#listening to someone in a distant room in the dark should-be-locked-and-empty building playing the song on loop

[ereborne]

Song of the Day: February 10

“Blues Run the Game” by Jackson C Frank

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Rating: T

Genre: Angst

Characters: Ernesto and Héctor, though Imelda, Coco, and Miguel also make brief appearances

Warnings: Uhh... depictions of PTSD/trauma, I guess?

Description: Seizing his moment only took seconds to execute, and left scars that lasted for a lifetime and beyond. 

Beta Readers: @jaywings​ and @pengychan​

Notes: Uhhh... nightmares suck, that’s all I have to say.

---~~~---

The first night, he doesn't dream at all, for his waking state has become dreamlike.

There's an eerie, almost peaceful stillness all around him, the quietness of the city and the hotel and the room. The sole exception is the distant whistle of the train, but he's been hearing it for hours now, though the train has long since moved on.

In fact, reality itself feels like it has moved on, leaving him in an untouched bubble locked in time. He sits on his bed, holding the book in his hands, but it doesn't feel real--if he were to open it again, he feels like it would just contain the useless garble of dream writing, so he does not. Though its color reminds him of something that he will not let himself remember. He sets it aside.

He feels he should sleep, not because he is tired, but because it is what he would normally be doing at this time, and he's starting to feel a faint desperation on the edges of his consciousness--a desperation to come back, to wake up. Quickly he washes it down with a gulp of tequila, and lays down.

Yet he cannot sleep. How can one sleep on a bed that is not real, in a room that is not real, in a reality that does not exist?

But he must. He must sleep, for they have a tour to continue in the morning.

So he closes his eyes, slowly letting the numbness of sleep take him... until he is brutally pulled from it, his heart thudding against his ribs, his eyes staring wide and blank at the ceiling above him.

No.

He has a tour to continue.

Just him.

Just him.

Sleep fails to reach him that night.

---~~~---

The first time he does sleep after it happens, it is after a day of pacing, of gnawing on his knuckles, of biting back screams, of copious drinking.

Initially his sleep is empty and dreamless, and he welcomes it openly.

But as the night creeps over the city, he awakens to moonlight blanketing his bed. At first he is annoyed, and merely rolls over with a grunt.

"I'm not doing this anymore!"

Immediately he sits bolt upright, looking for the source of the voice, but there is nothing, and he remembers why there is nothing. He scrambles for a bottle, but a memory flashes through his mind of a dash of something being put into a glass, and for a terrified moment he wonders if some of it could have splashed into the bottle. It makes no sense as to how that could have happened--he was careful as could be--and yet the thought won't leave his mind. He tosses the bottle on the ground, where it hits with a dull clunk, some of its contents spilling on the floor.

Still he remains awake, curled upon a bed that may as well be soft as stone, for how little it comforts him. He must sleep though--he is exhausted, he did not sleep last night, he must sleep, he must move on, he's already seized his moment, he cannot waste it...

The darkness shifts erratically between shadows and the void of unconsciousness, and between those moments there are voices, scents, feelings.

"Ugh, what town is this again...?"

It's heavier than he had thought, and numbly he realizes the meaning of the term 'dead weight.'

"Ah, don't act so jealous. That'll be us one day, right?"

There's something sticky and acrid coating his shoulder, and he tries his best to ignore it.

"I wish I didn't have to miss her birthday..."

Don't be seen, don't be seen, don't be seen.

"Oh, the crowd really loved you tonight, hermano!"

Unfamiliar buildings rise around him, and every turn feels like it will make his heart either stop or explode.

"You said this was the last one!"

It'll be over soon. It has to be.

"A toast! To another step on our journey!"

Nothing feels real other than the ground beneath his feet, and even that feels like it could suddenly cave in beneath him.

"I'm sorry... It was the little girl there--she reminded me of..."

The night is a hell of endless streets and what feels like an increasingly heavy weight in his arms and heart.

"I can't wait to see them again!"

He awakens to finding his pillow damp, and spends the morning screaming into it.

---~~~---

"Where to today, then?"

The suitcase is snapped shut, and he's staring down at him expectantly.

Something about this unnerves him, though he's not sure why, and merely shrugs, throwing a few more things into his own suitcase. "Oh, the next train stop should do. I've heard it's a nice city."

"They all seem the same to me," he replies, rolling his shoulders. "Oh, do you think we'll see a pretty dress there? I wanted to send something back home since I won't be there for..."

"Bah, better save your money. You send them enough as it is, hermano. You need to think about your future!" He snaps his own suitcase shut, and hoists it off the bed, his guitar case on his back. Together they step out of the room, having their breakfast at a nearby fonda before heading to the train station.

The whistle sounds overly-loud for reasons he can't place, and he can't recall handing anyone a ticket, but they board the train regardless. Together they sit, talking fondly of the successful shows they've had, of the sights they've seen, of what they'll do when they finally reach stardom.

He's looking out the window when he hears the voice, hesitant and sorrowful:

"By the way... I'm sorry, amigo, for that fight last night. I should have listened to you."

"Oh, it's all..."

He pauses, his blood going cold.

And at once he blinks awake, finding his head resting against the train window. Quickly he turns to the side to find a stranger in the seat beside him, looking at him in concern.

"Are you all right, señor? You look as though you've seen a ghost."

---~~~---

One day he finds himself back home, at their front door. He hardly remembers the trip itself, but then, everything's been a blur. What he does remember, however, is why he's there.

His heart is fluttering in panic--singing in front of dozens never frightened him, yet the idea of speaking before one person makes his stomach wrench. Before he can even compose himself, the door is open, and the woman is standing before him.

"Where is he?"

"I... he..."

His tongue is lame in his mouth, and he fumbles with his words. Coming up with a quick lie was never difficult before, and yet now it seems impossible. Suddenly he is overcome with the terror that if he should speak, he would tell the truth, and his risk, his cost, his moment would all at once be for nothing.

"¡Tío! Where is Papá?"

The little girl tugs at his pant leg, and he has no answer.

Without a word he turns to leave, hurrying away from the house, but she is immediately following.

"Where is he? Why isn't he with you?!"

Panic overcomes him, and he tries to run.

"¡Tío! Come back!"

His legs grow heavier and heavier, as though he is treading through mud, and the two of them are right behind him, the woman's voice growing louder and more enraged all the while, and the girl's degenerating into hysterical sobs:

"Where is he?! Where is my husband?"

"Where's papá?! I want him back!"

He has to get away, but he can't run fast enough, and their voices are so loud, they seem to come from everywhere at once.

"WHERE IS MY HUSBAND?!"

"¡¿POR QUÉ, TÍO?!"

Why did he even do this in the first place? He never should have done this, for they will surely find out--

"WHY DID YOU KILL MY HUSBAND?!"

She grabs his shoulder, her nails piercing into him.

He awakens in bed, drenched in sweat, his face once again damp with tears.

And he vows to never tell them, never confront them, to pretend he never knew them. Never will he even return to Santa Cecilia--he will avoid it for the rest of his life.

He doesn't need that family anymore, anyway, he tells himself. He has a better one, after all.

---~~~---

The winter chill has gone, the weather is perfect, and he's playing to a cheering audience in an unfamiliar plaza.

"¡Otra! ¡Otra! ¡Otra!" they call, and he obliges them, singing them his new song.

And then he sees it.

There's a man in the crowd. It's one he's never seen before, and one that would not typically stand out to him... except for the fact that he's not cheering. He's staring straight at him, the whites of his eyes visible even in the distance.

Eventually he realizes he is no longer singing, his hands hanging limp at his sides. The crowd has gone silent, only watching, while the strange man amongst them reaches out, pointing an accusing finger.

"That is not your song."

His heart jumps into his throat, and his legs threaten to buckle.

"I saw what you did."

He takes a step back, and the man steps forward.

"You killed him!"

He takes another step back, and he falls, and the man is suddenly standing over him, along with a dozen other sets of eyes.

"You poisoned him for his songs! You did it! I know you did it! It was you!"

"No, no," he stammers, but the man's voice booms over his:

"I know you did it! I know you did it! I KNOW!"

