#non sparking socket set

[gingerlurk]

Lovers' Crest | Chapter 9: The Save

Din Djarin x f!Reader

Masterlist

Summary: How to save you… Din Djarin has one hope.

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), canon-typical violence, eventual smut/filth, post season 3, Our Reader really Goes Through It this chapter (sorry). CWs for: blood, gore, injuries, being imprisoned, gross male characters, and unconsciousness, and a level of violence beyond canon.

A/N: Thank you for reading and I promise some lovely, tender stuff is on its way.

--

The first thing you sense on coming to is the sensation that your shoulder is being ripped from its socket. The next is the way it and your other arm are wrenched behind you, bound together. Cold metal bites into your back and your head, which throbs.

Opening your eyes, you swallow down a hysterical panic.

The cell is long and narrow. You’re chained on a longer side on which, as you glance left and right, more than a dozen bindings for beings of all sizes line the wall. The opposite wall is mere feet in front of you, also lined with restraints. Cables dangle from the ceiling and spark dangerously close to puddles of water across the floor. You can’t see a door and when you look up, there’s just a metal grate lining the ceiling. 

You sit shivering for a while before some degree of your wits return. 

You’re alone in here, which you take as a small mercy. You edge your feet back, trying to keep them away from the sodden sections of floor. You push and lurch until you can stand upright. The movement rips at your shoulder and you have to fight back the urge to start sobbing.

Gingerly, you test how tight your bindings are and find you’re able to flex your wrists back and forth, feeling the tension loosen just a little. Hmmm, if you rotate the left counter-clockwise against the right, it’ll— but even that sends jolts of agony rippling up your arms. You clench your teeth, wincing through the pain. For some reason, your instincts are telling you that it’s a good idea to stay quiet.

Not a lot of options. Just try something.

You remember an old fighting teacher you had back ho— back at the Estate. He claimed he could block pain receptors by meditating. Seemed wild to you, but he’d taught you the basics and maybe if you try it you can twist out of these restraints. What you’ll do after that, you’ll think about then. You’re just casting back to those lessons, digging into the recesses of memory, when your mind is whited out by a momentary vision so indescribable and impossible, you let out a cry of astonishment, a gasp of shock.

In an instant, it’s gone. 

Gods, was that? Are they--?

The cell comes back into focus and a shadow falls across you from above.

‘Ah, she’s awake,’ a voice overhead. ‘Good, good. Hello there.’

It’s a soft and lilting voice, but sickly. 

‘She’s a pretty one, my,’ he speaks, apparently to someone else. 

Still short of breath, reeling from what you think you just saw, you tip your head up to try to see your imprisoner. A beady set of eyes is above you, glaring down. They sit in a round face, rimmed with horns and sporting a toothy sneer that crawls across your nervous system. 

‘Who knew such a pretty thing could do so much damage to my little traction systems, hmmm?’

You’re so overwhelmed by pain and fear, it takes several moments for what he’s saying to sink in. Oh, fuck?

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he questions. Through the blood rushing in your ears, you hear boots shuffling on the other side of the wall you’re chained to. ‘No way that crazy bounty hunter would have been able to crack my codes.’

The eyes disappear from above the grate and for a few moments there’s only thuds and echoes reverberating around your prison.

Then, the whole room slides sideways and you’re nauseated with disorientation. It’s when your limbs scream in protest that you realise you’re what’s moving. The panel you’re chained against has spun 180 to present your shuddering figure to the gathered company.

‘And now I get to crack you,’ Cephlate says, a twisted face of fury boring into you.

Somehow this room is even more terrifying than what’s now behind you. Because that’s definitely a carbon freeze unit taking up the bulk of the space. The beady eyed warlord and three goons stand between you and it.

You utter the first thing that comes to you, an exclamation of disbelief, ‘How--?’

He steps forward and backhands you.

‘Tsk, naïve girl,’ he intones. ‘I own this treasury, you know? I own this fucking sector. And I own that upstart ex of yours. He doesn’t know, of course. But how do you think he acquired something so valuable as that ship holo? How do you think he learned of the significance of that beskar on board? And came to be in the cantina that day?’

He leans back and lifts a fleshy brow at you in an ‘it was all me’ type of expression.

‘Just pieces on a dejarik board,’ he sighs. ‘I was after that Mando of yours, of course. The New Republic makes most space too hot for me nowadays, so I couldn’t go to him. So why not just make him come to me?’ 

He claps his palms together. ‘It’s sad those idiots let him escape, but… Do you think he’ll come back for you? I sure hope so. Although…’ his eyes rake over you, ‘maybe not for a little while, hm?’

He steps close and raises a hand again. But this time he takes your chin and gently tilts you side to side, appraising.

You know what comes next. They always try it.

He leans in close, dry lips brushing your ear, and speaks.

He’s only a few words in when something inside you roars to life.

Feeling a wild fury you don’t know or understand, in that moment you use the only means of fight you have. You lean forward, bare your teeth, and sink them as hard as you can into the soft flesh of his exposed neck. Your jaw strains and everything hurts – but you’re surging, raging, burning up. Skin gives way and hot, pulsing liquid gushes into your mouth.

He shrieks and pulls away. You hold on to what’s gripped in your teeth and the sounds of it send you manic. Blood sprays your unhinged face as you spit and snarl.

He paws a hand to his ruined neck.

‘Fuck this little animal,’ he spits. ‘Fine! I’ll deal with her later.’ He whirls from you, stumbling away. He waves a hand behind him, ‘Throw her in the freeze, boys.’

Six hands drag at you. The binds on your arms give way and your dislocated shoulder swings wildly about. You finally scream, unable to bear the excruciating sensations wracking your body any longer. It’s met with laughter and the feeling of being lifted whole into the air.

You’re not thinking at all, mind blank with pain and terror, but your body still has its instincts and muscle memory. So it tries to fight, twisting and thrashing against what holds you. You might land a kick somewhere significant because you hear an angry grunt, then a curse, then a brand new and overwhelming pain in your side.

Head lolling, you look down to catch the blade leaving your belly, a gush of blood pouring onto the floor.

That’s the last thing you see. You’re losing consciousness, giving up, when you feel yourself dumped into a – is this a coffin? Then a hiss and a burning ice crawls up your limbs. Then you feel nothing.

--

The Crest coasts through an inky black. Din, with Grogu now in his lap, kills the engine and works to keep his voice calm.

‘Grogu,’ he says. The child looks over his ear at him. ‘You know how you, how you learned to sense me? Find me in the essence, or energy, or whatever?’

‘Heh,’ the kid says, already looking at the charts.

‘Yes, exactly. You get it.’ Din lets himself feel hope for the first time since he saw you kick that pod hatch closed from the wrong side. 

‘Can you reach out, out there,’ a glance to the black, ‘and find her? Tell me where she is? She’s on a ship. These are the last coordinates I have of it.’ He taps the screen.

Grogu, to his stunning credit, hums shyly but moves straight into a meditative stance. Din’s chest swells.

‘That’s it, kid. Find her for me.’

The little arms raise and begin to tremor, hovering back and forth over a presence Din can’t sense or comprehend. He just waits, and trusts. He knows this power is deeply special, and that Grogu can do things beyond explanation.

The child grunts with effort. In an instinctive move, not even sure if it would help, Din puts his hands on the little, quivering figure, trying to offer support.

After an agonisingly long moment, Grogu pops his eyes open and hops onto the console, pointing a clawed finger at the spot his father had shown him and trailing it along the screen, then giving it an urgent tap. Din leans in and starts thumbing at switches and palming levers.

‘I knew you could do it, buddy,’ he says as he pulls the child back into his lap. ‘Let’s go get her.’

Pulling the same manoeuvre to park the Crest is surprisingly straightforward. Din has total faith that the cloaking drive you’d installed after the run-in on Cephlate’s moon will hold up. Still, he leaves Grogu securely in his space, the child groggy and fatigued from such a stunning use of his powers.

Once dropped into the upper-level corridors, Din orders R5 to ready the canon protocols he’s queued. ‘Wait for my mark,’ he commands. 

Instead of taking the carefully plotted path to avoid detection, Din charges into the first unit he comes across. Six are dead within minutes and the last guard flails on his stomach as Din leans a knee in his back and a vibroblade at his ear.

It’s not long before the sap is singing, ‘the prison! Eight deck! The boss he-! She’ll be in carbonite by now! Please don’t-- ’ He slams the guy’s head into the floor and surges forwards, sprinting and checking the map at the same time, finding the location.

As he nears the section of cells, he tells R5 to disengage locks and move the Crest into position. He rounds a bend, planting detonators on the walls to activate on his way back out.

Horror floods his system as he takes in the prison section. Where the fuck are you?

He has to dispatch of only one set of personnel barring his way as he clocks one door window after another. When he spots the unit, he whole bodily kicks the door aside and marches to the control panel.

The blocks of carbonite rotate one after the other until you come into view. Relief and rage tear at Din’s insides as he takes you in. Your hands seem to be pressed into your left side, elbows locked to your ribcage. Your face is a rictus of pain, but your eyes are closed – that’s a small mercy.

He checks the read-out – you’ve been in there only a few hours. Only. Din’s stomach is roiling. He thumps the release pan.

The machine disengages your frame and the room fills with a wretched vapour, obscuring his vision of you for a moment, but he holds his arms out ready. When the process ends, your knees buckle and you collapse into Din’s embrace, limp and unresponsive. He can see your heart beating though and, as you start to shake violently, he can reassure himself you are in fact alive.

But as he lays you down to check your condition, he gives a shout of alarm. 

Blood is everywhere.

He focuses on the gash at your side and tries not to think about the dried blood covering your face. It doesn’t seem like you’re injured there and the implications of that makes Din’s blood run cold.

Throwing the medical pack off his shoulder, he tears through the contents for a sterile patch, pushing the shredded hole in your tunic aside to lay the dressing as best he can over the wound. It hisses and puckers the surrounding skin as it creates a pressurised seal to staunch the flow.

That’ll have to do for now. He looks over the rest of you. Your left shoulder is sitting low and outside the joint and he rechecks your face for any injuries. Your jaw may be bruised, and the taser’s burn mark is bright and blistered, but he’s confident you’re not bleeding anywhere else.

Time to move.

‘R5,’ he growls. ‘Begin the barrage.’

The treasury shudders as the Crest’s thermal railguns lay into the landing bay where Cephlate’s ship is docked. R5 will empty the energy cells then break vicinity and jump. Distraction and revenge, for now.

With your injured shoulder tucked into his chest and an arm looped under your knees, both blasters pointed in front of him, Din swears on his creed and clan that every fucker he crosses paths with is going to meet a swift end.

The escape vessel settles on the grass and gives a final grinding whir as the landing lock engages. A huge boot kicks the hatch door open, bashing it into the side. The Mandalorian lunges from the pod with your unconscious form in his arms. He strides to his ship, barking at R5 to drop the doors.

Once he has you laid out on the cabin’s low bed, he pulls every med pack to hand from the rack.

He looks you over to take stock of each hurt. The plaster seal is working on your stab wound, no blood leaking out or sign of infection. Nothing for the burn on your neck but salve and time.

Shoulder first then.

Din sets to work.

--

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[atplblog]

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[fencefacts1]

How to Test Electric Fence Energizers: A Detailed Guide

As someone who has worked with electric fences for years, I know that the energizer, or fence charger, is the heart of your electric fence system. It’s crucial to regularly check your fence charger, especially if you’re experiencing issues with fence voltage.

In this guide, I’ll walk you through how to test an electric fence energizer using simple tools, based on my own experiences.

Read Detailed Guide on: https://fencefacts.com/test-electric-fence-energizer/

How Does an Electric Fence Energizer Work?

A fence energizer works by generating a high voltage, low amperage pulse, similar to an automotive ignition system. When current enters the energizer coil, it creates a magnetic field, producing a high voltage (5KV to 12KV) due to electromagnetic induction. However, exposure to moisture and rain can cause rust and lead to poor performance.

