#you could argue foundations is some sort of light metal or something

[thekidsare-not-alright]

it makes me angry when people decide fob isn't "emo enough" for the emo trinity anymore like subcultures and genres don't evolve or anything. mcr isn't emo anymore either if you're sticking to what they were in black parade for your definition. seriously. not to mention green day is pop punk just like fob so if you wanna use them as a replacement you're not making any damn sense

the logic just isn't there, stop trying to replicate the past all the time

[valuedabovehoardedgold]

Friction part 1

Pairing: Karl Heisenberg x Female Reader 

Warnings: Blood, Violence, Abduction, Groping, Non-consensual touching, imprisonment, Slight choking, Collar, Dry Humping 

Word count: 1,225

Rating: Mature (minors DO NOT INTERACT) 

Summary: Your friends and you make a massive mistake in your adventure. Deciding to rest at the inn located in the infamous village, you’re all captured and taken to the four lords. Where you unintentionally capture the attention of Lord Heisenberg. Who has plans for you. 

(this is a darker fic, if that isn’t your cup of tea please feel free to ignore) 

 I want her. 

The words that lead to your current predicament. Chained to the dirty factory floor of some backwoods plant, your friends scattered to the wind. Your hope of escaping diminishing second by precious second. 

It's the sound of metal grinding against metal that rouses you. Besides a small overhead beam of light that blinds you, you can't make out much. Your throat hurts, and upon further inspection, your fingers brush against the cold rusted surface of a collar. You also find that your wrists are bound as well. A rusted chain reflecting dully in the light shackling you to the floor. It jolts you from your half-awake daze, and panic settles in. 

Fuck. 

Nothing is familiar, and the last thing you can recall is the musty-smelling bed you were about to sleep in for the night. But that's beside the point;  now your focus is on your pounding head and aching body.  Memories slowly fade back, going on a trip with friends, stopping at the creepy inn as the sun set behind the snow-capped mountains. Then-then, everything stops after the inn. Though, you're not able to place why. 

Shadowing your eyes from light helps with the throbbing and makes the blurred room if only a little more focused. That's when your eyes catch it, movement. Miniscule amongst the darkness but your eyes latch onto it, someone is here with you, and that terrifies you more than the thought of being alone.

"Ah! Our guest is awake," the voice is familiar, and it sends a mixture of fear and curiosity coursing through you. A shadow, hunched over something, on a beat-up desk, the scattering of papers signals that whoever it is has turned to face you. 

"What's the matter, sweetie? Bat got your tongue?" 

Your tongue refuses to cooperate for a moment; your mouth feels like sandpaper, but you manage to croak out. 

"Where am I?" 

Your throat burns with every syllable, your lips crack with every word. It's been a while since you've had water.

 How long had you been out? 

The figure doesn't answer but draws closer to your light. You wish it wouldn't, it's a childish thought, but maybe in the light, you're safe. But no the figure enters the beam and it hits you. The inn, your friends' screams. Rushing out of your room to help, pain, and then darkness. The throb in your head makes sense now. 

"Name's Heisenberg. But let's leave the questions to me, alright?" 

He's massive standing before you his shadow engulfs you. He looks like some sort of doomsday prepper. Wearing a wrinkled hat the brim shadowing his face, sunglasses, and a tan trench coat. You feel yourself shrinking to the floor terrified of him, he hasn't made a hostile move toward you but he has the power to do whatever he wants with you. That sets your heart racing as he watches you in silence for a moment. 

"Now, let's get a better look at you," he states and stands there for a few moments, and you're left confused. 

"Do I have to spell it out, sweetheart?" 

Again your blink up at the strange man before you, he's deranged, he must be... He huffs throwing his head back, like a child being denied something, before the metal collar around your throat tugs painfully up. The edge of it digs into the soft flesh as you're forced to stand. You panic like a wild dog in a trap, fighting the pull, but it does nothing to stop the collar forcing you to stand. 

Your vision swims as the collar forces your head back; you feel like a trussed-up trophy. Left balancing on your tiptoes as he walks around you, appraising the body on display before him. You feel his eyes taking you in, shorts, and a ratty tank top the only barrier between your flesh and his hungry eyes. The clothing leaves nothing to the imagination as he stands behind you. You can feel the skin bruising where the collar cuts into flesh, biting your lip as he closes the distance between you two. 

"Now I see why the super-bitch wanted you so badly." 

It's rumbled into your ear another shiver races down your limbs, another memory surfaces, after the inn. 

Waking up in a chapel the stone foundation freezing against your skin. Your friends bound, and someone--something argues for each of you. A towering woman sitting in a pastor’s chair. Arguing for all the women in the group to go to her. Her yellow eyes shining in the dim lighting as she takes in your whimpering friend.