The second he awakens, he scrambles out of bed, dresses himself, and leaves immediately. A few items are left behind in his haste, but not the book (not the book), and he boards the first train he can find, immediately heading for his next destination. As he rides, he tucks the book into his coat pocket, and checks it several times during the journey.

They will not find it. They will not find it.

They will never know.

---~~~---

He's talking with the agent, who is once again going on about movies and films.

"...and they will love it! I'm sure we can work in some of your own songs too, of course..."

He's only been half-listening, almost dazed with the idea that he will be in moving pictures. This is far beyond anything he's ever dreamed of, and he almost feels weightless.

"And that song! Oh, we must include that one."

Nodding, he smiles at the man, only to pause. Someone else is in the room, which is very strange. He hadn't heard anyone else come in...

"No," he breathes upon seeing the hollow face staring down at him. "Are you really...?!"

The man nods.

Frantically he turns back to his agent and gestures behind him. "Señor, I-I think someone has..."

They both turn, but to his shock, nothing is there.

And everything moves on, shifting between one scene and another, one person and another, but the unnerved feeling remains even when he awakens.

---~~~---

A year or so later he's sitting at the table, the director and his co-stars laughing and drinking, celebrating the release of their film. He can't fully understand what they're all saying, but he doesn't care, basking in the euphoric joy of success, gazing around the room at all of the others who are experiencing a similar joy.

Until his eyes fall upon someone who was not invited to the party.

Someone who was not invited, for he should not exist.

"You," he says, rising from his seat and keeping his eyes on him. "What are you doing here?"

"Who are you talking to?"

He turns back to his table, to find it inhabited by different people. Glancing over his shoulder, he finds the apparition gone. None of this is right, but it doesn't feel entirely wrong either, so he moves on... until he finds himself awakening next to one of his co-stars.

If that's how it would be, then so be it. He would remember next time.

---~~~---

It is during a performance that he sees him again, standing just to the side of the curtain, and this time he knows. The stage, the dancers, the audience--none of it is real. He sets aside his guitar and marches offstage, keeping his eyes locked upon him.

This is a dream, he knows. Yet another nightmare. Though he is standing before him, he knows that he is not alive, but instead a corpse left in a ditch somewhere on the outskirts of Mexico City.

The face before him is not that of a beloved friend, of a brother, but of a specter that is insistent on haunting his dreams. And while it is here, he may as well speak his mind.

"This is your doing," he states, jabbing a finger into the ghost's chest. "You haunt me for something that you brought upon yourself."

The ghost only stares at him. Though it appears alive, its hair is the same color, not with the streaks of silver that his own has attained.

He gestures back at the now-empty stage and the darkened theater. "This--all of this--could have been yours, if you'd only listened. We could have shared this together."

Though the specter is still silent, its expression has changed, its eyes glaring, its lips pulled back with the rage of a wild animal.

Yet he finds himself grinning victoriously. "Be as angry as you want, old friend. The most you can do is taunt me. You can never hurt me, or abandon me, or hold me back. Never again."

As though to challenge him, the ghost suddenly lunges forward with a snarl, knocking him to the floor.

He awakens tangled in his own bed sheets, struggling with them on the floor. A woman scrambles to the edge of the bed, looking down at him in alarm... but for once, he has not woken in fear, or anger, or anguish.

Instead, he has woken in laughter.

There will be no more nightmares haunting him, no more ghosts lurking at the edge of his dreams, awake or asleep.

---~~~---

Or so he thinks.

It is a few years later that he is suddenly and violently freed from the mortal coil. At first he fears he has been plunged into another nightmare, but... no. This is no nightmare--not even a "living" one. In fact, in the afterlife he is living his dreams, holding concerts, starring in films, holding parties in a mansion larger than the one he'd had in life.

Of course there is one slight problem, he discovers shortly after death, but it is easily taken care of with a few words and a few payments. After that, he never has to think about it again.

Never again, until one night, many many years later, when a very strange thing happens.

A boy, a living one, appears in the afterlife, looking for him.

“I’m Miguel, your g-great great grandson.”

Not something he'd considered, but a likely result of some of his... actions in the living world. But even so, could this really be true? How could a living child enter the Land of the dead? Surely this must be another one of his strange dreams… and so he rolls with it, reveling in the joy (and brief elevated stardom) that comes with having a living great-great grandson in the Land of the Dead, enjoying the presence of a descendant with as much talent as he.

Until something changes.

The night is nearing its end when a new figure enters the dream. A figure that stands at the edge of the room, draped in shadows, and yet... familiar. It cannot be, though--he dealt with this years ago.

“We had a deal, chamaco!”

But soon the figure steps forward, revealing itself as a dusty skeleton with a drooping frame and torn clothing and an old, old photo of himself... and that's when he remembers. He knows this man.

Of course. Of course he was not done haunting his nightmares, but he knows how he can deal with this.

Yet… he’s never seen that photo in his dreams.

He snatches it away, looking it over--he remembers this, but why is it showing up in his dreams now? He hadn’t thought of this specter in so long…

As he continues to stare at the photo, he hears the child draw attention to the movies being played, and the ghost watches one in particular.

“...That night, Ernesto…”

And he looks up from the photo, a terrible chill filling him.

As the skeleton recounts the story of what happened so many nights ago, that night that he’d tried everything, everything to bury, to justify, to forget, he realizes...

Yes, the ghost has finished haunting his dreams.

Because he is about to make his afterlife a living nightmare.

[inkribbon796]

Where the Crossroads Meet Ch 1

Summary: In a locked vault is a powerful magical artifact. It has the ability to tear cities apart and reform a new one with its pieces. Which is exactly why Remus, Wilford, and Anti find it.

A/N: This is (give or take) the 100th short I’ve made and I wanted to be a little special. It’s also way longer than I planned for it to be.

First chapter’s a little bit odd in that events are happening at the same time. Remus, Wilford, and Anti are all doing things simultaneously and when we get back to Remus and the other Sides, that’s a new set of events.

Chapter 1: Distortion

~::~ Twenty Years Earlier ~::~

In a locked bank vault in Gainesville, Florida a ripple in reality ripped its way through time and space and a box glitched itself all over the room until it rested in the center.

Right as it glitched into reality, an alarm rang out throughout the bank as reality slowly began ripping itself into pieces. The bank split itself into three different places, the same bank with a different staff servicing it.

In Florida, a group of three masked vigilantes were standing on top of a neighboring building, watching the chaos as the police were driving up.

“Hey, Specs,” Creativity, Roman, the hero in a red cape and a white mask with red and golden accents with large red feathers, “how much longer we gonna be standing here like glittery gargoyles? We’ve got people to save.”

“Patience,” Logic, Logan, the vigilante with a full face mask and visor, commented, “this isn’t a situation we can rush into.”

“This is so exciting,” Morality, Patton, the hero in a puppy mask and a light blue jumpsuit. Creativity brought them down to the police.

“We’ve arrived!” Roman announced in a sing-song voice.

“We were nearby, would you like us in a supportive or non-present capacity?” Logan asked. Roman frowned at him but didn’t argue his opinion.

“Normally we’d take you up on that,” one of the officers answered, “but the Duke texted eggplants and bank emojis at the police chief.”

“That scoundrel!” Roman responded. “Does he have no shame? He brings misfortune and shame on his entire family!”

Logan was just staring at him during the outburst, then turned back to the officer, “Is the Duke the only one causing the situation?”

“I was expressing my intense displeasure with the Duke,” Roman reminded.

“Yes, but there are more pressing matters,” Logan corrected sternly. “You can bring your grievances to the Duke if you are so insulted.”

“You don’t understand, his existence besmirches my art,” Roman proclaimed.

Logan rolled his eyes, already thinking of entry strategies.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Inside of a nearly identical bank in the city of Egoton, Wilford was sitting at the branch manager’s desk, feet propped up as he was filing his nails. The desk phone rang and Wilford answered it.

“Bank offices, handsome man speaking,” Wilford answered smugly.

“Wil,” Dark seethed. “Why?”