To protect your energizer, install it under a cover on a wall away from flammable materials, and where children and animals can’t reach it. Regularly inspect the wiring and circuits for loose connections, and use rust cleaner to keep it in good condition.

Tools Needed to Test an Electric Fence Energizer:

Screwdriver

Electric fence tester

A digital electric tester

Step 1: Safety Measures

Before testing, wear insulated gloves and shoes. An electric fence charger inputs 120 or 240 V AC and outputs high voltage (5–10KV), which can be unpleasant to experience.

Step 2: Test with a Screwdriver

Turn on the fence charger.

Attach the screwdriver’s metal part to the ground terminal.

Move it near the live terminal.

If the energizer is working, you’ll see a spark jump from the live terminal to the screwdriver, indicating a current pulse.

Step 3: Test with an Electric Fence Tester

Attach the tester’s metal pin to the live terminal.

Connect the black probe to the ground terminal.

Read the voltage on the tester. It should be above 5KV.

A good fence energizer will show a strong voltage reading. If the voltage is significantly lower than expected, the energizer might be faulty.

Step 4: Test the Output Voltage with a Multimeter

Although not recommended for precise readings due to the pulsing nature of the energizer, a multimeter can still provide a rough idea.

Set the multimeter to the AC voltage (V〜) at a higher range.

Insert the red probe into the VmAΩ port and the black probe into the COM port.

Connect the red probe to the live terminal and the black probe to the ground terminal. A functioning energizer should show between 5–12KV. If the reading is low, there might be an issue.

Step 5: Test the Amperage with a Multimeter

Set the multimeter to AC amps (A〜) in the milliamps range.

Connect the probes as before: black to ground and red to the live terminal.

An electric fence should output very low amperage (0–500 milliamps). Higher amperage could be dangerous.

Testing a Solar Fence Charger

Solar fence chargers store energy in a battery. Here’s how to test one:

Unscrew the plate on your solar energizer to access the battery.

Unplug the battery wires and fully recharge the battery.

Use a digital tester to check the battery voltage. A 12V battery should read around 12–12.6V.

Attach the battery to the energizer and turn it on. If you hear clicking, the battery was the issue.

If the problem persists, inspect for improper ground connections or shorted wires. Clean any corrosion with a rust spray like WD-40.

Frequently Asked Questions

1. Why is my electric fence clicking but not working?

Check the output voltage. Disconnect the wires, turn on the charger, and measure the voltage at the terminals. If it’s low, the charger is faulty.

2. How to test an electric fence without a tester?

You can use a piece of grass, a screwdriver, a tester screwdriver, a non-contact voltage tester, a compass, a tube light, or a light socket.

3. How to connect an electric fence to an energizer?

Connect the ground terminal to the fence rod and the live terminal to the fence wires using galvanized wires and clamps to prevent rust.

Conclusion

Testing your electric fence energizer is essential for maintaining a functional fence system. Follow these steps to ensure your energizer is working properly. If you have any questions or need further assistance, feel free to ask in the comments below.

[mini-bike-parts]

Upgrading to a Billet Flywheel for Predator 212 Non-Hemi: Benefits and Installation

When it comes to enhancing the performance and safety of your Predator 212 non-hemi engine, upgrading to a billet flywheel is a crucial modification. Billet flywheels are crafted from a single piece of high-grade aluminum, offering superior strength, improved performance, and increased safety compared to stock flywheels. This article explores the benefits of using a billet flywheel for Predator 212 non hemi engine and provides essential tips for installation.

Key Benefits of a Billet Flywheel for Predator 212 Non-Hemi

Enhanced Engine Performance

One of the primary advantages of a billet flywheel is its impact on engine performance. Billet flywheels are significantly lighter than their cast counterparts, which reduces rotational mass. This reduction allows the engine to rev faster and deliver more responsive acceleration. For performance enthusiasts, this means quicker throttle response and improved overall engine efficiency.

Increased Durability and Strength

Billet flywheels are known for their exceptional durability. The manufacturing process involves precision machining from a solid block of aluminum, resulting in a flywheel that can withstand higher stress and RPMs without deforming or cracking. This strength is particularly beneficial for high-performance applications where the engine is subjected to extreme conditions.

Improved Safety

Safety is a paramount concern when upgrading engine components, and billet flywheels excel in this area. Stock cast flywheels can fail under high stress, potentially causing catastrophic damage to the engine and posing a risk to the operator. Billet flywheels, with their superior strength and resistance to failure, provide a safer alternative for high-RPM and high-stress environments.

Better Heat Dissipation

The aluminum construction of billet flywheels also aids in better heat dissipation compared to cast iron flywheels. This improved thermal management helps maintain optimal engine temperatures, reducing the risk of overheating and prolonging the life of the engine components. Installation Tips for a Billet Flywheel on Predator 212 Non-Hemi

Gather Necessary Tools and Materials

Before starting the installation, ensure you have all the required tools and materials. This includes a torque wrench, socket set, flywheel puller, and the new billet flywheel. Having everything on hand will streamline the process and reduce the risk of errors.

Prepare the Engine

Begin by disconnecting the spark plug wire to prevent accidental starting. Next, drain the oil from the engine to avoid any spills during the installation. Place the engine on a stable work surface where you have ample room to maneuver.

Remove the Stock Flywheel

Using a socket set, remove the nut securing the stock flywheel. Once the nut is removed, use a flywheel puller to carefully detach the flywheel from the crankshaft. Be cautious during this step to avoid damaging the crankshaft or other components.

Install the Billet Flywheel

Position the billet flywheel onto the crankshaft, ensuring it is seated correctly. Secure it in place with the provided nut, and use a torque wrench to tighten the nut to the manufacturer’s specified torque setting. Proper torque is crucial to ensure the flywheel functions correctly and safely.

Reassemble the Engine

Once the billet flywheel is installed, reassemble any parts you removed during the process, such as the engine cover and spark plug wire. Refill the engine with oil, if necessary, and perform a final check to ensure everything is properly secured and in place.

Test the Engine

After completing the installation, start the engine and perform a few test runs to verify that the flywheel is functioning correctly. Pay attention to any unusual noises or vibrations, which could indicate an issue with the installation.

[raahgroupinc123]

Enhancing Industrial Operations with RAAH International's Mechanical Tools 

Industrial operations rely heavily on the availability of high-quality mechanical tools and hardware to ensure efficiency, safety, and precision. RAAH International offers a comprehensive range of mechanical tools designed to meet the diverse needs of various industries. From hand tools and power tools to personal protective equipment and explosion-proof tools, RAAH International provides solutions that enhance productivity and safety in industrial settings. 

Key Offerings 

Hand Tools & Hardware: RAAH International's hand tools include fixed and variable opening wrenches, ratchets, sockets, torque control tools, screwdrivers, pliers, and hammers. These tools are essential for day-to-day operations in maintenance, repair, and assembly tasks. 

Power Tools: Power tools such as drills, saws, and grinders are available to streamline more intensive tasks, offering precision and reducing manual effort. 

Personal Protective Equipment (PPE): Ensuring worker safety, RAAH International offers a range of PPE including gloves, helmets, eye protection, and more. This equipment is crucial for protecting workers from potential hazards. 

Explosion-Proof Tools: For industries operating in hazardous environments, explosion-proof tools are vital. These tools are designed to prevent sparks and are safe to use in volatile atmospheres, reducing the risk of accidents. 

Specialty Tools: RAAH International also provides specialty tools tailored for specific applications, such as non-sparking tools for use in flammable environments and insulated tools for electrical work. 

Benefits of Choosing RAAH International 

Quality and Durability: Tools from RAAH International are built to last, withstanding the rigors of industrial use. 

Wide Range of Products: The extensive product range ensures that you can find the right tool for any job. 

Safety Compliance: All tools and equipment adhere to stringent safety standards, ensuring compliance and protecting workers. 

Applications 

RAAH International’s tools are used across various sectors including: 

Manufacturing: Essential for maintaining machinery, assembling products, and ensuring smooth production processes. 

Construction: Vital for building infrastructure, performing installations, and conducting repairs. 

Oil and Gas: Specialized tools for handling equipment in volatile environments, ensuring safety and efficiency. 

Conclusion 

For industries looking to enhance their operational capabilities, RAAH International provides a comprehensive selection of mechanical tools and hardware. By investing in high-quality tools, companies can improve productivity, ensure worker safety, and maintain the integrity of their operations. 

To explore the full range of mechanical tools and hardware offered by RAAH International, visit their Mechanical Tools & Hardware page. 

[proluxint]

Comparative analysis: conventional flame retardant lamps system and non-explosive LED lighting

In today's era of technological progress, lighting systems have undergone significant transformations. Traditional lighting systems are being replaced by more energy-efficient and safer alternatives that utilize LED light sources. This blog provides a comprehensive comparison between conventional flameproof lighting systems and advanced explosion-proof LED lights in terms of energy efficiency, safety, cost-effectiveness, durability, environmental impact, and applications.

Exploring Conventional Flameproof Lighting Systems Conventional flameproof lighting systems rely on inefficient bulbs such as incandescent, fluorescent, and high-intensity discharge lamps (e.g., sodium vapor or mercury vapor). These systems consume excessive energy, generate heat, and have short lifespans. Their fragile construction and heat emissions pose safety risks in flammable environments. Additionally, they require ballasts for certain lamps, resulting in longer start-up times and unsuitability for frequent on-off cycles. Flameproof enclosures for these systems are bulky and heavy, requiring robust support and secondary retention systems.

Introduction to Explosion-Proof LED Lighting Explosion-proof LED lights represent a revolutionary lighting solution specifically designed for hazardous environments. They offer notable advantages, including low energy consumption, reduced heat generation, and an extended lifespan. LED lights are renowned for their durability and reliability, enduring even the harshest conditions.

Energy Efficiency Comparison Explosion-proof LED lights surpass conventional lighting systems in terms of energy efficiency. They consume less energy while providing equal or superior brightness. The utilization of advanced LED chips in these fixtures makes them over 60% more energy-efficient than traditional lighting. Switching to LED lights results in significant energy savings, reduced operational costs, and a smaller carbon footprint.

Safety Comparison Explosion-proof LED lights prioritize safety in hazardous environments by combining intrinsic safety, encapsulation, and flameproof protection. These advanced fixtures are compact, lightweight, and cost-effective, featuring limited or no sparking components and improved air ventilation options. LED drivers replace conventional ballasts, allowing for frequent on-off cycles and lower failure rates. Additionally, LED lights reduce the risk of breakage, minimizing accidents caused by shattered glass.

Durability and Lifespan Comparison Explosion-proof LED lights excel in durability and lifespan, as they are designed to withstand harsh conditions. In contrast, conventional lighting systems are more prone to damage and degradation, necessitating frequent replacements and maintenance.

Application Comparison Explosion-proof LED lights are particularly suitable for hazardous industries, including oil and gas, mining, manufacturing, and marine sectors. Their durability, safety features, and energy efficiency make them an ideal choice for environments with flammable gases, vapors, or dust. Conventional lighting systems lack the necessary safety measures for high-risk settings.

Conclusion Explosion-proof LED lighting systems provide energy efficiency, safety features, durability, and a reduced environmental impact compared to conventional lighting systems. Prolux International LLC, a leading supplier of explosion-proof lights in the UAE, offers high-quality products for hazardous areas, including explosion-proof cable glands, flame-resistant cables, junction boxes, control panels, isolators, plugs, and sockets. These products meet stringent requirements and hold ATEX/IECEx certifications. Partnering with Prolux can enhance lighting infrastructure and create a safe work environment.

[nonsparkingtools]

Non Sparking Socket Set

Non Sparking Socket Set

Used of non Sparking Socket of.

