncomfortable and thick buzz you want to scrub off. A werewolf is even worse. The smell of flesh simultaneously dying and being reborn is unlike anything else I have experienced. I could close my eyes. I could plug my ears. But that smell. That smell took weeks to wash away.

Since birth, for unknown reasons, I have had the ability to see the supernatural, and them, I. To be honest… looking back, it had all become far too overwhelming. I could see monsters, but I couldn't touch them, or fight them away. Instead, I was helpless, left for them to pray on me from a distance. I couldn't go to bed without Wendigos howling at my door, and even when I did finally drift off, sandmen would feed off my dreams and lock me in their realm. I was often paralysed for days on end, pleading for them to hunt elsewhere. My body had also been drained by psychic vampires to the point that I was a shadow of my former self, as weak in body as in mind. For many years now, this curse caused me not just emotional, but physical damage.

There appeared only one way out. I had picked the perfect spot, a bridge overlooking a river far below that opened out to the sea. Lilies grew amongst the reeves, and the water was always teeming with life. It seemed as good a place as any to die.

I had prepared two cheese and onion sandwiches as a form of last supper, and made my way through town. I was followed by the usual gaggle of ghosts, each moaning and babbling behind me. The fresh spring-time air, as normal, was overpowered by the faint stench of a werewolf, perhaps two or three kilometres away, and a high-pitched shriek in the distance suggested it was accompanied by a banshee, a personal favourite of mine due to their sulky, self-absorbed nature and complete lack of personal space.

Finally the bridge appeared in sight, calmly overlooking the river below. It was built from red bricks and white, triangular wooden beams that had withstood the weather for over a one hundred years. I perched myself on the edge of the rail, and looked out towards the sea. With my feet hanging over, I unwrapped the sandwich and began tucking into my last meal before jumping to my peace. It was genuinely delicious, and for a brief moment, it was as though I was tasting food for the first time. The smell of flesh seemed to disappear with each bite, and I was suddenly hit by the overwhelming, and admittedly welcoming scent of lavender, fresh bread and cut grass. I was also increasingly becoming aware of the fact the smell was getting stronger, and was not my imagination. I started to panic, worried perhaps a siren had marked me, or worse, an imp trickster. And yet, as quickly as the panic arrived... it was gone. Drawn from me like poison from a wound. I decided to ignore it, someone else’s problem now. I was here for a single purpose. I closed my eyes and in one motion, rocked forward, over the edge of the bridge and down towards the beckoning water below.

It was not the river however, that engulfed me, but something else; not unlike water, calm but altogether warmer. Pure light seemed to surround me, and when I finally opened my eyes, and the brightness settled, I was back on the bridge. A small boy, no older than five, was sitting next to me. We were both holding sandwiches. His eyes were astonishing, seemingly brown, blue and green all at once, whilst a deeper, more curious colour I had not quite seen before swirled within them. They seemed ageless, and the most beautiful things I have ever seen. In an instant, they met mine and whilst his mouth remained still, I heard his voice.

'Do not be afraid, old friend. There will come a time when you are ready to go. On that day, I will take you gladly, and we shall both finally return home. But not today. Today, war begins.'

The boy winked, and was gone. I was, again, alone.

Bewildered by the experience, I stumbled home. The sun’s rays seemed to have intensified in the recent hours, and looking up made me nauseous. I felt literally drained. Psychic connections had left me tired in the past, but I had never experienced more than a distant whisper, a scratch against armour. This was different. What I felt was indescribable, and I felt it… awaken something in me. As I passed the local park and turned towards my house, I suddenly realised how quiet it was. Much quieter than usual. Looking behind, I saw why. My ghosts had gone. I expected it to settle me, but instead threw up next to a park bench.

After two more incidents, I gratefully made it home, although my sight still hadn’t recovered. My dad had left me the place before he disappeared, and it had seen better days. A pile of greying books by the door nearly made me trip as I essentially felt my way to the kitchen. I quickly downed a glass of water, and then my body crashed onto the sofa. As I drifted off, I could have sworn I heard the distant voices of men, arguing between themselves and gradually approaching.