Wil pined the landline between his shoulder and ear, continuing to trim and groom his nails. “Ahh, Darkling, I’m a bit busy at the moment. Can you believe the service at this place is terrible?”

The phone crackled with Dark’s static, a clear indicator at how furious he was that he could affect the phone with that distance. “Wilford M. Warfstache, you are robbing a bank, of course the service would be terrible. Why are you robbing a bank?”

“Eh,” Wil shrugged, blowing dust off his nails. “Figured I’d check it off the ol’ bucket list, you know?”

There was a bit of silence, the sound of wood snapping crackled over the line, “If you don’t find something to make this mess worth my while you can bail yourself out this time, you hapless fool!”

The line cut off suddenly and Wil frowned at the phone. “Well someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”

He stood up and carefully walked over the branch manager, who Wil had helped take a nap. The man had looked so tired and so he and the rest of his staff was already taking a nap, Wil doing his best not to wake them up.

Wil had something worth Dark’s while to find. While Wil appreciated Dark when he was feisty, hell hath no fury like Dark scorned in Wil’s humble opinion and best to mitigate that at all costs.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

“Get back here!” Marvin shouted, throwing magic down the bank’s hall at Anti who was jumping from wall to wall, cackling like a madman.

“Maybe yeh should get glasses ta help yeh aim better, kitty cat,” Anti teased.

Chase was shooting one of his modified NERF pistols. So far he was the only one who was managing to hit Anti at all. J.J was frantically trying to keep up, they’d been fighting Anti in the bank for almost a half-an-hour now with J.J having to rewind them back to the start of the fight twice. He was tired, and tipped over something on the ground.

Winded, J.J just lay there for a couple seconds, looking back towards his feet to see a body lying there . . . with a bullet wound right through her heart, the expression on her face twisted in fear.

J.J froze in horror and shock, usually someone called ahead when they found someone Anti had killed. The mute was about to use his communicator to send a signal, but he blinked and the body was suddenly gone.

As if the woman had never even been there.

Desperately, J.J patted the ground where the body had been, but his hand met linoleum and empty air.

“Jay?” Jackie dashed in. “There you are, you okay?”

The mute hero heaved himself onto his knees, frantic moving his hands while he asked if Jackie had found any bodies.

“No, J.J, we cleared the bank this time, remember? Are yah tired? Yeh need me ta call Hein in?” Jackie’s voice was instantly concerned. “Where’d yah find them?”

J.J stood up, “After the battle, we need to win.”

Jackie looked worried and uncertain, the speedster picked J.J up and they ran over to try and catch up with the fight.

Jackie’s tinnitus was flaring up, he couldn’t tell if it was Anti or the adrenaline. Overhead the loudspeakers were silently shaking, as if something loud was playing over them but now sound came out.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

In the surveillance room of the bank, Virgil was loudly singing Bad Romance at the top of his lungs. He had the music blaring over the loudspeakers, much to Janus’s dismay, but the deceitful Side had been outvoted two-to-one so Virgil kept his playlist privileges.

“I want your love, and I want your revenge! You and me could write a bad romance!” Virgil shouted, dancing with the song, not caring if he was out of key because no one was listening and the guard that had been in the room had been knocked out by Virgil’s fear powers a while ago. They’d taken the building without a fight, and without Virgil even lifting a finger.

“Oh~ oh~ oh~ oh~ oh!” Virgil shouted before hitting the blinking red light on the intercom, bringing the music down a bit. “Eh-lo?”

“Perfectly on key, Virge, don’t change a thing,” Janus told him sarcastically.

“Eh, why don’t you fuck off Janny, I��m having fun,” Virgil told him off.

Janus chuckled, his tone more relaxed, “I certainly wouldn’t know anything about that, just kick back.”

“Got it, got it, Mom,” Virgil smiled, rolling his eyes and flipping through the cameras. He looked at the back entrance and sat up. “We’ve got Helicopter Dad, and the Drama of the Opera at the back.”

“Thank you,” Janus told him. Then there was a heavy crash that seemed to shake the whole building. When the deceitful Side spoke again his tone was firm. “We’ll be out in five anyways.”

“Cool, got time to finish my song? Sweet!” Virgil grinned.

“Just be ready,” Janus warned and hung up.

Virgil began turning up the music again, because of the volume he missed the vent sliding open. “Hm~ hm~ hm~ hm~ Want your bad romance!”

Logic was carefully climbing down from the ceiling, braced for a fight but when he took in the full volume of the music and Virgil dancing he just stood there and sighed. The logical side waited for Virgil to notice him but when that didn’t happen, he just shut the music off remotely and Virgil startled.

“You apply yourself so poorly,” Logan chastised. “I shudder to think what would happen if you were competent in your ventures.”

“Hey!” Virgil glared at him, nervous at one of the Light Sides, especially an objective one — or at least one that wasn’t Princey — seeing his singing and dancing. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know that you should work on some decent pitch control,” Logan critiqued. “I advise a voice coach when you get to prison.”

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Roboto,” Virgil jabbed back and started to work his fear powers.

The logical side had to readjust his footing, but was clearly regaining his composure. Virgil grabbed his MP3 player and his bag and bolted for the door, trying to put as much distance between him and Logan as possible, throwing the door open and racing to where he knew Deceit and the Duke were.

In the background, he could hear someone following him and ran as fast as he could.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Wilford rolled his shoulders as he materialized into the main vault, not bothering with that monstrosity of a door. It was far larger than he expected it to be. Wil could hear music playing in his ears. He could hear distant, loud raucous music, the kind that Wil adored but Dark hated. He couldn’t remember putting music on, but he wasn’t going to complain about it.

He’d planned on looking through some boxes, but he saw in the middle of the vault a rather ornate box floating in the air, practically begging to be stolen.

“Well,” Wilford smiled, flexing his suspenders and reaching up. “Don’t mind if I do.”

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Anti used his electricity to break through the actual vault door.

“Come on, shitebag, what are yeh gonna do with money anyways?” Marvin yelled, trying his best to freeze Anti in place.

“Burn it, ‘a fookin’ course,” Anti cackled, then he froze, which he only did half of his own volition when he saw the box floating in the middle of the room.

“Hello?” Anti tilted his head inhumanely, his form glitching out of any hold Marvin was trying to keep him in. Marvin himself was frozen by the sight of the clearly magical artifact in front of him and confused because that thing wasn’t there the last time they were in here.

“Da fook are you, sweetheart?” Anti told the box, Marvin shook his head to clear it, not wanting Anti to take the clearly magical and/or cursed box.

“I don’t fookin’ think so!” Marvin shouted as Anti darted forward to grab the box.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Virgil raced down the hall to the central vault. “Gotta go! Gotta go!”

Janus looked down the hall, “Anxiety! You were supposed to stay at your post!”

“Logic’s here!” Virgil called out. “Where’s Remus?”

The two Dark Side looked into the vault to find Remus not stuffing a bag with cash and other valuables, but he was staring at a box floating in the center of the room, as if transfixed by it.

“Duke!” Deceit called out. “Put it in the bag, time’s up!”

The Duke startled but reached up for the box, his hand touching it at the same time as two other similarly chaotic hands touched the box.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The box jolted and shuddered in their hands before reality began to slam itself together.

Three doors appeared at opposite sides of the room where each of them had entered from the vault door. Wilford, Anti, and Remus all had a hand on the box and were all staring at each other in surprise and confusion.

“Well, old chaps,” Wilford tugged the box free, the ornate box glitching the different ways, each echo of the box being tugged to either of them. “I’ll be taking that.”

“Hey, I saw it first!” Anti shouted angrily. Remus was busy looking at the walls cracking around them.

“Find your own, I need this,” Wil huffed, starting to try and open up a hole into the Void, but to his surprise he couldn’t. “Huh, that’s strange.”

“Hand me that, it’s mine!” Anti shouted.

Then the cracking and splitting began to get far louder and seemingly intentional.

All three of them stopped arguing to watch the ground beneath them and the walls above them crack and divide.

“Jan’s gonna kill me,” Remus laughed a little at the same time as Wil’s admission.