As per norms and safety audits prescribed by Oil Industry Safety Directorate (OISD), under the aegis of Ministry of Petroleum and Natural Gas, Government of India, all industries using Petroleum , LPG, PNG, LNG, other Gas, other inflammable chemicals and materials, must use non sparking Sledge hammers and tools.

Non Sparking Socket No.105 C = 3 / 4”

Number

[witchofthesouls]

Hello! I think you’re requests are open? Can you do a continuation of the ‘space parasite’, please? I love all the little details you put into your writings-thank you!

When your handler back on Earth said to keep close to Megatron, you highly doubt this is what they meant. And you severely doubt that anyone would believe that you're straddling the ex-warlord to just physically (in a non-romantic, very nonsexual way) touch his spark and not getting reamed by the mech.

Hell, if someone had told you that your future includes space adventures, a metal titan of a mad scientist turning you into a giant to negotiate with other titans, and straddling said warlord that had a face-heel-turn to pet his soul, you would call the local police on the nutcase.

This is something to blame on alcohol, like stupid amounts of alcohol with a drug-induced haze. The amount that leaves a person nursing a week-long hangover that no cure can touch. But you’re stone cold sober because no way you’re doing this shitfaced and Megatron had his fuel intake moderation chip permanently switched on a long time ago so the poor bastard can’t get drunk or buzzed. At all.

Without any guiding hand via Swerve's Happy Hour, you're back in your medical maintenance gear and leaning over the very first patient you had operated on. Right in a private, unused habsuite since both of you agreed that going to each other’s personal rooms would be… too much.

Neither you or him were in a talkative mood, so you had turned on the holovid to fill the silence. Megatron did quirk a brow-plate before settling on the berth in a lazy recline.

It’s surprising to know how quiet Megatron is in the berth. Content at letting you set the pace. Just sighing at the light touches, keeping so still that you’re willing to bet he had locked his joints.

You brush carefully over the opening sparkcasing, your hands cast shadows from the light as energy spirals over your fingertips. The green spark bright and intense, visor dimming so your eyes won’t burn out of their sockets. Tendrils lick your palms eagerly, twining around fingers and wrists as if it remembers you.

Slow and methodical, you trail around the outermost ring of Megatron’s spark, mapping the inside of his sparkcasing. Smooth metal and divots between electric heat of green energy. You ignore the burning heat of red optics, how his frame is heating up in slow increments, just focus on how that spark flickers and flares as it tries to eat your hands. As if it’s trying to immediately push you into its core without any preparation.

You bite your lip, ignoring how his optics jumps to your mouth, ignoring the part of your curiosity that wants to know what will happen. It’s almost agonizingly slow making your way inwards, hands stilling to breathe through the oversensitive nervecircuits, willing the tendrils to dissipate over buzzing connective sensors.

You ignore the warning flash at the corner of the visor, dismissing it since you’re not here due to a medical emergency to pry out a spark. Just feeling it. Fingertips brush over the corona of a green star and it bursts out in a flash of blinding white, the heat engulfing your hands like a sudden plunge in a sink of hot water that leaves your nerves shot, spine electrified, and hair on edge with your legs clamped tight on him. It also kills your visor, leaving you in the dark. Megatron lets out a deep sigh, his own frame hot and vents steaming like a sauna. Sweat collects across the back of your neck as you breathe through a numbed mouth tingling with charge, both hands gripping a miniature star that flutters and tunes into your own racing heartbeat.

You honestly don’t want to let go.

[whatanoof]

For the kisses prompt - 4, with Cal and the reader?

"An accidental brush of lips followed by a pause and going back for another, on purpose."

You were a mechanic on Bracca for years until a series of freak accidents landed you on the Mantis. When you joined the crew, Greez helpfully pointed out that if you know how to take ships apart, you also know how to put them back together. And so you became the unofficial mechanic of the crew, patching the ship up in between missions. You can’t go for a week without a new malfunction, so every problem prompts you to dust your hands off and get to work without complaint. But sometimes, they inconvenience you. Just a little. 

Such as when you’re rudely awoken from peaceful sleep by flashing red lights and blaring alarms that cut through the peaceful quiet of hyperspace. With a groan, you roll out of bed and head to the front of the ship. 

“Greez, what’s the lightshow for?” You yawn, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you stumble into the cockpit.

“The air system is failing, kid. I’m rerouting air from all non-essential areas and sealing them off, but I need you to get down there and figure out what’s wrong. We don’t have long.” He sounds panicked, and Greez normally flies pretty straight under stress.

That wakes you up. It would be terribly ironic to have survived everything, only for the quest to end in silent suffocation in space. Your toolbag is lying just inside the door of the cockpit, and you snatch it up. “I’m on my way.”

There’s no time to waste as you rush to the electrical room.  The overhead fluorescents are shut off in favor of the red alarm lights, sending fantastical shadows through the room as the Mantis communicates the malfunction. Thousands of flickering lights greet you when you walk through the door, most of them vary shades of white, blue, and green. The column containing the air regulatory system is lit in glaring red. 

You connect your diagnostic tablet to the port and access the settings. You have to squeeze yourself into the gap between the columns. It’s barely wide enough to fit your body in there, and you vaguely wonder in the back of your mind how you're going to get out. But that's a problem for later as you scan your tablet. The battery socket is damaged, and you’ll have to find a way to rewire the power source to reboot the air filtration system. 

It’s an easy enough fix considering the weight of the consequences that could slam down over your heads if you leave the issue be. You yank open the port for the backup lighting and remove the weaker battery. The access panel opens with a twist of your screwdriver, and you set to rewire the air system so that it draws its energy from the new power port. It takes both of your hands to split and reconnect wiring, and you’re running out of time. Your fingers can’t move fast enough.

 You curse as the system showers sparks over your shoulders, but you’re almost there, you just need to snap the battery back into place while holding the wires in place. You need another pair of hands. But you can’t rely on the others, Maker only knows where they are. So all you can do is grit your teeth and force your hands to move as fast as possible, knowing that it’s not going to be enough. 

“What can I do?” And then Cal’s there, where did he come from? Whatever, it doesn’t matter. 

You jerk your chin at the battery, “Put that into the backup lighting battery port. Hurry!”

The air unit is past your body, but you try to raise yourself up as much as possible so that he can gain access. He kneels in front of you, his body winding behind yours to fit into the small gap. Normally, you would be anxious and fidgety at how close his body is to yours. There isn’t room for him to do anything except stand where you are in the wider part of the gap and strain his upper body almost horizontally to the ground to reach his target. He’s so close that you can feel his legs tangle with yours and how his body presses to yours as he stretches to reach the filter slot. 

“Shit!” Something clatters to the metal floor, and you try to turn your head to see what happened. Adrenaline is pouring through your veins, and you curse yourself as your hands start to shake while you wind the wires together. Almost there…

You rip the electrical tape off with your teeth and bind it around the spliced wires, “D-uh-n!” The word is muffled around the roll of tape in your mouth, but the victory is clear nonetheless. 

“Got it.” Something clicks back where Cal’s head is and the sirens cease almost immediately. The red emergency lights extinguish, plunging you into complete dark before the normal lighting returns. 

Relief rushes through you, and your head sags forward against the wiring board. We did it. Cal whoops, and you grin before lifting your head to the cold steel ceiling and letting out a whoop of your own. Cal yells again and you yell again, the screams of relief and giddy elation echoing off the metal walls. The sound waves rebound on themselves, crescendoing in your ears until you’re sure that it’s going to fill your head to the brim and overflow past your ears into the deepest part of your being. 

Cal straightens with a grunt, and your breath catches in your chest when you realize that he’s right in front of you, his lips less than an inch from yours. You can feel your chest heaving with the adrenaline rush, bare millimeters away from his. Without thinking, you lean forward that last inch and brush your lips against his. It’s as if a spark flashes between you. He gasps and you pull away. 

For a long moment, you’re staring at each other like you’ve never met. 

Shit, was that an accident? What if it’s never the same betwee--

Cal doesn’t let you overthink when his hands fly up to your face and he pulls you back into a much longer kiss. Your lips move against his clumsily, and your hands tangle in his shock of red bedhead. His elbow clangs against metal just as your knee contacts the wall painfully, and you break apart with a gasped laugh, instantly reminded of your current predicament. 

“Let’s get out of here?” His mouth lifts in a boyish smirk that reminds you of his true age.

You smile, “Okay.” It’s easy enough to scoot out of the gap, but it’s made a lot harder by the fact that Cal is suddenly suspiciously close to you at every movement. You go to stand, and Cal’s hands grab at your sleep shirt.

“Cal!” He chuckles as he pulls you into his lap on the floor.

“Just one more.” His nose bumps against yours, and your cheeks warm. His eyes are so pretty, and you let yours slide shut as his lips brush against yours once again.

“Holy karking stars, get a room!” The sudden exclamation bursts you and Cal apart like a spring loaded action. Greez is standing in the doorway, one pair of hands clamped over his eyes. “I’m going to bleach my eyes now.” He walks out, leaving you and Cal standing on opposite sides of the room.

You glance at the empty doorway, then back at Cal. “Wanna take his advice?”

[fortune-fool02]

Painting in His Mind

Robert E.O Speedwagon x female reader

Requested by: anonymous 

A creepy Lovecraftian story of a character of your choice featuring a slow transformation into a non human or half human being and the reader trying to help them cope.

Lovecraftian AU

I love this idea! Throwing out all cuteness and fluff, we are losing sanity like adults! This is a bit long. Please enjoy!

There was only so much that the human mind could comprehend. Only some beliefs that could allow them to live happy, simple lives; oblivious to truths beyond their capability of understanding. Things impossible outside of stories and myths. Things that melted reality and belief together into one absurd painting of mass dark greens. 

The painting was something that was so strange and abstract that it captivated Speedwagon from the moment he laid eyes on it. He had found it during a robbery of some abandoned mansion that had been left to rot after the owners had died in an accident. Carriage rode right off the cliff and down into the rocks below from what he heard. No one survived and they barely found enough to bury. A collection of things had already been taken by anyone who could get their hands on it and yet the paintings were left untouched. 

Speedwagon had gone in one night, searching for something to take when he stumbled upon the cloth covered canvases, tucked away in the studio that was once a supply room or storage room. Curious, he had removed a sheet and saw the painting. 

Dark shadows merging with the blackness behind it, distorting and shifting into the light to be seen. Gaping maws inside gaping maws, lines of white stained red, both fresh and dried. Something stirring deep within him, a primal sense of fear that had never been felt before, not when he was held at gunpoint nor when he was in inches of his life. Hollow orbs blacker than the ocean’s darkness with twisting shapes and empty sockets staring out into his coffee brown eyes, piercing pass them and worming their way into his mind like a parasitic worm feasting of a fresh, ripe host. Something silently cried in his mind, as if the painting itself was speaking through a veil of water, muffled and distorted but there. Whispers, whining and whimpering, aching to be heard by ears not for them. 

He did not know why but he had to take that painting back home with him. He wanted it. He had to have it. The need and hunger for money was all but forgotten to Speedwagon when he returned to his home and practically stripped down an entire wall in his room for that painting. It didn’t deserve a simple spot, no, it deserved the entire wall. Shelves ripped from their place and cast aside, forgotten, replaced. All in favour of that painting. 

Every day, Speedwagon sat and admired the painting. Tracing his fingers over every brush streak, every melt of the colours, over the maw and teeth. Something deep within him was drawn to this painting, a tugging in his core like a string, no, not a string, stronger. A thread, a rope, a chain. A chain to a boulder dropped in the ocean, pulling him down with it. Sometimes, he could hear the whispering, soft singing below water; deep in his mind, faint but there, wanting to be heard, to be louder. He wanted to hear it. 

His friends came by to check on him and he reassured them he was fine. His friends swallowed his answers after some convincing and left him be but [Name] was kinder than that, more concerned, and thus remained with him. Wanting to make sure he really was alright. She was always so kind in his eyes, always so sweet and generous, thinking of those before herself. That was why he showed her the painting. He had expected her to be awestruck by it but, instead, she was unsettled by it, she even took some steps away from it. 