​

​

My eyes open. It’s freezing, and I’m bare chested. Deep, blue waves of sand crash into a pink ice field, stretching as far as the eye can see. Huge icebergs climb out towards the horizon, glowing like rubies within great diamonds. The sand rises in a hundred foot wave, before crashing against the icy shore. The sky is empty, an endless, distant void. In the centre, a crater overflows with enormous skeletons of strange, tusked beasts. Two thrones, carved in ice, sit in the centre, and appear to have grown out of the ground over many years. I am sitting in one. My skin feels like it’s on fire. I try to move, but realise my skin is frozen to the chair and let out a scream in pain. The second throne sits empty before me.

‘Can you hear me? Hello? Can you understand what I’m saying?’

For a moment, I’m confused. Then quickly I arrive at the truth; the sandmen are feeding on me again, and someone is trying to wake me up. I shake myself, trying to ignore the very real agony I’m in. You’re in a dream, I think loudly. Wake up! This is the sandmen. Don’t let them get inside your head!

‘Ah fantastic. Although, let’s face it… that ship has sailed, my Lord. Mark, get over here. I told you something was different! He even calls us ‘Sandmen’!’

Before I have time to react, the sand begins to rise around the second throne, kicking up a great blue storm and swirling up into the sky, before rocketing against the throne twice. When the clouds finally disperse, two short, fat men are revealed in silk cloaks, one perching awkwardly on each arm. They have pale, translucent skin and a large, trunk-like nose that curves around their mouth, before hanging freely off their jaw. I have never seen a sandman in this form before, and it completely throws me. The one on the left, slightly shorter and slightly wider, pulls a note from his pocket and clears his throat, as well as his trunk.

‘Greetings, Almighty Key! Welcome to my humble Sand. My name is Gus, and this is my fellow sandman, comrade and long-term lover, Mark.’

The second sandman waves slightly and smiles... I assume. The surrounding icebergs start to glow in unison, turning a pale shade of lilac.

‘I would first like to deeply, and dark-heartedly apologise for consuming you for so long. In our nature and all that jazz. We had very conflicting emotions about the whole thing, if I’m being honest. Emotions we’re only now beginning to understand. Therefore, to the Almighty Key, we are truly sorry. Next, we would like… well I would personally like to say how thrilled we both are that you personally got in touch, and how excited we are to finally die! I mean, four thousand years is plenty of time to be stuck on Earth for us, and I for one will be happy to finally be at peace, especially with the war looking the way it does. I mean, I didn’t even know this was an option until today, and Floyd said... sorry. I’m rambling. Anyway, we graciously accept your offer, and await your further command, Almighty Key.’

The second sandman bursts into applause, before shaking his comrade/lover’s hand passionately. Suddenly they embrace and their trunks begin to intertwine, before almost realising where they are and, somewhat reluctantly, stopping. They then turn towards me eagerly. Another great wave of sand rises behind them in apprehension.

I blink. What is happening? The key to what?

‘Well… Purgatory of course?!’

The sandman responds to my thoughts immediately. I open my mouth instinctively to ask another question, but at once the sky flashes and turns a sickening yellow. The wave breaks upon me, tossing aside bone and shattering the throne upon impact, throwing me backwards. I can hear the sandmen scream out in the distance, terrified. The ice begins to catch fire, and I’m taken away by the sand. A deeper, commanding voice swallows me.

‘You will free me! Together, we will rise!’

The sand tightens around me, twisting and turning my body. Razor quick, it slashes out at me, leaving a deep cut in my right cheek. I raise my hands to cover my face. A sandman is still screaming, or maybe grieving, and as the storm begins to deafen me, the sand starts to take form. Now a deep, black stone, six great fingers curl into a fist, flying towards me and striking me head on...

​

​

I was brought back to reality with a jolt. I struggled for breath as I attempted to figure out what I had just experienced. Was that a sandman, or something else? Sweat streamed down my face and as I went to wipe it away, a large and very real cut across my right cheek suggested the latter.

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