“Dark’s gonna kill me,” Wil held the box closer to his chest.

Then the ground split as Janus and Virgil appeared at the door to the vault. Before Janus could call out the world seemed to twist and bend, and everyone was pulled apart as reality collided with itself.

NEXT =>

[legolaslovely]

Angel’s Song

Written for @gatheringfiki ‘s Winter FRE 2020. Prompt 44: Shapeshifter

Pairing: Fili/Kili - Modern (kind of) AU 

Warnings/Ratings: Teen, sad sad sadddd

A/N: okay i shit you not i sobbed writing this. this was super duper inspired by this video of Clair De Lune, thank you @winchesterandpie for putting that one in my orbit.

Thank you so much @mysticalbarbariancreation​ for this beautiful photoset made as a prize for WinterFRE! Link here!

At first, Fili thought he was imagining it. 

He turned the old truck onto the estate and immediately swatted at the volume dial on the console, silencing his ‘rebel music,’ as his uncle would call it. It was second nature for him to run a hand through his knotted waves, choke himself with the top buttons of his shirt, and slow to a crawl as he drove through the gates near the house that was more like a mansion, that was more like a castle. He did it today, even when he knew his uncle wouldn’t be there- would never be there again. His uncle was dead.

This was his duty now- to check on the house-mansion-castle, to clean it up and decide whether to keep it or sell it or whatever else you did with this kind of thing. He’d never leave it to his mother because he didn’t like to remind her of what was left. That where it used to be five, it was only two. Their family had dwindled like rotting flowers instead of actual, real live beings. 

So as the truck defiantly growled through the sentient drive, Fili ducked his head to check all the curtains, windows and doors had remained in the state he’d left them in the week before. The rusted steed lurched and settled and he leapt out and jogged up the steps. He reached for the large stone knocker before him, like he expected someone to answer and invite him in for tea and insults. He dug in his pocket for the large, silver key. It stuck and needed a wiggle. As he stepped in and closed the door behind him, Fili thought he should have brought the tools to replace it, but then again, if he sold the house-mansion-castle, the new owners would have to change the locks anyway.

The entryway was no less stuffy than it was when his uncle was actually living in the house. A crack in one of the curtains allowed sunlight to peek through and dance with the dust that flew through the air as Fili walked through to the drawing room. His finger collected a grey petal of dust as he ran it along a table and he felt a twinge of satisfaction. In their youth, he and his brother would leave pieces of cheese in corners or windowsills, hoping it would sit and rot and smell and drive their uncle mad. They never succeeded, but now Fili felt some sense of achievement in his small inside joke.

“I’ll bring a rag next time,” he said out loud to no one but the rafters. 

That was when he heard it. It was soft and distant. He thought the familiar walls were teasing his ears. He should move about, chase the sound, find the answers to the questions filling his head, but his senses were clouded by teeming and swelling waves of peace. He should not feel calm at the idea of a stranger living in this supposedly empty house-mansion-castle, but the trills and purrs created the most serene song. It was a piano. It was safety and comfort. It was his brother.

His feet took on roots as he listened. This was the song only Kili could play- the singular tune he would play over and over until Fili begged him to stop and took him in his arms and carried him far away from the instrument. Kili would cackle and kick and tickle, sometimes he’d cry and plead, “Fi, please let me play more.” Fili would always allow it.

In their mother’s or uncle’s presence, Kili would play impressive and popular arias. He practiced daily to make his tutors proud and to win competitions and scholarships. Kili would oblige his friends and family with their favorite pieces at suppers and parties, but Fili was the only person trusted with this beloved, simple song of Kili’s.

The melody rose and Fili’s phantom boots carried him across the floor and up the stairs. Waving keys and chromatics tickled the walls and echoed through the corridor as Fili’s fingers grasped the banister as if he’d float away with the music if he let go. He passed his uncle’s library where he and his brother would hide from their tutors, the double sided bedroom they shared when they stayed for an overnight visit, the upper drawing room where they’d build a fire for their mother and take tea in the afternoons. His loud, thunking work boots were feathers that whispered across the old hardwood as he crept closer to his destination, terrified of breaking the magic this must be.

He stood in the doorway. Trembling fingers gripped the wooden frame before his knees turned to soft, dry sand. Through bleary eyes, he could just see a set of shoulders, more slender than his own but strong and thick, leaning in and out with the wave of the music. Dark hair fell over his shoulders and Fili longed to see the eyes that matched but he wouldn’t dare distract this angel from his song. What else could he be?

The piece was ending. Fili knew it and he couldn’t stop it. Long fingers peeked to the left, pressing the yellowed keys of the lower register in a slow tempo and a soft volume. Scales rolled and resolved, the last notes hung in the room like a fog until the pedal lifted. Fili had never experienced this kind of silence. He wanted it to last, needed it to last, but he just had to-

“Kili?”

Fingers left the keys and the old bench creaked as the solid figure turned. He smiled brilliantly. “Hi, Fi.”

Fili blinked a tear from his eyes and then all that remained of his brother was a bird- small and strong and dazzling as it flew out the open window and into the bright day.

[wingcharm]

Never-Never Land Part 2/3

Thank you so much to everyone who liked, reblogged and replied to the first part of this series! I was blown away!

A few notes: although this story is already written, I wrote it by hand in my notebook while on bed-rest, and have been typing it out on my laptop and editing as I go, hence the delay between chapters. I'm still not sure if the final part of the story will be in one chapter or if it'll read better split in half with the latter part serving as an epilogue, so the final chapter count may change.

Thank you so much for reading!

AO3

------

His phone is blowing up with calls, but he doesn’t bother checking to see who they’re from.

“FRIDAY, call Rhodey.”

The phone rings only once before Rhodey answers.

“Stay where you are,” is the first thing he says, his voice tight. “I’m serious, Tones. I’m working on it. Sam is on his way in now. They’ve been instructed to use non-lethal force only, they won’t hurt the kid. But we don’t know what kind of voodoo shit he’s under, and if you get thrown into the mix–”

“It’s not Peter!” Tony interrupts hastily, before another phrase like ‘non-lethal force’ can send him back into an emotional tailspin. “It’s not him. Someone else is in the suit.”

A stunned silence follows. Then, “Tony, who–?”

“I don’t know. Something’s blocking the comms, I can’t get in. But Peter–” his phone buzzes as another call comes through, Pepper’s face illuminated on the screen. “That’s Pep. I gotta tell her, Rhodey, can you–?”

“Yeah. I’ll keep you posted man, just – stay put, okay?”

Tony doesn’t answer. He switches over to the waiting call. “Pepper–”

“I know, honey. I saw,” her voice is gentle, but it rises quickly in volume until it carries. “FRIDAY, can you hear me? Authorize suit deployment. Access code 73723, Virginia Potts.”

“Authorization accepted. Deploying now, boss.” FRIDAY’s approval is interrupted by the distant thrum of repulsors charging in the garage, metal re-forming from nanotech.

His knees go weak; the crashing wave of relief at the familiar sound and the overwhelming gratitude for his wife renders Tony unable to speak, his throat tight. Pepper goes on,“You have it, Tony. Okay? You have it, but you won’t use it.”

He struggles to find his voice, to steady himself. “I won’t –?”

“Not yet. You won’t leave Morgan alone, Tony. You have to think through this.”

He shakes his head, forces himself to breathe in. “You can come home, you can stay with her–”

“I can’t,” she sounds frustrated, “There’s no getting in or out of the city right now, they’ve closed off the air space.”

He can feel his breaths coming shorter again, can feel the pressure building in his chest. “Someone’s got him, Pep – some maniac got to him, they’re in the suit, I can’t get through!”

He swears he can hear the gears turning in her head, can hear her thinking as she absorbs this new information. Her voice is slow and measured. “Then it’s someone who planned in advance. They figured out who he was, they knew how to trap him.”