Then again, they did have different tastes in preferences and art so that could just be it. But her face, she looked so concerned for him. She even questioned him as to why he had such a thing. He told her how he felt about the painting, how he found it oddly captivating. 

“Robert, you have never once been interested in something like this style before. It’s not right at all, it’s....unsettling.” the [Hair colour] woman told him, her eyes glowing with honesty and concern for him. Speedwagon sighed at those eyes, such beautiful eyes. Sighing, he told her everything. The odd dreams that plagued his nights since he got the painting, the images of something reaching out of the inky blackness to him, dragging him down deeper into the darkness. His lungs filled with water whenever he tried to scream or call out in these dreams. Her expression painted into many different layers of concern for him and tried to think of some way to help him. 

No matter what advice he took, Speedwagon could not shake this painting. Couldn’t shake the pull he felt towards it. His dreams would spill past his eyes and into his vision, seeing the twisted things crawl towards him in his own home, no longer bound to his dreams alone anymore. His growing need to be with some kind of water. First starting off as drinking more, and more, until it was no longer enough and the blonde man would lay in the bath for hours. Even after the water had gone cold. [Name] recalled coming to see him one time and finding him trying to strangle himself while trying to call out for help then saying that something had wrapped around his throat, refusing to believe it was his own hand. 

That was when [Name] decided enough was enough. 

The sun had long set when she arrived at Speedwagon’s house unannounced. She knew that this would be foolish but she was doing this for Robert. Her pick-locks soon allowed her entrance to his house and was greeted by a breeze of coldness. It had been a few days since she last saw Speedwagon and, by the looks of his house, whatever has happened has only gotten worse with the thrown about furniture and broken objects. Especially with the lit candles all over the place and drawings. 

Slowly making her way upstairs, [Name] peeked into Speedwagon’s room to see the bedroom in almost perfect condition. Clean, well-kept, well-lit, the only room in such way. In the centre of the room, Speedwagon laid, bowing to the painting and praising it as one would the Holy Spirit or Christ. Robert Speedwagon was not a religious man so this was something unsettling for her to witness. The door creaking caught his attention, making him smile. 

“[Name]. My wonderful darling, please, come in, come in.” His tone sounded so...at peace. Like he was welcoming an old friend in who he hasn’t seen in many years. The second she got a better look at him, she knew something was off. His coffee brown eyes were hazy, glossed over with a bleakness to them, like his mind wasn’t there. 

“Robert? What....What’s going on?” He only smiled more at her words. 

“Nothin’. I’m just enjoyin’ the beauty of it. Can you see it, [Name]?” He asked, motioning to the painting again. Uncertainty flooded her, mixing with the concern for his odd behaviours. The man’s skin looked paler, drained of colour almost, like he was sick and only sparked more concern. 

“Robert, are you feeling well? You look dreadful.” [Name] spoke, taking a step closer to him only to have him smile more. 

“I’m fine. I have never been better.” Refusing to accept his answers anymore, [Name] shook her head, 

“No, you’re not. You’re sick and I’m taking you to a hospital. Now.” She said, reaching to him to lift him up. As cruel as this seemed, she was doing this for his benefit. Robert refused to leave, squirming out of her hold and remaining in place. 

“No! I’m stayin’ here! I need to watch this paintin’! Protect it!” He spat out at her, something he had never done since they knew one another. [Name], infuriated, grabbed a knife from her pocket and went over to the painting, ready to drive the blade through the canvas and destroy the damn thing. That did not sit well with Speedwagon as the man screamed in a rage, tackling her down and striking her across the face. His expression and eyes wild with rage. 

“Don’t you dare touch it! You’re not worthy to touch it! How dare you try to destroy it!” He screamed at her, grabbing her [Hair colour] hair and smacking her head against the floor with force. Her cries of pain and pleas fell on deaf ears as he continued to do this before tightly yanking her head up again and glaring into her [Eye colour] eyes.

“Robert, please! Please, I-I’m sorry!” She cried out, trying to move her hands to protect her head and curl up more, though his iron grip prevented that. 

“Not good enough! Not good enough....” He kept his grip, his hand reaching to the side for something and pulling it back into view. The candle-light glimmered against the blade in his hand. Cold panic flooded through her at the sight of it, squirming more under his grip, 

“No! No, Robert! Please!” Again, her pleas were ignored as he straddled her, holding her in place as he brought the blade higher up. 

“Lä. Lä. Cthulhu fhtagn...” he spoke softly, the words foreign and unknown to her as the blade remained still for a moment. Then brought down. 

“Speedwagon pleas-!”  

[firespirited]

Top photo is the dolls with hard to find skintones who got bodies from the lovely @musicalmeowsandcandiedlemons, second is the dolls who got bodies (some already custom, some futher customized) thanks to @cosmomoore! 

Then there’s the moment I fell hard for Licca-chan and friends and decided to go for it even though I couldn’t find perfect bodies: Maria, Orie-san, Sakura Brunette and Licca teal (not pictured: Sakura blonde from 2019). I blame you all for that.

Then there was the foray into larger dolls with a potential BJD in mind but i’ve decided to stick with playline. Gayle is a mishmash of a doll (yeluoli 1/3 body shrunk and bootlegged, Shibajuku head sans hair or eyes) who somehow lucked into having tons of character, her middle finger is permanently up and she’s pure chaos. She barely holds together. Azul is a dream hinge jointed doll made from wonderwoman 18″ and a Rainbow surprise head that was super backrooted. I don’t have the space or clothes for her but I love her anyway.

Lucking into Star Darlings factory rejects about a year after falling for @dollsahoy‘s Sage led to a rainbow: 3 full reroots, 2 partial, 2 more reroots to go with help and inspiration from @jupiternames. They are from left to right Scarlet, Lavender, Sage, Juniper, Vega, Anisette, Mint, Leona, Libby and not ready yet: Cinnamon in blood red and Annatto in peachy orange.

I paid for most of my doll stuff this year by konmari-ing my Bratz and Monster Highs and working on those I really wanted to keep (expanding my space angelz, creating the punk Sasha I would have loved Bratz to make and rerooting glue headed monsters).

New and not so new dolls that sparked joy were Novi Stars and Rainbow High even as I muddled through figuring out eyes for those odd shaped sockets.

Every single large toy company manged to show their racist arse spectacularly in some form or other this year and distribution to france remains bottom of the barrel or double price. If i’ve managed to convince anyone to fix up a factory reject straight from the workers or pirate shows from behind the monopoly paywalls I’d be well proud (No i’m not over “the vault”). So here’s hoping Freshdolls make it to europe, we get non smirky Moana and Raya dolls and Kida finally gets into the princess line. As for Barbie, there are multiple dolls I would have bought this year if they weren’t grainy: make better choices mattel. As it is I have a dozen more projects on my list to work through on mostly older models so i’m set for a while.

I had to learn that instagram makes me feel like a “have not” when it comes to both the new shinies and the skills so avoid that explore button and tag following. And expand my energies locally and personally when it comes to activism and donation. Same with the news: it’s so out of my league, out of my control: just gotta check in with friends when news that affects them comes up and do whatever little I can to keep my loved ones as safe as possible. I’d love for USA postal customs to start functioning normally but M4A first because as much as I miss trading, I’d love to know my ‘ricain friends are safe more.

Here’s to plastic rainbows and you folks giving me too many cool ideas =p

[crazyasacupcake]

We Go On

Okay so this isn't Haikyu!! (I'm sorry...), but in September I will be taking part in a readathon created by Book Roast on youtube - the Orilium: The Novice Path Readathon. I thought of this scenario while listening to the playlist I had made for this readathon, based on my Earthling character Treya, and I hope that I've written it well. The characters and story are mine, but the world and species (Earthlings, Iltirian, Skaimorn, etc) belong to Book Roast. If anyone else is participating, best of luck on the path!

Warnings: some gore

Word Count: 4124

It’s like there’s a threshold, a moment in time or space which separates the Ruins from everywhere else she’s been so far, even though there is nothing really distinguishing it. Even if there isn’t a visible border – a visible line that says she shouldn’t cross, that she should go around, that she should turn back and go home – she feels it the moment her foot falls onto the land inside the Ruins. The ground is dead, but saying that would imply that it was ever alive in the first place; it’s grey and covered in a crust of ash, despite there being no volcano or sources of fire anywhere in the nearby area.

Her skin prickles, and not for the first time on this quest does she think about going back, back to the Inn, back to Cabbage, back to Aela – back to clearing tables and only practicing her element when she’s hidden by the blanket of night. This time, it’s not a longing pang that is telling her to forget the quest. It’s desperate, animalistic, with screaming alarms echoing over and over inside her head telling her to turn around and forget everything you saw here. It’s as if her entire body, her entire subconscious is on alert ever since that first footfall into the Ruins, it’s like she’s seeing herself from somewhere else, but she knows that’s not possible. She squeezes her eyes shut, holding them closed so tightly she sees starts swirling around the blackness, and when she opens them everything is normal again.

You need to get through this as fast as possible.

She fumbles as she pulls the map from her pocket, the same map that she had snuck from the Elves table in the Inn that day… how long ago was that now? She can’t remember, she can’t think, she can’t remember what Cabbage looks like, which makes her breathing quicken like someone much larger than her has grabbed her torso in their hands and squeezed – squeezed until her rips popped and her heart burst – because how can she not remember what he looks like?

To ground herself, she grasps a fist full of her cloak where it rests over the left side chest, the buckle over her right shoulder just like Aela had taught her so many years ago. She wraps the old fabric around her fingers, fisting it so tightly she’s afraid she’ll set it on fire – her fingertips are already starting to smoulder just the tiniest bit and she forces herself to calm down. She brings the cloak to her face, burying her nose into it and taking a deep inhale. It smells like the Inn; it smells like smoke and ale and the lavenders that Aela leaves in her room every couple of weeks, it smells like the same cheap, sickly soap that she uses to wash Cabbages hair, it smells like the air surrounding the Library.

It hasn’t been that long. It hasn’t been that long.

She waits until her heart slows, until she can’t hear the blood pounding through her ears, before she straightens up, suddenly remembering that the map had fallen from her pocket. It lays on the ground, it’s thumbed corners blowing slightly in a non-existent wind, and as she crouches to pick it up, she spots a figure standing in the rubble of the old temple. They’re shielded by half of a fallen column and the darkness that surrounds it, unmoving. They’re stood very awkwardly, one shoulder held much higher than the other, as if one of their legs was abnormally short, and she can’t tell whether they are facing towards her or away from her.

She picks up the map, cringing when the ashy ground crunches beneath her shifting weight, but the person – or thing as she would prefer to refer to it – doesn’t startle.

Maybe it’s dead.

According to the map, it should be a straight route through the Ruins, but the scrawled note beside the drawing makes her skin crawl.

Three steps forward and you’re not sure if time is linear, or if things you see are of this dimension.

She swallows, folds the map back up, and slips it back into her pocket, making sure the clasp secures properly before she begins. Each step seems to echo forever, the blinding white-grey fog swallowing it in the distance before sending it back to her, as if it’s trying to communicate. The further into the Ruins she walks, the more things she sees, hidden amongst the rubble or shrouded by the ever-present mist, each one unmoving, each one more unnerving than the next. Some of them are stood with their backs to her, some with awkward gaits like the first one that she saw. One of them was laying in the middle of what she could only assume was a collapsed house, his toes facing up towards the sky.

This one she stares at for a moment, and she is reminded of a time when she was younger, when her temper got the better of her far too often, when she would run away from the Inn at least once a month, always being dragged back to Aela by an Iltirian, a scowl on her face and flames in her eyes. The last time she had attempted to run away, the one time she didn’t need to be dragged back to the Inn because she had ran back on her own, she had seen a man laying in an alleyway near the Library, the toes of his boots pointed towards the sky. A human, a traveller – the kind they didn’t get many of in Darkmeadow – his mouth unhinged and his eyes wide, his hands claws at his throat. Her stomach had lurched, splattering her dinner over his boots, before she had stumbled blindly back to the Inn, her new shoes covered in her fear, her fingers smouldering and sparking.

She doesn’t feel that fear now, only looks on with her mouth set into a line.

Fear makes you stronger.

That person didn’t manage to create the same heart-stopping panic she had felt when she was younger, but the next one does.

They are sitting upright facing away from her, and from the angle she’s approaching at, she can see one of their legs stretched out in front of them. When she passes, she feels her breath stop dead in the middle of her chest, and as she tries to scramble backwards trips over her own feet, landing heavily on the ground behind her, her sword making an awful clang that seemed to make the already still surroundings even stiller.

The other leg is missing, not a clean cut or a healed one – it looks as though it’s been ripped from their body, dislodged at the hip and torn away without care. The skin is ragged and black with decay, and yet it still bleeds thick black blood onto the ground surrounding it. She watches the blood drip down in strands, sticking to itself even when it hits the puddle. Their hands are gnarled, not unlike the hands of the body she had found when she was younger, only the fingertips on these hands are blacked – not in the same way as the ripped skin of the hip, but in the same way as her fingers get when she gets too angry, setting alight and staying that way for too long.

An Earthling.

Of course, she would’ve noticed if she had followed their arms more, would have seen the bright red marks that had adorned her skin since the day she turned ten, but her attention was too focused on the Earthling’s face, or lack of one. Where the face should have been, was a crater like hole, also dripping that same stringing blood down itself, and she is reminded of the time she had found Cabbage leaning over the balcony, letting gobs of spit drop onto the people leaving the Inn. He had turned to look at her with wide eyes and the faintest beginnings of purple spots, the string of spit dribbling down his front in the same way that the blood is dripping onto this things ruined tunic. There are shards of bone protruding from where the eye sockets would have been, snapped sharp by whatever it was that had attacked them.

There’s nothing nearby that could suggest a possible weapon, and it made her ears ring with the realisation that this probably meant that the attacker had taken it with them, and was potentially still prowling through the Ruins for the next victim.

Get through this as fast as possible.

She pushes herself up, wincing at the pain from her now cut palms as she puts all her weight on them, and goes to step around the body, before noticing a piece of paper fluttering weakly inside a pocket on the Earthling’s jacket. She digs her nails into her ruined hands to stop them shaking, quickly pulling the paper away without lingering near it for too long.

Across the top of the paper is the same flowing script that she had seen every day since leaving the Inn. The Novice Path – the words still distinguishable despite the blood that had gathered on the edges of the page.

They were going to Orilium, too.

She doesn’t think on it for too long – she can’t afford to worry about it – instead dropping the map back beside the body, continuing forwards at a faster pace than she was before.

After about five minutes, hearing the whistling of the fake-wind through the Ruins many arches and alcoves, she becomes aware of another noise: a scraping stumble, as if someone was struggling to climb across all of the rubble, dragging their feet and digging up crusts of ash with each step, landing heavily as they tripped forwards. She doesn’t turn around, even though her skin prickles, because there is nothing here to be afraid of, this place has been dead for centuries, there is nothing in the Ruins that could possibly mean any harm to her.

It’s probably just another traveller on the Path, one that isn’t well acquainted with walks like this – maybe from Daerune.

“Treya.”

It makes her stop, not freeze, just slowly stop. It was as though the word was whispered into her ear, as if they had said it stood right beside her and not from however far back they really were.

They. He.

She turns, her mouth still that same stoic line – the same line she had managed to hide every emotion behind when Aela told her she needs to control her temper – despite the way she wants to scream and sob and drop to her knees and run towards him all at once.

Cabbage stumbles over another dislodged piece of ash, longer than his own legs, and lands with his hands outstretched in front of him, a little oof leaving his lips as he hits the floor. He looks up at her with watery eyes and a wobbly lip, and she forgets everything to run towards him, dropping in front of him and not caring about the noise she makes in this decaying place. She hooks her arms under his and pulls him into her, pressing his head into the crook of her neck, her nose in his still baby-soft hair, her tears dripping onto his skin.

She underestimated how much she would miss the two of them, her fake-brother Cabbage, and her boss – and also her sort-of adoptive mother – Aela. She thought of how difficult it must’ve been for Cabbage’s ten year old body to have to endure the trek, to have to follow her through so much, just trying to find her.

“Hi, Cabbage.” Her voice is harsh from days of no use, scratching her throat and coming out not sounding like her at all. “What’re you doing here, hey?”

“Aela told me the Skaimorn had taken you to be their ward instead – said that they needed a mean-tempered girl like you – and I didn’t believe her, not one bit, because why would they want you as a ward when I was right there! I followed you, saw your cloak as you were leaving, so I followed you all the way out here, but you’re so fast and I’m not tall yet so I couldn’t keep up that well.”

She runs her hand down his back, sniffling to herself despite her anger at him being so stupid as to follow her to Gods know where. “This was very silly of you, Cabbage, you should’ve stayed with Aela. She’s probably worried sick about where you are.”

“She’s not, I know she isn’t. Let’s go home, Treya – please. It’s so scary out here, I don’t like it.”

She keeps rubbing his back, and she suddenly frowns, moving her hand towards the top of his back, to the space just under his shoulder blades where the first nubs of his wings should have been. She remembered him running into her room with a grin missing a front tooth as he had launched himself onto her bed, proudly jutting his thumbs behind him towards the start of the bony spikes that would one day become a beautiful pair of wings.

Cabbage’s back shouldn’t be this smooth.

She pulls away from him, smiling, hoping he doesn’t see that it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and cups his face with her hands. She rubs at his cheeks with both thumbs as he keeps talking, and she notices how his eyes are just the slightest too wide, his hair just the slightest bit too dark, his nose just the slightest bit too crooked. The spots on his skin aren’t the bright shade of purple they had been the day before she had left, but instead a sickly dark yellow.

“Or – Treya, we don’t even need to go back to the Inn at all! We could stay right here, couldn’t we! It’s pretty here, and I bet we could even build our own Inn, just like the one back in Darkmeadow!”

She curses herself for dropping her guard, for forgetting the old lessons – to not take anything at face value, to pay attention, to never let her feelings get the better of her, to always be on the offensive.

“I’m sorry, but you and I both know I can’t do that.” She doesn’t refer to it with Cabbage’s name, because it is not Cabbage. It is not her sweet fellow ward who cries with excitement every time a Skaimorn enters the Inn, it is not the little boy who followed her around like a stray puppy, even when she glared at him with her burning eyes.

It is not Cabbage.

And as soon as it registers she knows, her fingertips pressing harshly into it’s skull that’s wearing Cabbage’s face, her mouth back into that line, her eyes dark with black fire, the act is dropped. The wobbly lip disappears, the eyes become lidded as it stares at her with a bored expression that doesn’t fit Cabbage’s face at all; it’s the expression that makes her fury spike, the fact that this thing is tainting Cabbage’s image with an expression of disinterest and annoyance, and she longs to dig her nails into the skin just before its ears and just rip it off.

Her hands are already beginning to heat up; she can see the smoke coming from its skin in thin ribbons. The wrong coloured spots begin to muddle, rippling across its skin, flowing across the surface like water.

It still speaks in Cabbage’s voice, the boredom drawling his words and smearing them together. “Fine. Let’s try it my way, shall we?”

She ignites, her fingers burning with the type of heat that she can’t feel, that she’ll never know the true power of unless she sees it. The skin bubbles, warps, dripping off the skull in gobs as the hair catches, swallowing its face in a blaze of red and yellow. It doesn’t scream, doesn’t give any indication that it’s in any kind of pain, but even if it did she wouldn’t have cared. She wouldn’t have stopped, would’ve only pressed her palms further into its face as she is doing now, not even unnerved when its cheekbones crack and fizzle, not even when its blood splutters and hisses.

Only when there is no remnant of Cabbage left, when his baby-soft hair has burnt to ash and his skin lays in waxy puddles surrounding her, only when she’s staring at the blackened skull does she let go, letting the body fall backwards, looking not unlike a doll dropped by a child who longs for a new, more enjoyable plaything. She doesn’t lurch, doesn’t cry, only stares on with the same lidded eyes it had stared at her with, a smirk playing on her lips.

Look how powerful you have become.

She wipes her hands on the things tunic, longing to unbutton it and take it because it doesn’t deserve to lay there in a crude imitation of Cabbage’s ward uniform. She doesn’t because she has the feeling that as soon as she leaves the Ruins, as soon as another traveller enters, the thing will merge into someone else, trying to convince them to stay forever too. Rocking back onto her feet, she continues, now hyperaware of every slight noise, every piece of rubble dislodging and falling down a pile, every creak and groan as the old pillars are battered by the not-wind, every gasping breath and scratchy yell.

At those, she turns, at the same time surprised and unsurprised to see masses of bodies making their way towards her. The one that had panicked her, the one missing a leg and a face, dragged itself over the ragged ground with it’s clawed hands, being overtaken quickly by others, among them the first one she had noticed with the awkward gait, which she saw was because it was missing the bottom half of one of its shins.

It wasn’t so much fear that got her heart pumping, but annoyance and frustration. She set her feet, drawing her sword with her right hand and spinning it once, twice, three times, her brows furrowed with determination. Her hands were still hot, but she didn’t allow herself to let go yet. They had to get closer – the closer they were, the bigger the explosion, the more could be taken out. She tried to count them, gave up when she realised they were moving too fast for her to be able to not count them twice.

“Going in blind,” she murmurs to herself, shifting her cloak so that her right arm is just a bit freer. “The old way.”

She doesn’t even register the first one. It’s as if her body moved on it’s own, as all she registered was it dropping onto the floor beside her, sliced up the middle, it’s head split into two and leaking black blood onto her boots.

The second one she registers because it dodges her first swing, lunging at her from the other side, but she is nothing if not prepared. She raises her left arm, unleashing an inferno in the things face. Even if it doesn’t feel the pain, it catches it off guard for long enough for her to detach its head. It snaps at her heels with rotten teeth, and she brings her boot down with a crunch, not caring about the sudden silence of the thing.

The majority of the mass is almost upon her, the main body that she was waiting for, and she sheathes her sword back at her side, her lips turning up in a grin.

She cracks her knuckles, presses her fingertips together in a mockery of the prayers they used to do to the Old Gods when she still lived in Irtheria, her palms not touching, her fingertips barely kissing. She was proud of this display of her raw talent, a party trick that was unsuitable for most parties, something she had coined herself in her more rebellious years.

This is going to be fun.

Her lips part in a wild grin as they fall into the right distance, which she knows from many sleepless nights of practice, challenging herself to find her maximum distance – but also her maximum destruction.

She doesn’t need to say anything, she just needs to will it, and for once she thanks herself for having such an untameable temper that required her to let of steam more often than most her age.

The ground erupts, catching the middle of the crowd in a column of fire as wild as the hair on her head and the smile on her face, her eyes flashing with the same bright flame. She doesn’t bother to hide her excitement at the carnage, doesn’t care if she looks crazed because it worked.

Some emerge from the blaze, their clothes and skin alight, their features melting in the heat, eyes popped and dribbling down their faces, continuing to advance upon her without any need of their sight.

Time to go.

She spins, sprinting as fast as she can towards the boundary of the Ruins, towards the Falls. With each footfall, another burst of flame splits the ground on either side of her, her control waning as her heartrate increases. The normally tame flames on the ends of her hair grow, licking their way down her back, catching her cloak with their damning kiss, igniting a section of it to her dismay. Still, she doesn’t stop, whipping her head to the side to dampen the flames enough for them to not be damaging to the one thing she cares about.