“There’s no one. It wouldn’t work, even if they–” Tony clamps down on his own frustration, knows she’s trying to get him to sort through everything, to work the problem. He sucks in another breath and tries again. “No one can take that suit off him, not against his will. Even if he’s unconscious. There’s a safeguard built in, the Child Lock Protocol, it won’t disengage unless he’s–”

“He’s not. He’s not, honey,” her voice is gentle again, calm and steady. “He’s alive. He must have taken it off himself, given it to someone else…” but her voice trails off, and Tony can tell she doesn’t really believe it.

“He wouldn’t. Who the hell would he even give it to?”

“His friend, maybe? The computer expert?” Pepper offers, but she sounds doubtful. “He’s the only other person who knows, and it must have been someone he trusted. What’s his name?”

“Ned Leeds,” Tony supplies automatically, and instantly imagines the way Peter would have reacted on finding out that Tony had never actually thought the kid’s name was ‘Fred.’ His eyes water, and he pushes the thought from his mind.

“Do you have his number?” Pepper prompts, and Tony’s heart sinks.

“No,” he can barely get the word out around the self-recrimination in his throat, “he got a new one after he came back. Pete knew the old one by heart, he was crushed when he found out. He kept trying to memorize the new one, just in case. He turned it into a song to help him remember, he keeps singing it when he’s out on patrol, I must’ve listened to it a thousand times but I–”

“Okay,” Pepper cuts in softly, “it’s okay, honey. You’re spiraling. May will have it, okay? I’ll call her. She’s with Happy–”

And Tony almost laughs, because of course Pepper already knows, but the memory of Peter’s patrols calls to mind something else, something painfully obvious that had been lost to him in the fog of his panic: “His suit feed backs up to FRIDAY’s database automatically. If that freak didn’t start blocking the signal until after he took the suit, I should still be able to play back whatever the kid saw before he– before he lost it.”

Pepper hesitates a moment. “Play back? As in video? Audio?”

“Both,” Tony hopes, now anxious to pull up the footage, to do something useful, but Pepper stops him.

“In the basement, Tony,” her voice is suddenly urgent, “Watch it in the lab. Leave the suit with Morgan, don’t let her see, or…or hear…” and for the first time, he can hear it in her voice: the same fear that rips through his insides, the fear of what may have happened – might still be happening. However sure of his safety she had sounded for Tony’s sake, she is afraid for Peter, too, and her fear propels him out of his own the way nothing else can.

“In the lab, out of sight. Try to find Ned, Pep. I love you. I’ve gotta go.”

The call ends. He turns on his heels and there in the middle of his living room is the Iron Man suit, standing guard over Morgan, who is glancing between the suit and her father as though unsure which to run to. He holds out his arms to her and she throws herself into them and clings, still trembling.

“I heard what you said! You said a bad guy has Petey!”

“Dad’s gonna help him, baby. I have to go down to the lab, and you have to stay up here with Iron Man. That’s how we help Peter right now. Okay?” He brushes a hand over her cheek as she nods, and God, she looks so afraid, and he knows he’s handling this all wrong, but they don’t have time.

He leaves the suit to keep watch over his daughter, and hurtles for the stairs.

–- -

FRIDAY doesn’t wait for him to ask; the screen glows to life the moment he enters the room at the bottom of the stairs, and the first video begins to play.

He’s looking out of the back seat of the Audi through Peter’s eyes. Tony is momentarily stumped before it occurs to him that he must be watching a recording from late in the previous evening, on the drive back from the lake house. The camera pans to the windows as the kid looks through them, and the wall of congested city traffic surrounding them tells Tony they’re not far from their destination.

Peter faces forward again and makes a point of clearing his throat. Happy’s face is just visible in the rear view mirror as he glances up, catching a glimpse of the scene behind him and rolling his eyes. “Aw jeeze, kid, not in the car! Take the mask off, what if someone sees you?”

Peter’s voice comes through clear as a bell. “C’mon, Happy, the tints on these windows are crazy dark! Probably illegal level dark, even. No one’s gonna see in. Did you know this thing records video? It’ll be like my old vlogs back in Germany, remember those?”

  “I try not to. I’m serious, kid, mask off. Or we’re not stopping for that Slurpee.”

Peter huffs a sigh, reaches up to remove the mask, and the video cuts out. Tony releases the breath he’s been holding, unsure whether to feel relieved at the tame nature of the footage or frustrated by its total lack of anything resembling a lead. Before he can make up his mind, the screen flares back to life.

This time, the kid is balanced on the edge of what Tony guesses to be the roof of the Parkers’ new building. The dark sky and lit street lamps are the only indication of the late hour, the amount of time that must have passed.

“Karen, where’s it coming from?” whispers Peter, the camera tilting as he cocks his head to one side like a dog searching for the source of a strange sound. Whatever he hears is inaudible Tony’s ears.

The suit isn’t designed to record feedback from its A.I., but Karen must have replied; Peter chirps out a quick thanks and takes off into the air.

Tony can tell by Peter’s speed and altitude that he isn’t intending to travel very far, and by the time he’s two blocks over, he can hear what the kid is after: a man’s voice is screaming for help, begging as though his life depends on it. The camera swoops and volleys as Peter picks up the pace, drawing closer. “I’m coming,” he whispers, “I’m coming, man, just hold on…”

Ahead, the screaming echoes from within what looks to be an old, empty department store – a warehouse, maybe? Tony knows plenty of these ghost town fixtures still remain, leftovers of the post-blip economy crash and subsequent rioting. Peter scales the exterior of the building until he reaches a broken window set high into the wall. He slides through.

The interior of the building is strangely empty, devoid of the usual rows of empty shelving or machinery that might have hinted as to its original purpose. The concrete floor is barren even of the typical detritus which might have indicated the presence of squatters.

The camera somersaults as Peter flips down to the floor, raises again as he lifts his head, searching–

A bald-headed, bespectacled man is illuminated by a sliver of moonlight through the broken window, his face partially obscured, choking and crushed within the grasp of something enormous, something monstrous–

“What the fuck?” Tony and Peter’s reactions are in sync. The camera leans in, and Tony leans with it, because what he’s seeing can’t be real.

A gigantic fist rises out of the concrete floor, its fingers locked tightly around the bald-headed man, its surface rippling and sliding at the outer layer like – sand? Earth? Tony can’t tell.

  “What the hell is that thing, Karen?!”

No sooner has Peter said it than the thing turns round sharply as if suddenly aware of his arrival, crumbling and shifting as it moves. The fingers release their hold on the choking victim who falls hard to the floor, gasping for breath.

“O-okay. That’s, um. That’s something, at least,” Peter stutters slightly, clearly shaken, but raises his voice to a shout as he addresses the man on the floor, “Get out of here, man, run! I’ll cover you!”

The guy doesn’t need telling twice – he books it out of the building as the monstrous hand begins to shift and contort, its material expanding, growing out of seemingly nothing at all until it reaches almost to the ceiling, a pillar of earth – no, a torso, Tony realizes – and advances on Peter, who actually squeaks with fear.

“Call for back-up,” Tony orders numbly, mouth dry, heart pounding. “Do it, kid. Call for help.”

Karen must have delivered similar advice, might even have started to sound the alarm on Peter’s behalf, because the kid yelps, “No, no, wait! Not yet! I can do this, I can–”

The ground to Peter’s left explodes as the thing’s fist connects with the concrete, barely missing him. He springs into action, the camera whirling as he fires webs at the walls, the ceiling – trying his best to get an angle on the thing even as it continues to grow, a hideous face forming out of its rocky surface, snarling with rage.

“Distraction, I need a – Karen, can you deploy a drone?” Peter gasps, dodging a second blow from the monster. With a metallic buzzing, a spider-drone is released from the kid’s suit. It zips around behind the creature, flying purposefully close to its enormous head, which turns to follow its movement, its attention pulled away from its main target.

Peter banks sharply in mid-air, grabbing onto one of the overhead beams with one hand and steadying himself. He fires a web grenade right into the center of the beast – the web streaks through the air, seems to flicker strangely – and passes through the creature without a trace. It explodes against the far wall, brick and webbing sent in every direction.

Peter hangs in place, obviously puzzled. “What–?”

He’s still for a moment too long. The sand monster slams a fist into the ceiling above his head; the spot just above him explodes, huge chunks of debris raining down over top of him. The overhead beam Peter hangs from snaps as it’s swept beneath an avalanche of rubble that crashes to the floor, burying the kid beneath it.

“No!” Peter gasps, and the fear in his voice sets Tony’s heart racing. The camera is covered with dust, impossible to see through.

“FRIDAY, switch to the drone cam,” Tony orders, and the picture re-appears, this time from a bird’s eye view. Beneath the drone, Peter frees an arm and paws ineffectually at the eyes of his mask, struggling to clear his view.“No, no, come on–”

He’s panicking – Tony can hear it in the frantic, too-quick breaths still audible through the speakers. He can see it in the way the kid remains pinned on his back beneath the rubble, fighting wildly to free himself, staring up at the beast as it raises its fist again, preparing to strike–

The beast’s roar is interrupted by the whirr of repulsors, and Tony’s head snaps towards the stairs, towards Morgan and the suit– but the sound isn’t coming from upstairs. It’s coming from the screen.

Iron Man bursts through the broken window of the warehouse, repulsors raised threateningly at the creature still looming over Peter.

“I’m here! Tony, I’m down here!” Peter’s relief is palpable, and it hurts, because now, at last, Tony can see what’s happening.

The understanding of what he’s seeing – what it means, and what must be about to happen next – crashes over Tony all at once, sliding like ice down his spine.

This is Stark tech. This is his own technology. Incredibly vivid projected images, probably backed by some sort of weaponry to cause the explosions. Smoke and mirrors in dazzling technicolor, the early stages of an invention he had molded into a therapy tool once he realized the hideously dangerous potential it held for anything else; at the time, he’d pictured large-scale government sponsored hoaxes designed to stir a country into war, or corrupt officials re-framing their own misdeeds, manufacturing false alibis…

He’d never imagined it would become a torture device to be used on his own kid.

On the screen, the threat of the repulsors is enough to cause the sand monster to retreat. It crumbles in on itself like a sinkhole before vanishing entirely, leaving no trace of it behind. The spider-drone’s camera follows Iron Man’s movements as he crosses the floor of the warehouse to where Peter is still trapped. Tony watches as the fake Iron Man lifts away the support beam the kid is still pinned beneath, straining his eyes for evidence of the machinery which must be at work creating the illusion – but now that he thinks about it, how is the fake Iron Man able to physically move anything? Real objects should pass right through the projection, just as Peter’s web grenade had flown through the “beast.”

He’s only just begun to consider whether it might be possible to overlay a projection on a human being as a sort of digital costume when the Iron Man suit opens, and Tony fucking Stark steps out of it.

The kid removes his mask as he scrambles to safety, and the expression of relief on his face is in total contrast to the dread in Tony’s gut.

“Tony!” Peter’s voice is brimming with gratitude and adoration as he lunges towards his apparent savior and all but crashes into the doppelganger’s arms. Tony’s body actually twitches with the urge to return the embrace the teenager is clearly expecting.

Not-Tony, however, is rigid and ramrod straight; his hands grip Peter’s shoulders without their usual warmth, and Tony can see the moment Peter realizes something is wrong – the kid freezes in place half a second before Not-Tony uses his grip to push him violently away.

Peter stumbles backwards with the force of it, and Tony finds himself taking an instinctive step forward as though to steady him before he remembers himself. Any embarrassment he might have felt at his blunder is wiped away by Peter’s expression: pure, defenseless hurt.

“What the hell were you doing out there, Parker?” Not-Tony’s voice trembles with anger, and Tony watches as Peter seems to shrink in on himself.

 “I – there was – I heard someone screaming and then this thing, it just…it attacked, and I– I wanted to help, so I–”

Not-Tony cuts in sharply, “You got involved in a mess you had no business being any part of, and forced me to swoop in and save the day. ”

For a split second, Tony can see Peter’s brow furrow with what looks to be doubt.

 “But – but you said I should–”

Not-Tony switches tactics.

 “Or maybe it was on purpose? Was it just that you wanted to see how fast I’d come running if you were in danger? Was that your game?”

Tony, who has always loved the way Peter wears his heart on his sleeve, now wishes desperately that the kid had a better poker face; the way the color drains from his cheeks makes it clear that Not-Tony has struck pay dirt.

“N-no! Please, I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, I didn’t mean to – you don’t have to–” Peter’s stammering protest cuts through Tony like a knife.

“You’re right. I don’t.” Not-Tony remains as cold as ice, and Tony feels a sudden dread creep up his spine. “I think this relationship has run its course, don’t you?”

There is a long pause in which Peter desperately searches Not-Tony’s face, and Tony knows what he’s looking for; he’s seen enough footage and photos of himself with the kid. But the usual warmth and affection that lights up Tony’s eyes whenever he looks at his family is absent in Not-Tony.

“Run its…its course?” Peter’s voice is hoarse and disbelieving. Tony has never heard anyone sound so crushed, and it makes him appear somehow younger. His head swims with the sudden and overwhelming desire to reach out and comfort the kid.

 “I had a pretty good thing going for a few years, you know. A wife and a kid. Nice little retirement. Maybe it’s time to get back to that. Think I’ve earned the right to some peace and quiet, don’t you?”

Peter’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. He nods.

Not-Tony’s tone is ruthless as he continues, “Saved the universe, didn’t I? I brought everyone back. I brought you back. Maybe that’s where I went wrong.”

Tony’s stomach seems to plummet and lift so quickly he tastes bile in his throat, because God, those words spoken in his own voice area nauseating, but this is where Peter will see through the farce. This is where the kid will realize something is up. Because Tony could never regret saving Peter. There is no version of Peter who could fail to realize that.

Peter’s mouth opens as if to speak, and Tony feels a surge of victory.

It’s extinguished with the click of Peter’s teeth as his mouth closes. His face is colorless. His gaze drops to the floor.

“No. No, come on, kid,” Tony has taken several steps forward without realizing it, “That’s not me. You know that’s not me.”

Not-Tony’s expression borders on smug. “Can’t deny it, can you? You’ve had your fun. Had a nice time playing superhero, milking me out of millions of dollars worth of gear, swanning around my home as if you think you’re my son. Taking me away from time with my family. My daughter. That’s plenty. That’s enough. Don’t you think?”

Peter looks up again, utterly stricken.

 “I – sir, I’m so –”

Not-Tony advances on Peter. Peter cowers.

Something in Tony’s chest pulls as taut and unforgiving as a bowstring, and he is forced to turn his back on the grotesque display before the pressure can snap it in two.

Behind him, the spectacle continues to play out. Not-Tony’s voice drips with contempt.

 “You agree with me, don’t you? Spider-Man?”

Peter’s reply is almost inaudible. He sounds as though the wind has been knocked out of him. He sounds as breathless and gutted as Tony feels.

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Yes, sir. Perfect. Then you can get the hell out of my life. Door’s just behind you.”

There is a sharp, reedy sound like a sudden intake of breath followed by the soft rustle of fabric hitting the tile floor, and Tony knows without looking that Peter has dropped his suit and tracker. He can’t see it, but he can imagine the trembling in Peter’s shoulders as he turns to leave – the tightening at the corners of his eyes that only happens when the teenager is trying not to cry. The kid’s footsteps are slow and methodical as he makes his way to the door of the warehouse, and Tony wills him to hurry, to leave before his hideous doppelganger can deliver the killing blow –

Instead, there is a shuffle of footsteps as though Peter has turned on his heel.

“Wait! Wait, please – please don’t do this. Please. I’ll – I’ll do better, I promise I will! I’ll – you can have the suit, you can keep it, just – and I won’t, I – I’ll stop coming over so much. I won’t bother you, just please, Tony. I just – I need you, and – ” Peter’s tone is familiar in its desperation. But the last time Tony heard it, the kid was turning to dust in his hands. Unconsciously, he raises his hand to his mouth as though to keep from being sick.

Not-Tony snorts derisively. “I should’ve left you for dead when I had the chance.”

The roaring in Tony’s ears drowns out any reply.