As she runs, the cloak billows, the flames extinguishing – to her relief – leaving only a gaping hole that travels from the middle of her bicep to her elbow. It’s better than losing the whole cloak; she can deal with a hole. She doesn’t stop, the gurgling behind her enough to spur her despite the pain in her legs, despite the sword clanging harshly against her with every step, despite the fact that the boundary of the Ruins seems to be the edge of a cliff.

It doesn’t look this way on the map, but she knows from listening to the Ilterians in the Library that maps can lie just as much as men can.

If she stops, they’ll kill her. But if she continues, she might kill herself.

The Path is not impossible if you listen to its warnings.

They wouldn’t send you into the Ruins just to die.

She takes a deep breath, giving herself that last push, that last burst of speed to get just far enough in front of them to take the leap, her arms pinwheeling, her legs still moving as she falls before she angles herself so as not to paralyse herself on landing.

The drop is not as deep as it had looked from inside the Ruins, ten feet at most, and her landing is mostly softened by a thick layer of underbrush that has been creeping out of the forest and began its ascent up the cliffs face. She rolls off heavily, landing on her back on an old dirt path, her chest heaving and her vision blurring as she talks to the Old Gods for the first time since she was ten, thanking them for giving her the strength to survive, though she knows that she alone is the cause of that strength.

Only when she sits up on that small path, only when she looks towards the cliffs edge and sees the creatures gathered and staring down at her, unable to follow past the boundary line, only when she is certain she is safe (from that task at least), does she let herself scream.

She screams until her throat is raw, then screams some more, clutching at her chest with her left hand, fisting the black fabric of her shirt as her voice breaks from anger and pride and that thin layer of fear that she has finally allowed to crest the surface.

For a moment, she just sits, panting, her mind spinning, her fingers smouldering. She thinks about turning back now, finding a way to go around the Ruins and back to Darkmeadow, collapsing in the doorway of the Inn and holding the real Cabbage close to her as she whispers her apologies to the both of them. It would make the most sense to turn back now, with how close Deaths fingers came to grasping her around the throat and dragging her down with him.

But she stands, brushes the dirt from herself, and starts down the path, her mouth set and her eyes lidded.

We go on.

[xxdemonicheartxx]

📁?

Depending on your element primal eyes will affect your vision differently (along with other wonderous eye types)

Plague dragons see in an acidic green tone or a yellowy hue, the scarring around these eyes is caused from rapid and randomized development of the eyes from a surge of olague magic and is simply extra skin to help protect the many optic organs. Not all of these eyes can see but many/most of them remain perfectly functional throughout the dragon’s life

Arcane dragons are born with otherworldly sight and can see far better under the night sky or a full moon(s). The surge of arcane energies or celestial bodies moving into position will tattoo these dragons with glittering eyes and shimmering swirls

Shadow dragons are born blind, (I’m pretty sure the goop tastes fruity like a blackberry) it is seen as an IMMENSE blessing from Shadowbinder among shadow dragons

Fire dragons can see but its twinged in oranges and yellows and they have mildly wobbly vision from the heat, they are red green colorblind if the flames are intense enough. Its rumored that your eyes have been kissed by the Flamecaller before she placed you in your egg

Water dragons have blurry eyes but they see into the future more frequently and with more accuracy than their non primal scriers. Their eyes are polarized to see into the depths, they are still searching for Tidelord

Wind dragons can see just fine, their tears are misty and the vapors from their eyes vary in thickness and scent

Earth dragons see A-OK also, the “gems” and “stones” around their eyes are just hardy and gorgeous scales with high earth magic concentration

Nature dragons have “parasitic” plants growing around the soft tissue of the eyes. How they hatched with that is a mystery, the most common theory is magic concentration. If the flowers are cut/plucked/trimmed. They bleed dragon’s blood and even scab, the flowers will grow back deformed and in red hues

Ice dragons simply cry snowflakes and ice, they need to clean their eyes frequently or they will freeze shut. They have polarized vision and can see into the waters and ice

Lightning dragons can see in hues of blue and green. Reds and other warm colors take extra focus. They cant control the sparking of their eyes and often zap their friends if they lack protective eyewear

Light dragons luckily can control their “brightness setting” and can see when they keep it dim. If it is at full capacity they temporarily blind themselves. And possibly others...

(Glowing eye dragons can see but not in the dark very well. The light they emit floods the pupil and hinders them but their companions help guide them as long as they can be used like a flashlight)

(Spiral eye dragons have many blind spots but can see between layers of reality, they know what you dream about and if ghosts really are there)

(Dark sclera dragons simply have a high melanin concentration in the sclera. Its not always jet black but can be varying shades of deep browns blues purples or greens!)

(Goat eye dragons have only one blind spot with their wide intake of vison and thats right behind their heads)

(Facet eye dragons see multiples much like an insect and can comprihend more colors and movements much faster than their non facet clanmates, they make great lookouts and scouts)

(Multigaze dragons may or may not be able to see with their body eyes, some eyes inconsistently have optic nerves, bony sockets, and orbital muscles that facilitate movement. Its caused by a mutation before hatching with inconsistencies in magic flow and incubations)

[lady-divine-writes]

In Trade - Part 2: The Night They Don't Talk About (Rated NC17)

Summary: Crowley comes up with a plan to break Aziraphale free of the demon bordello.

But it may just break the two of them as well. (4495 words)

Notes: I was content originally to leave this at one chapter, but this part kept eating at me, and I had to write it. Mind the new tags. Also bear in mind that I know this isn't a healthy way necessarily for these guys to handle this situation, but I see this as a rock-and-a-hard place. You don't know how you would actually react unless you were in their shoes. 

Warning for angst, implied non-con/rape, and memory erasing.

Read on AO3.

“I … I can’t see anything.” Aziraphale’s eyes shift in their sockets, blindly searching the confines of the dark room. “They did something to my eyes, but I … I don’t know what.”

Crowley puts a hand over them, unearthing the particulars of the magic, and sighing with relief when he identifies it. “Don’t worry, angel. It’s temporary.” There’s nothing new in this one. It’s common – a parlor trick used to frighten humans. Crowley didn’t know it would work on angels. Then again, he never thought to try. “It should wear off once you leave here.”

“I was in my shop …” Aziraphale explains, the act of making casual conversation with a friend reassuring to him. Crowley hears the chains above him jingle as Aziraphale tries to fold his wings, hears him hiss when the damnation on the chains singes him.

“Don’t move,” Crowley says. “Those chains … they’ll tear your wings apart if you move too much.”

Aziraphale nods stiffly, his shoulders and back becoming rigid with that knowledge. “It was after hours, a-and I heard a knock at the door. I felt demon energy, but I was preoccupied. I was unboxing a shipment of Hawthorne first editions I purchased from an estate in Norfolk. I’d been waiting weeks for them to arrive. I thought the demon at the door was you so I opened it.” He chuckles nervously. “Why wouldn’t it be you? You’re the only demon who’s ever been by my shop. I didn’t think Hell even knew where I was.”

Crowley curls his hands into fists, digs claw nails into the palms of his hands to keep from cursing out loud and frightening Aziraphale. No, Hell shouldn’t have. And even if they did know an angel owned a bookshop in Soho, that information shouldn’t have concerned them, not to this degree.

The only reason it does is because of Crowley.

Crowley is why Aziraphale is down here.

Aziraphale turns his head left and right, sniffs the damp air. “Where … where are we anyway? I thought they were taking me to Hell, but this doesn’t feel like Hell.”

“It’s not,” Crowley says. “But I don’t want to tell you where you are.”

“Why not?” From somewhere above their heads, a whimper and a cry ring out. Aziraphale gasps, clenching his teeth tight around his tongue, trying his best not to move.

“Because you shouldn’t be here!” Crowley growls. “If there’s one place on earth you shouldn’t be …” He stops, grinds his teeth, fights his anger at himself to regain his focus. “Look, I don’t have the time to explain. I need to get you out of here now. Right now.”

“Great!” Aziraphale flashes a soft smile and Crowley knows he’s trying to make him feel better. He wishes Aziraphale wouldn’t considering what has to happen next. “Capital idea! Let’s do that! These chains are beginning to chafe unmentionably.”

“It’s not … it’s not that easy.”

“Why n0t?”

“Measures have been taken. Precautions specifically to keep you here. And in order to break them, we need to … I have to …” Crowley’s hands find his own hair and pull hard as he tries to explain.

Tries to come to terms with the next step, and how he’s going to accomplish it without hurting Aziraphale emotionally or physically.

Those chains.

Those Godforsaken chains!

Those were a bitch move if ever there was one.

“Have to … what?” Aziraphale sounds scared. Calm but scared, and he should be. He put his trust in the wrong person. They have that in common. It’s what got Crowley into the position he’s in - hanging out with the wrong crowd. The difference is, in Aziraphale’s life, there is no right crowd. Everyone around him sucks.

The blue light surrounding Aziraphale fades a hair. It’s subtle, but Crowley doesn’t just see it. He feels it, as if the sands of Aziraphale’s existence are slipping through his fingers – a tangible object he’s doing a shit job holding on to.

“I’m going to try something …” Crowley goes as slowly as he can for Aziraphale even with an eight ball staring him straight in the face “… and if it works, I’m going to have to keep going. You may not like it …”

“It’s … it’s all right,” Aziraphale says, resolve making his voice thick. “Go ahead. I trust you.”

‘Urgh! Please don’t say that!’ Crowley thinks, moving closer. Hearing Aziraphale say that doesn’t make this any easier.

In many ways, it makes this harder.

Crowley sees a spattering of marks on the angel’s cheek – grotesque symbols made up of dagger-sharp edges that look punched-on. He chooses one that looks particularly harsh, embedded so deeply it has started to bleed. Carefully, he kisses Aziraphale on the cheek over that mark. Not a peck, but nothing too suggestive. He hears Aziraphale make a small noise of surprise. When he pulls away, the mark is gone. Crowley tries again – another kiss, the same way, over a different mark. ‘It can’t be this easy,’ he thinks, heart racing. ‘Please tell me it’s this easy!’

But it’s not.

The second kiss has no effect.

‘Shit!’

That’s what he was afraid of.

It only escalates from here.

‘Dammit! God fucking dammit!’

“Oh my goodness!” Aziraphale mutters, a giddy blush rising to his cheeks. “That was … wh-hy did you do that?”

“In order to get you out of here, I have to get rid of these marks you have on your body. They’re demonic marks. They lock you down here.”

“And they go away when you kiss them?” Aziraphale’s smile after that breaks Crowley’s heart. “That’s oddly … sweet.”

“It only worked the once, I’m afraid.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Like I said, I have to keep going.”

“But I thought you said it didn’t …”

Crowley kisses Aziraphale on the lips. He doesn’t warn him. He’s running out of time. He can’t put this off any longer.

But, selfishly, he needs to shut him up.

Every word out of Aziraphale’s mouth, every expression on his face, is slowly and painfully discorporating him.

Crowley feels Aziraphale’s body thrum as he deepens the kiss, but when the angel’s mouth begins to move against his, he shakes his head.

“Don’t … don’t kiss me back.”

“Why not?”

“I have a theory. A way to break these locks and keep you from falling in the process.”

“And that is …?”

“You … you can’t be a willing participant in this.” Crowley can’t bring himself to tell him what this is, so he alludes to it – puts a hand on Aziraphale��s cheek, slides it down his neck, drags it down his chest towards his stomach, creeping lower …

Aziraphale’s brow crinkles as he struggles to understand. But when Crowley’s hand reaches the junction of his hip where it touches his upper thigh, his eyes widen with fear. “Crowley, you’re not suggesting …”

“Yes,” Crowley says with a hard swallow. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

Aziraphale’s body begins to shake, the chains above him shuddering with this movement he can’t control. The smell of burning flesh fills the room and a few white feathers rain down around them, but he doesn’t seem fazed.