– – -

 Ten hours earlier

–

Peter is freezing. He’s never been able to tolerate cold well, and his only clothing underneath the suit had been his shorts and vest. But the prospect of asking Tony for clothes – for anything at all – hadn’t crossed his mind.

It’s as if the realization of his worst fears, his worst insecurities, has short-circuited something in his brain. He feels numb beneath the cold, can focus only on taking the next step, the next step, the next step…

So he walks.

“Peter? Is that you?” A familiar voice calls out from behind him.

Almost mechanically, Peter turns to face the man.

“Oh. Hi. I was just…” His lips are numb, his voice flat. What is he doing? Where is he going? He can’t remember.

His physics teacher frowns, glancing both ways down the street before jogging across to meet him. Peter waits politely for him to catch up. Now that he’s still, he can’t seem to find the desire to move any further.

“I was just at the bar across the street, thought I heard a commotion – Peter, are you okay?” The man reaches out a hand to clasp Peter’s shoulder.

For some reason, the simple touch is his undoing.

“No,” he croaks out. His eyes begin to burn and he drops his gaze, humiliated.

His teacher squeezes his shoulder once. “C’mon. I live close by.”

– – -

Peter allows himself to be lead just two blocks down and into an alleyway where a dilapidated walk-up awaits them. He wonders, in a detached kind of way, what kind of meager salary Midtown pays its faculty – by the looks of this place, they can’t afford much in the way of rent.

They enter into a dimly lit kitchen where the man gestures for Peter to take a seat at the tiny round table in the corner of the room and reaches for the coffee machine, which seems to have a pot already waiting; Peter wonders whether the man was expecting company. “Sit down, Peter. How do you take it? Cream? Sugar?”

“I – um, both?” Peter’s never been much of a coffee-drinker, but it’ll give him something to do with his hands at the very least. “Um, thanks for doing this, Mr. Rio. Tonight – it’s been – well, thanks.”

“Please, Peter. We’re not in school. Call me Quentin,” His teacher smiles as he passes Peter the steaming mug. “Tell you what, I’ll grab you some clothes while you drink. You can’t walk home looking like that. Wait here, okay?”

Quentin disappears out of the kitchen. Peter takes a few gulps of his coffee, savoring the way it burns away at the lump in his throat on the way down.

 I think this relationship has run its course, don’t you?

The words play back endlessly through his mind. His skin is crawling with it.

 I brought you back. Maybe that’s where I went wrong.

He takes another long sip, hoping the steam will clear out the sudden congestion in his sinuses before he has to speak to Quentin.

On the wall, a dusty clock tells him it’s nearly 2AM. May will be at her night-shift until morning, and won’t meet back up with Peter until the afternoon. There will be no morning message from Tony to answer.

 Get the hell out of my life.

He drains his mug in one long gulp.

On a small table by the door, something catches his eye: a newspaper bearing a familiar photograph. The New York Times had done a feature on Tony after his incredible victory. On its cover, the photograph depicted the man himself, surrounded by his family: Pepper, Happy, Rhodey – and Peter.

 Swanning around my home as if you think you’re my son.

He remembers the way Tony had flatly refused to allow any publication of his daughter’s face – he’d said he didn’t want her growing up in his shadow the way he’d grown up in Howard’s, always to be compared and scrutinized by a merciless press.

But he’d allowed Peter to be in the shot – had even thrown his arm around him. Like he was proud. Why?

The grief is threatening to overwhelm him now, is clouding his mind. He feels strangely heavy with it. Heavy and weak, and so, so tired.

“It’s a nice picture,” says Quentin from somewhere behind him.

Peter turns to look at him. It takes longer than it should – he feels as if he’s moving through sludge, wading through sand…

“I couldn’t believe my luck when I first saw it. There I was, dreaming up ways to make him pay for what he did, and what do you know? The guy is stupid enough to let a major news outlet run a story on the private life he’s hidden for years. All the people nearest and dearest to him.” Quentin smiles.

For the first time, it dawns on Peter that the prickling on the back of his neck – the crawling of his skin – is not down to emotion.

“Thing is, most of them are just impossible to get to. Can you imagine trying to kidnap the C.E.O. of Stark Industries? Or a bunch of ex-military guys? Never gonna happen. But you–you were perfect.”

Quentin draws closer, and Peter tries to rise from his chair, but his legs won’t support him – he crashes hard to the linoleum floor. His teacher is still smiling.

“Oh, it’s nothing personal, Pete. You’re a bright kid! You would’ve had a bright future.” Quentin shakes his head as though disappointed. “But you won’t be the first person to have their life destroyed by Tony Stark. I used to work for the guy, did you know that? Me and some of my friends. You’ve met one of them already – he’s a better scientist than he is an actor, but his screaming got you to turn up all the same, didn’t it?”

Peter tries to move, but it feels as though he’s buried under rubble again. Every hair on his body is standing on end. “How…?”

“Oh, how did I know about your little alter-ego?” Quentin asks. His eyes are bright and eager at the question. He looks as if he’s enjoying himself. “Well, that’s the thing, Pete – I didn’t! Not until your buddy Ned went and bragged to his little girlfriend about his pal Spider-Man right smack in the middle of my classroom. The look on your face when he said it!” He laughs. “God, kid, how have you kept it secret this long? Anyway, it works out great in the end. Makes my job a little easier.”

Peter isn’t sure whether it’s because Quentin is purposefully toying with him or because whatever he’s been drugged with is slowing his thinking, but he can’t connect the dots. He tries to ask, but finds that he can no longer open his mouth to speak – he’s paralyzed.

Quentin chuckles as though he sees the question in Peter’s eyes.

“Jesus, kid, aren’t you supposed to be smart?” And then his face falls, and he looks almost remorseful. “Aw, man, I’m sorry, Pete. That was mean. Look – I’ve really enjoyed being your teacher. And this whole superhero gig you’ve got going – it’s admirable, it really is. But your friend Tony deserves to pay for what he’s done, and there’s no way I’m getting close enough to the guy to kill him myself.”

Even as he feels the muscles in his face go slack, the alarm bells in Peter’s head are blaring, and his eyes dart frantically between his teacher’s. Quentin nods, smiling again as though pleased.

“Yeah, see? You figured it out, right? Knew you’d get there eventually. It’ll work like this: I’ve got your suit. I get to play the role of the Amazing Spider-Man, but – uh oh!” Quentin steps closer. “Spider-Man’s lost it! He’s blowing up buildings, he’s killing innocent people! Tony Stark’s little side-kick is out destroying his reputation!”

Peter tries to yell, but nothing escapes his vocal cords. Horror is clawing at his throat. Quentin carries on.

“See, as soon as Stark sees Spider-Man on a rampage through the city, he’ll zoom right in out of retirement to save the day. But Iron Man won’t lift a finger against Spider-Man, will he? Tony would never risk hurting Peter Parker.”

Quentin drops down beside Peter, and he catches a final glimpse of the savage pleasure on the man’s face as he reaches to gently close the eyelids that are frozen open.

“Easy peasy, right? Spider-Man will have no trouble killing Tony Stark.”

Peter’s eyes are closed, and the world goes dark.

“And once it’s all over, Peter – once Iron Man has fallen and the world is closing in on Spider-Man…he’ll fall, too. Right off a building, and down to his death. And for that, I’m going to need a body.”

The darkness pulls Peter down, and he knows no more.

[amanecercreciente]

Full Moon

→ Jaebeom → Suggestive, Fluff → 1,8k words → Jaebeom struggles with the wolf inside him, while his girlfriend teases him.

Author’s note: This scenario was originally written in Spanish. It was inspired after GOT7′s Before The Full Moon Rises, and this evil compilation. Let’s just all cry together please.

The plan was to have an innocent date. That you, his girlfriend, could go to his studio in the afternoon to listen the latest song he had composed. To talk about unimportant stuff, drink tea, and simply relax after what had been a busy week without seeing each other.

But as the night settled in, the so-called innocent date was threatened. Your game was completely harmless, you only wanted Jaebeom to complete his punishment by having him talk ridiculously with his cheeks pressed together. This, after you had won the last slice of pizza.

You sat on his lap to proceed with your task, and his thoughts went wild. Your exposed legs in contact with his, and your perfume like a provoking wave, made his body tense quickly.

In half a second, Jaebeom decided the best thing to do was to hold back and simply follow your game. But his attempt to tickle you to death was a complete failure. As soon as you felt his hands brushing your waist, fury awoke in you, and with all possible force you threw yourself against his body to halt any other movement.

In the middle of flustered giggling, you realized the vulnerable position both had ended up in after the brief fight. Jaebeom was restrained, his body slightly reclining on the sofa, and his arms above his head pressed by your hands. You were still sitting on his lap, but this time holding him tightly with both legs by his sides, your center dangerously close to his.

‘Ummm… Sorry…’ you muttered and laughed nervously while letting go of his arms. Actually, it was a bit funny to notice how Jaebeom’s body had tensed and his pupils dilated by your actions.

‘It’s okay,’ he said. But by just sitting on him he had become alert. To see you and have you so close to him, your skirt pulled up to your hips, and the warmth of your body burning his skin, were all driving him crazy. He placed his palms on your thighs and caressed them slowly, penetrating you with his eyes, and waiting for your response.

Lately, every time he received physical attention from you, whether it was your hand tenderly touching his, or a kiss longer than usual, he felt that the wall that restrained him came down a bit. One brick at a time. Although you had no intention of provoking him excessively with those actions, he had to fight and suppress the impulse to touch you and feel you where he never had before.

You placed your forearms on the back of the couch to reposition yourself, this time sitting intentionally on his member. Then, you approached his face and kissed him gently. Jaebeom responded to the kiss almost desperately, introducing his tongue to your mouth and massaging your soft muscle. He gripped your hips and pressed hard, moving your lower body and increasing the friction of the position.

Still kissing you, he raised his hands to your waist and slowly traced your sides. Then, he brought his palms under your skirt and began to massage your ass until he squeezed it hard, slightly lifting your body. The contact of his firm hands with such an intimate part of yours was too much, and the surprising but pleasant sensation caused you to be unable to concentrate on reciprocating the kiss. You left his lips and leaned your forehead on one of your arms resting on the back of the couch. Jaebeom took the opportunity to play with his tongue, tasting the exposed part of your neck.

Suddenly, as someone who has a divine revelation, he became aware of the place you both were in. Today you both would have an innocent date in his studio, where any of his colleagues with whom he shared the place could enter, at any time. If your date was not going to end up innocently, at least he should take action and protect the privacy of both of you, he thought.

‘I have to lock the door’ he blurted after stopping his attack on your neck.

Without even looking at him you knew his eyes were on you. His gaze like a sharp needle piercing your skin, and his hands still squeezing your butt, was an instance that had you very exposed. You raised your face, avoiding him.

‘I’ll go.’ You forced yourself to wake up from your daze and close the door quickly. You got up, pulling away from Jaebeom. Only then you observed him, still half lying on the couch, with the look of a wolf fascinated with his prey.

Jaebeom was entranced with the image of your body in front of him. He contemplated you fixing your skirt, your cheeks slightly flushed and your chest rising and falling because of your unsteady breathing. Of course, the idea of having sex with you for the first time had crossed his mind. Even too many times that same day, more than he would dare to admit.

As you were about to turn around, lock the door, and re-immerse yourself into him, the alarm on your phone went off. It had happened once not too long ago, after you had spent hours chatting with Jaebeom in his studio, you had ended up missing the last train home, and having to pay an expensive taxi ride.

‘It's my alarm…’ you said in a low voice, while approaching the desk where you had left your bag earlier. You took your phone and turned off the annoying sound.

‘Alarm?’ Jaebeom asked, a bit confused as he straightened himself up on the couch.

‘The last train stops by in twenty minutes. I lost it last time’ you explained, putting your phone inside your bag.

‘Ummm…’ Jaebeom watched you, still disoriented because of the abrupt interruption. ‘Do you want to leave or…? I mean, you want me to take you to the station?’

He felt clumsy after his questions. Despite the latent desire to passionately have you in his arms, he hoped that it was you who took the first step to spend a night together. His only doubts were a bit ridiculous, logistical. He could not invite you to his apartment, not when he shared it with Mark, Jinyoung and Yugyeom, and had a strict rule, which he himself had encouraged, to not invite girlfriends over. And now that he really thought about it, his studio was not the right place either, precisely because at any moment someone else could come in. No, it was definitely you the one that had to guide him, invite him into your space. He had to wait.

‘Jaebeom?’ you called him, while putting your coat on. Jaebeom was still sitting on the couch, deep in thought. Obviously, he had not heard your request to accompany you, so you approached him and jokingly touched his forehead. ‘Are you okay? Do you have a fever or something?’

‘What? I'm fine’ he said and stood up.

‘You know I really can’t miss the train again. So please take me home? It's too late to go alone’ you repeated.

‘Sure’ he said, scanning the room and looking for his belongings, distracted by the thought of taking you to your apartment at such a late hour.

The ride was mostly silent. Being the last hours of the day, the train that you had gotten into was empty, except for an exhausted office worker and two college girls dressed ready to join a party. You held Jaebeom's arm to play with it and caress the delicate skin of his forearm. You thought that he, of course, would not make any attempt to touch you in a public place. He pretended to ignore you, but at times would look at you and smile sweetly.

From the first moment, when you had sat on his lap, you had perceived it. Even until now, his body was evidently tense because of the heated session in the studio. You needed to see more of that transformation, the change from a tender Jaebeom that made you laugh with absurd jokes, to another stealthy Jaebeom that prey on you between dark eyes. But you wanted to provoke him a little more. Probably he was already waiting for you to invite him to your apartment, you thought. You swept the train with your eyes and noticed that the office worker and the college girls had already gotten off. Only you and Jaebeom remained there.

To your apartment, that had been your request, Jaebeom repeated in his head. Did you mean to leave you at the door? Or would you invite him in? He wanted to act like the relaxed man he knew he could be, but could not help getting impatient in this situation. Your hand still stroking his forearm and one of your knees brushing against his, was not helping at all.

When the train came out to street level, you observed the familiar view through the window. The darkness of the night over the streets, the distant buildings, and the colorful neon lights of stores and restaurants. And further, towards the horizon, the full moon, beautiful and brilliant. You pressed lightly on Jaebeom's arm, looked at him, and pointed to the moon.

‘You're not going to turn tonight, are you?’ you joked.

‘Ha-ha. Very smart,’ he said after contemplating the moon.

You both laughed and you buried your face into his warm neck, inhaling his scent. You left a few tender kisses, feeling the vibration of his laughter. After a few seconds, you looked at him again and whispered into his ear.

‘But seriously… Animals are not allowed in my building.’

Jaebeom looked you.

‘How old are you? Don’t you think you're old enough to believe in tales?’ he said mockingly.

‘But I'm flirting with you! Why would you ruin it?’ you yelled, smacking his leg gently.

Jaebeom laughed loudly and put his arm around your shoulders, taking you into his embrace.

‘Then I guess I’ll leave you at the door’ he said following your game.

‘But I want you to come… inside my apartment’ you said quietly.

Jaebeom brushed your hair with his nose, closing his eyes and absorbing your essence as if he had never done it before. You were inviting him in, and he could not hide a smile. He approached his lips to your ear and played with your lobe, biting delicately, and running his tongue through the sensitive place. He brought his free hand to your knee, and massaged the inside of your thigh under your skirt.

Then, he abruptly left you and stood up. He watched you with dark eyes.

‘Isn’t this your stop?’

The train had stopped. You looked out the window and read the name of your station on the platform wall. You laughed at the new interruption and stood up too.

‘Let’s go’ you said, pulling Jaebeom's arm close and entwining it with yours.

You got out of the train and walked through the platform without saying a word. As you went out to the street, the night dew threatened to touch and cool your bodies, but it was imperceptible for both of you. Then, you strolled through your neighborhood, through your quiet street with the full moon in front like a compass pointing north in the dark sky. You walked together, spellbound. Silently, into your building.