His wings burning off their bones is the least devastating thing going on at this moment.

“Don’t,” Aziraphale begs. “Please? I … I …”

“You what, angel?” Crowley asks, so beyond defeated he doesn’t feel real anymore. Nothing about him is real, therefore nothing about this is real. That should help, shouldn’t it?

Whether it should or it shouldn’t, it doesn’t.

“I … I love you.”

Crowley’s head drops to his hands, his body sinking so low onto his heels he might as well be one with the ground beneath him. “I love you, too, angel.”

Aziraphale’s eyes brighten, sparking with hope. “You do?”

“Yes, I do. I have for the longest time. Which is why I have to do this.”

“No, you don’t! You don’t have to! There has to be another way!”

“There isn’t any other way, angel! If we don’t get you out of here soon, there won’t be any saving you.”

As if to prove a point, his aura dials down a bit more. Crowley zeros in on it, pushing his disgust at himself aside and uses that dying light to force his hand. He grabs the frayed edge of Aziraphale’s neckline and pulls, ripping it straight down the middle. Aziraphale jerks back, shivering when the moist air hits his skin. He scoots a foot away and Crowley warns, “Don’t!” but those chains above him tighten, having no intention of letting him go. The only way he could remove himself from their hold would be to tear his wings off at the shoulder joints.

In the heat of this moment, it’s something he considers.

“One lassst thing …” Crowley says, his hands returning to Aziraphale’s shoulder, his demon warmth cruelly comforting against goose-prickled flesh.

“Wh-what’s that?” Aziraphale’s voice trembles – those wobbly edges cutting Crowley like razor blades.

“It might help …” Crowley’s head hangs from his shoulders, the weight of the next three words too heavy to bear. He closes his eyes against them, tries to swallow them down … but they just won’t go “… if you scream.”

***

“Here ya go. Chamomile. Your favorite. I even remembered the honey this time,” Crowley says, setting the tea service on the table in front of Aziraphale. He does his best to make his voice soothing, his volume low and pleasing, his movements smooth and predictable. But regardless, Aziraphale - eyes glued to a book he’s not even pretending to read - slides away from him, huddling so close to the wall on his left he’s about to become a pattern in the wallpaper.

Crowley looks at him, hunched over one of those Hawthorne books he’d been so excited to receive, still as a stone statue. He debates letting Aziraphale prepare his own cup but decides in the end to do it for him, to prove that he knows him, that they’re still friends.

That he’s still the same old Crowley, despite what he’s done.

He pours the steaming water from the teapot into Aziraphale’s favorite cup, then drops a tea bag in. During the course of adding the honey, Crowley’s hand brushes Aziraphale’s. The angel yelps, leaping so violently out of his skin he nearly upends his cup.

“Oh … oh God. I … I didn’t mean to touch you,” Crowley says, putting his hands up and backing away. “I’m sorry, I … I’ll let you finish … by yourself.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale answers voicelessly but he doesn’t acknowledge the tea. He leaves the cup to cool, content to let it waste away and become unpalatable.

It took over two hours for Crowley to unlock all the locks, make the marks disappear. Two hours of kisses and touches that should have been romantic, should have been sensual, should have been a consensual act of love and affection.

That’s how they started.

It’s not where they finished.

In order to pick the harder locks, Crowley had to delve into areas he and Aziraphale had discussed a long time ago - acts Aziraphale said he could never see himself doing.

But the more Crowley explored the taboo, the faster the locks unraveled.

When all was said and done, the chains evaporated, their spell extinguished, and Crowley didn’t hesitate. With a snap of his fingers he was able to transport the angel back to his bookshop, locking the door and every window with his sigil so that no one – demon or angel – could come inside. They materialized on the floor of Aziraphale’s back room, a shivering Aziraphale cradled in Crowley’s arms. When Aziraphale opened his eyes, they were no longer red and he could see. He gasped with joy and surprise at being free, but when he saw Crowley …

… Crowley will never forget the look of horror on Aziraphale’s face, not for as long as he exists. Aziraphale pushed away from him, hard enough to send Crowley flying backward. He scrambled to his feet and ran to his bathroom. Crowley didn’t move, rooted to the spot on the floor where Aziraphale had shoved him, but he could hear the angel’s muffled wailing through the locked door. Aziraphale didn’t emerge till close to sunrise and when he did, he was clean and healed, dressed from head to toe, clutching the book he’s been staring at to his chest like a talisman against Evil.

A talisman against Crowley.

Aziraphale’s bookshop is no longer the place of safety it once was. It won’t matter how many protections Aziraphale sets up, how many blessings. Crowley knows he won’t ever feel safe here again. Not the way he used to. Crowley chose to stay with his angel even though his body begged for sleep in the hopes of helping Aziraphale feel safe, be there for him if he needed him, but he can’t dodge the feeling he’s making things worse.

Worst of all, he doesn’t think their relationship will ever be what it was again.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Crowley asks, backing away till his legs hit the arm of the sofa across the room. “Anything else I can get you? Just name it and I’ll do it.”

Aziraphale closes his book, not bothering with a bookmark since there’s nothing to save. “I … I think … maybe you should leave.”

Crowley drops his hands to his sides. He was afraid Aziraphale would say that. “Is that really what you want?”

“Yes.”

Crowley nods but he doesn’t move. He can’t make his feet go. He’s not ready to leave yet. Aziraphale may need space, may need time, but Crowley needs Aziraphale.

“There was no other way, angel. I couldn’t think of another way. We had no time …”

“I know that.” Aziraphale tries to smile. “But I can’t … I can’t look at you right now without remembering …” He wraps his arms around his torso and squeezes, the rest of his sentence a messy jumble in his throat. He doesn’t want to say it, because if he doesn’t say it, maybe it didn’t happen. It’s foolish and childish and irrational, but it’s all he’s got to keep him from disintegrating into a ball of white light. “And I don’t know how to forget.” Aziraphale hugs himself tight, makes himself small, his voice no more than a hiccup of sound. “That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be, Crowley. That wasn’t how we were … supposed to be together.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t. And I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. I wish I could fix it for you.”

“I know you do.”

“Would it make you feel better if I …” Crowley scrambles for an idea, any idea, anyway to make this better, even a tiny bit “… let you hurt me?”

“Hurt you?” Aziraphale’s brows pull together. “How?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want … short of Holy Water, that is.”

Aziraphale pauses like he’s considering it, but shakes his head. “I can’t … I can’t do that to you. I can’t hurt you. You did nothing wrong.”

“That’s not true. Not if you’re asking me to leave.”

“It is true! And I swear that I understand that! I just … I need some time. I need to find a way to wash this from my brain if I can, and I think that might be easier if you’re not around.”

Crowley sighs. “Okay. I’ll go. But can I ask for one favor?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Sleep,” Crowley commands and snaps his fingers.

Aziraphale’s eyes close obediently, and Crowley immediately hates himself.

It’s a dirty trick. A dirty, rotten, filthy trick.

He’s not using Hastur’s ploy against him. He’s using his own unique brand of demonic power.

He doesn’t know whether or not that’s worse.

Crowley raises a hand and rests it gingerly on Aziraphale’s head.

“Forget,” he whispers. “Please. Forget all about it. Erase it from your mind. Keep it under lock and key and then toss that key away. For Heaven’s sake just forget. And please … please … don’t push me away …”

During the time he and Aziraphale spent underground, Crowley figured out how Hastur managed to trap Aziraphale. They incapacitated Aziraphale with a poison Crowley had never seen before. One he couldn’t identify.

But he could taste its bitter tang on Aziraphale’s skin.

The substance they used, Crowley feels it beneath his fingers now. And as he touches his angel, he purges it from Aziraphale’s system and replaces it, regretfully, with a bit of his own power, in the hopes that it will make Aziraphale immune. It should. Demons can’t enslave other demons this same way, not that he’s aware of. Of course, he doesn’t spend much time in Hell. Things could be going south down there and he might not know about it until it’s too late.

Like tonight, for instance.

But as soon as he can, he intends on popping back down there and going on the hunt for it, eliminate every vial of the stuff he can find, or at least taint it so it won’t be effective. He has to keep Hastur and any other demon from doing this again, especially to his angel.

With the poison gone, Crowley siphons through Aziraphale’s most recent memories, looking for any remnant of the time they spent underground, all the way back to the arrival of the demon (fucking Ligur! Crowley will have to remember that …) at his bookshop door. When he finds no trace of it, he removes his hand and snaps his fingers. “Wake.”

Aziraphale’s eyes open. He looks up into the face of the solemn demon standing before him and startles.

Then he smiles.

“Oh! My dear boy! Have you been here the whole time?”

“Yes,” Crowley says, all semblance of emotion gone from his voice. He just doesn’t have the strength for it. “Yes, I have.”

“When did you get here?”

“I’ve been here all night.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows bounce up. “Have you? That’s funny.”

“What’s funny about it?”

“Well I … I can’t seem to remember what we were doing a moment ago.” He taps a finger to his chin and thinks on it hard, but from his scrunched nose and pensive expression, Crowley knows he’s drawing a blank.

Thank God.

“I’ve just been hanging out in a corner. You’ve been doing paperwork or something,” Crowley lies. “I never know. But you don’t seem anywhere near done so I should leave you to it. Don’t want to be a distraction.”

Aziraphale laughs. That should make Crowley glad, but it pierces his heart something fierce. “Since when do you not want to be a distraction?”

“Since now.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale finally catches on to the demon’s seriousness and looks at him with concern. “Are you sure? I was hoping that we could talk a little more about this antichrist bother over a drink or two … or seven? But I’ll understand if you want to go.”

Crowley didn’t want to leave before, but now it’s all he wants - go back to his flat, climb beneath the covers of his bed with a bottle of Jack Daniels, and pass out for a year. Maybe two. But what if Aziraphale relapses? What if his magic doesn’t do its job?

Wouldn’t be the first time one of his plans went pear shaped … obviously.

He has a responsibility to Aziraphale – one that didn’t end when he erased his memory.

After last night, it may never end.

“Sure, angel.” Crowley runs a hand through his hair, taming down the red locks he’s been tugging in frustration. His hand comes close to Aziraphale’s face when he raises it but he doesn’t flinch. It worked. Crowley’s magic worked. But that doesn’t absolve any of his sins. Not a single one. Because as clever as he thinks he is, he wasn’t clever enough to come up with an alternative solution. “Why not? I could use a drink.”

“Great!” Aziraphale says, happily patting the tabletop, then gesturing to the seat across from him. “I have a brand spanking new bottle of cognac with your name on it, my dear!”

That my dear nearly does him in. As it is, it sprouts barbs, wraps around his heart, and pulls taut. “Brilliant.”

***

The thunderous rapping of a fist on wood wakes Aziraphale from a restless sleep, and he jars upright in his seat on the sofa.

“Is it open then?” a muffled voice asks as curious green eyes peek in through the window.

“I don’t think so,” a different muffled voice responds. “It’s impossible to see anything through these grimy windows. Has A. Z. Fell never heard of Windex?”

“Dang it! I was really hoping to see if they had that new Donner novel. It’s sold out everywhere!”

“Yeah, that’s a drag,” the second voice says, followed by, “They never seem to be open, though, do they? He doesn’t even post his hours up.”

“I’m beginning to think it’s not a proper bookshop at all.”

“You’re right. It’s probably just a front for drugs and prostitution.”

“Molly!”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking the same thing, Jillian!”

Aziraphale smiles as the two women laugh, their voices fading as they pass the shop by on their way to the bus stop, another potential sale thwarted.

‘Yes, ladies. Spread the word,’ he thinks as he raises his arms over his head for a stretch. ‘A. Z. Fell is a façade for organized crime. No need to be back.’

Regardless of how he woke up, this might actually turn out to be a good day.

He arches his back and stretches some more, glancing across the sofa at the sleeping demon, arms folded over his chest, stoic in sleep, his closed eyes aimed at the front door as if he’d fallen asleep standing guard. He’s amazed Crowley didn’t wake up when those two women tried to break down his front door. That’s what it sounded like inside his hungover brain anyway. Poor dear must be exhausted.

It was quite a long night.

Aziraphale grabs an afghan from the back of the sofa and pulls it over Crowley’s body. He relaxes the moment its warmth sweeps over him, sliding down on the cushion and resting his head against the arm.

“Sleep,” Aziraphale whispers, tucking the blanket in around him, “for as long as you’d like. And dream about whatever you like best.”

Crowley doesn’t smile after Aziraphale says this but he looks more at peace, falling deeply under and snoring softly. Aziraphale pats his arm, then rises from his seat. His back through his hips and straight down to his rear feels stiff as a board, a sure sign that he’s sat plenty.

Time to get on his feet.

Aziraphale pads, lock-kneed, across the floor, sneaking away to his bathroom to splash water on his face. He has paperwork to finish – a whole day of logging in the new Hawthorne books he got in, as well as a few other odds and ends. He stands in front of the sink and takes a long look at himself in the mirror - from his wine-flushed cheeks to his hair sticking out in all directions, the fine lines across his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. Worry lines he’s heard them called, and even though he’s not human, he thoroughly agrees with that assessment.

He’s been worrying a lot these past couple of weeks, and even though he controls his human visage, he wouldn’t be surprised if a whole new crop of lines sprouted overnight.

He washes his hands, then scrubs his face, paying close attention to his skin and his eyes, examining the pale blue irises with particular care.

No red eyes.

No demon locks.

No ligature marks.

Only a trace of pale pink burns from Crowley’s kisses left on his skin.

He runs light fingertips over them, trying a second time to heal them, but they refuse to magic away.

They’re stubborn, like their bullheaded maker.

His memories came back sometime before he woke, and they came back with a vengeance – the demon at his doorstep, grinning at him with dark, chapped lips, a bizarre lizard creature resting atop their head; having a burlap sack thrown over his head; being dragged kicking and screaming underground, then injected with a substance that burned through his body like acid.

He remembered Crowley finding him, trying to comfort him, his voice leading him out of the dark haze he’d been locked in.

He remembered Crowley’s plan.

Crowley had been right about one thing – the way they went about it, Aziraphale didn’t fall.

He made it out in one piece, and he was still an angel.

When Crowley transported them back, between the time he snapped his fingers and they arrived on his bookshop floor, Aziraphale had wondered if God had seen. Had She seen what they’d done, what they’d had to do to make it out?

To save him?

Had She been there?

Aziraphale usually feels God’s presence all around him no matter where he is, watching over him, embracing him with Her love. Even when it’s difficult to sense Her, he knows She’s there. But he can’t recall whether he did in that place or not. She wouldn’t abandon him, would She? Ineffable plan or no, he’s still Her servant. She wouldn’t leave him to the wolves, let him purposelessly be devoured.

Of course, and he’s pondered this several times before, perhaps that’s why Crowley was there, why he’s always able to find him whenever Aziraphale is in trouble. Maybe there’s something more divine behind those grand rescues of his, something more than simply being in the area.

But those are questions he’ll have to save for another time, when his brain isn’t screaming inside his skull.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to overcome this. For the few hours he didn’t have to think about it, he was fine. Effervescent really. He didn’t have a care in the world. He would ask Crowley to give him that again, help him forget, but he doesn’t want Crowley to know his magic wore off.

He doesn’t want to burden Crowley with more guilt than he already feels.

Aziraphale doesn’t like lying to Crowley, but like he said, this isn’t Crowley’s fault. It may not have sounded like he meant it at the time, but he did. Aziraphale didn’t want this, but there was nothing else they could do. And as much as he hates remembering, he can’t leave Crowley to bear the burden alone. It’s a punishment Crowley doesn’t deserve.

And Aziraphale, standing alone in his bathroom, clutching the sides of the sink to keep from crumbling to the floor and crying his eyes out, has discovered over the past 6000 years that he loves Crowley too much to hurt him that way.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Weird “In the Zone”

From the Intergalactic Journal of Biology and Mechanics.

The study of the human species has gone on for significantly less time than others, though during that time we have discovered oddities about the human race that are not present in any other species in the galaxy.

It was originally thought that the human race possessed a cortical system non-conducive to sustained attention. Research from both human and non-human scientists have determined that the average human attention span may only last for 25 minutes at a time before falling away significantly. Employers with human employees are even encouraged to give the humans many breaks during a work related period, or support a system that allows the humans to switch between tasks at a rate, which keeps their attention and productivity.

However, certain sources claim to have seen humans keep attention for expanded segments of time. This attention expands beyond the category of normal attention and is described as a state where the human does not process the passage of time, outside distraction, sound, pain, or even emotion other than, perhaps, joy.

Human Athletes and creative minds have described this experience of advanced attention in slang terms as “The Zone.”. Relatively scholarly sources have examined this heightened attention as a slope on a graph between skill and Challenge. If the skill and the challenge follow each other along the line, than flow can be experienced, and the level of heightened attention becomes more likely. If the skill is high and the challenge is low, than boredom is experienced. If the skill is low and the challenge is high anxiety is experienced. In both cases, “The Zone” cannot be reached.

While, naturally humans tend to be less productive than their non-human counterparts during normal work periods, within this heightened state of attention and and capacity, the human can outdo their counterparts by almost five times the rate of productivity and performance.

If you wish to have productive human employees you must find and challenge skilled workers in the working environment, and only after that will you see such heightened productivity 

The ship seemed ready to shake itself in half. Even as he motored his way down the hall, Krill was almost thrown against the doorways in danger of rupturing his delicate hydrogen sack keeping him afloat and upright at all times. 

Around him sirens blared and long red wavelengths washed through the ship from the warning lights. Though he did not hear sounds like the humans did, the radio frequencies given off at his behest were frequent and distracting.

Finally making his way to the set of stairs, He raced upwards using his four limbs to steady against the railing as he glided onto the bridge where pandemonium had taken a tight hold.

Chaos flowed around him in a confused wave as the human bridge crew attempted to regain control of the ship. The ship’s hull cameras were being projected onto the far wall giving view of an asteroid field of unknown size hidden as it were by a thick cloudy wall of space dust. 

The nebula was massive, many lightyears across stretching out into infinity in towering arcs of darkened dust backlit by an unseen star. Where the light reached, waves of short and long reflected wavelengths brought blue and red to his eyes.

The ship rocked again as one of the outer propulsion units made contact with the rock. The deck around them bucked sending Krill skidding across the floor. Those humans, that had not the foresight to strap themselves in, ended up flat on the deck. The strength of the impact was enough to knock unfastened equipment from the far wall and hurl it halfway across the room. Those who didn’t react quickly enough cried out in pain as they were struck.

Krill gripped tightly to the closest railing using his four upper limbs to suspend himself safely in place before deflating his hydrogen sack to avoid rupturing. The weight on his lower extremities increases as his buoyancy decreased.

Above the clatter of the ship’s deck, he heard a clatter from behind followed by a string of creative curses.

A second later, the captain came stumbling onto the bridge catching his prosthetic foot on the lip of the stair taking him painfully down to his other knee.

“S***!” He yelled gritting his teeth as he limped back to his feet rubbing his good, and only, knee, “Status report!” He bellowed silencing the other humans with the power of his voice.

In a show of deference to their most dominant male, the rest of the human crew grew silent.

“Sir, the emissions from the nebula is playing havoc with our navigations equipment. We didn’t see them until it was too late.”

The captain nodded marching up to the command chair, placed centrally in the bridge were all stations were in full view of his eyes, and sat down strapping himself in, “What do we have that WILL work.”

From the other side one of the females shook her head, “Radar, and I would only trust short wave at this point. We cannot risk waiting for the ping to get back to us while inside the field.”

The captain gave a grunt, “That’s no better than the visual field at this point.”

One of his hands flicked downwards, and the command chair swiveled. Two sets of joysticks clicked upwards from opposing armrests while two foot-pedals clicked into place under his feet. A visor rolled down from the headrest hissing into place as it dropped over his face giving him a partial view from one good eye.

Krill quickly hauled himself along the floor, “Captain, this decision is unwise. Operating the ship manually in your condition is reckless.”

The look he received from the human then was unsettling enough to remind him that the captain was ranked as an A-1 apex predator, and could have ripped him apart if he really wanted to.

“What because I’m missing a leg and an eye.”  The human snapped, “Need I remind you that outside of 30 feet binocular cues are almost useless, besides we have no other options, and no one else here is trained to manually pilot a ship anyway.”

Krill wilted.

The captain’s expression softened, “I’m sorry, Krill, I didn’t mean to snap, but this is my only option, and Ill be damned if I let anything happen to my crew.”

Krill gave an uncertain nod but kept his mouth shut.

The captain nodded and looked up giving a thumbs up to one of his officers, “Lieutenant, run the manual program, the rest of you strap in and pray to whatever deity that we survive this.”

Krill scurried over to an auxiliary seat glancing at the next passenger over.

“Manual program?”

The human gave him a signature reckless grin, “You’ll see.” 

Up at the captain’s chair, the man had removed his eye patch to reveal a metallic aperture where his empty socket had once been.

Krill stared in shock.

The captain grinned, “Thought I’d give myself a few upgrades as compensation for loosing an eye.” 

A metallic snap later and the captain was wired directly into the ship.

The lieutenant gave a thumbs up, and the captain nodded, “Hit it.”

Krill wasn’t sure what he should have expected, but it surely wasn’t the frantic drum line and roll of electric guitars that suddenly overtook the bridge.

The captain gave a loud shout, one that Krill now recognized as a human war cry, he wasn’t sure if there was a true meaning behind it, but if he were to give a translation he would say that it meant the human was telling odds and statistics to go to hell because humans didn’t follow the proper rules of survival. In other words he was challenging surmounting odds, and he was sure he would win.

That’s when the ship rolled, and the world around him became a confusing mass of color and noise.

The asteroid field might as well have been a wall of impenetrable stone, but still the ship, not made for maneuvering, cut through pours in the stone skin with precision that only a well tuned supercomputer should have been able to do.

Whenever the ship leveled out, and Krill could finally regain his composure, he saw the captain sitting in his chair single eye fixed on the visual field. Teeth gritted in an expression of animalistic joy and maddening concentration. Men and women screamed in terror as the ship rolled around them, but not once did his expression waver.

At one point, the ship was struck by something caching them off path to be thrown sideways. The crew was assaulted by flying debris from unbound equipment.  The Captain bled freely from nose and gouge in his scalp, but even as blood trickled down his face and neck he remained fixed with the same joyous intensity as if he hadn’t noticed.

Every movement he made, every visual calculation, the human was not mistaken. No matter the noise, no matter the distraction. Krill wouldn’t have believed it if he didn’t see it. This man, who was known for growing distracted in a matter of seconds, stayed fixed on his monitor for hours maneuvering them past insurmountable odds without the aid of advanced calculations and only his flawed human mind and body to guide them.

A last few moments of terrible horror as the ship took a vertical up an asteroid wall, rolled past a set of pillars and broke outwards into open space. The ship slowed and then the engines released. The ship floated forward on it’s remaining momentum. 

The captain rested back in his seat with a sigh of deep exhaustion though his eyes glittered with an intoxicating joy. 

The bridge erupted into a mixture of cheers and groaning.

The look on the captain’s face was proof of another human oddity Krill had only seen a few times. Like most species do drugs to get a high, the human brain injects its own drug as a chemical reward. In other words, humans can make themselves high and from near death experiences no less all after disregarding normal human behavior to concentrate for hours at a time.

News of this sort of thing not only sparked research on the topic of human concentration , but ended up starting a black market trade of the human reward chemical known as Dopamine.

Humans were the universe’s new high.