You lean against your friend in a small attempt at comfort. She hides her face against your arm. Her sobs becoming louder, as the conversation continues. The group before you bickering about you and your friends as if you’re livestock to be doled out to the highest bidder. 

I want her.

The memory fades as he presses himself to your back. Your heart stops your fingers grasping at the taunt chain holding you hostage. 

How is he doing this? 

Your panicked thoughts don't help as hands grasp at your hips, yanking you closer to him. You bite your cheek to stop a yelp from leaving you. You will not give him the satisfaction of hearing your fear. His nose presses into your hair. He takes a deep sniff nuzzling deep into your tresses; the growl he makes sends shivers creeping down your spine. 

"Hmmm, it has been...awhile." 

He mutters into your hair as his right hand slips forward cradling your abdomen, his left keeping your hips pinned against his. Grinding himself against you, and it feels... fuck it feels good. It had been too long since your last...You are seriously considering this? You got hit hard on the head, this must be some sort of trauma reaction. 

It's how you try to rationalize the way your body reacts to him. Your core throbbing as warmth settles into your stomach. You close your eyes and another memory slithers its way to the forefront of your thoughts. 

He kneels observing each of you, his scarred lip pulling into a smirk. The friend he's closest to squirms away, pulling on his bindings as he does so. As you feel his gaze land on you, a stupid part of you meets his gaze, daring him to do whatever his fucked up mind could think of. You're bruised, bloodied, and pissed. Right now you're hoping your bravado gets his attention off your friend shivering beside you, barely holding back her sobs. He stands heading back to his makeshift throne, but his gaze lingers on you the rest of the time. As his fingertips stroke along the handle of the wicked-looking hammer beside him. You've made a critical mistake, you just don't realize it yet. 

You'd sealed your fate to him the second you'd challenged him. In your naivete, you all but condemned your friends to their demises, each one doled out to the different lords. Each one...mostly likely dead or being tortured in some horrid way. It feels like a sick cosmic joke, and yet here you are forgetting those very friends you tried to save in favor of the man who is dry humping you like a dog in heat...And you're enjoying it. 

Heisenberg didn't want to end you though, no he liked the spark behind your eyes. Liked the way you refused to be caught, he'd even witnessed you take down a few of the lycans. You're a fighter. 

"You're gonna be fun," he chuckles with a final grind against your backside. The sensation leaving you gasping as the collar goes lax and you drop to the floor. Biting back a whine of pain; knees scraping against the concrete floor, and your hands taking the brunt of the fall. 

Heisenberg smirks above you, fingers tilting your chin up to face him. 

"Be good now sweetheart, I've got some...things to work on." 

With that, he's disappearing into the dark. Leaving you to consider your options...Make nice with him. Or figure a way out. 

[jangofctts]

Bloodsport (din djarin x fem!reader) (part one) 

rated: 18+

word count: 5.4k

warnings: smut, knife kink (no blood is drawn and consent is clearly given), blowjobs, vaginal fingering, din is sorta a virg duDE, alcohol, mentions of violence (reader punches someone in the face kwejrkejh), some gambling (sabaac) also please let me know if I missed anything!

a/n: oOf this is the first fic in sO LONG IM SO SORRY YALL KEHJRKEJH BUT ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU ENJOY

It’s been a couple months since Din’s stepped foot on the sandy nightmare of a planet. Went through hell and back and kriff—it feels like a lifetime ago. But the landscape before him hasn’t changed an inch, Mos Eisley same as always—busy with all sorts of scum and villainy he turns a blind eye to. 

Din hopes it’s not the only thing that’s stayed the same—selfish as it is. Someone as volatile as you is bound to catalyze and shift, so is the nature of life. A lot can happen in a month or two and it’s ridiculous to think that you would ever push your life to the side and wait for him to return.    

Turns out, you are here, still working as the resident mechanic. Though in the same elated breath of hearing that tidbit of news, it’s equally dissatisfying when he somehow misses you completely. You’re off planet, looking for power converters and electrical wiring—back in few days Peli promises. Maybe by the time his wild goose chase is over, back from the butt fuck middle of nowhere, he’ll get to see you— 

Nothing goes as planned—naturally. All Din finds is a man playing dress up, an oversized lizard, planetary drama he’s forced to resolve and—to top it all off—an attempted stickup. Maker—he’s not even worried about anything save for the kid and your speeder. The very same one now scattered over the sand in miserable heaps.           

At least some of it is salvageable…

By the time Din reaches the outskirts of Mos Eisley, the binary suns are smearing across the horizon like molten puddles of magma. Deep aches amass in his shoulders and back from the weight of the speeder parts, his gear, and the second pair of armor. Maker—it feels like his arms are going to be ripped off.

The baby babbles something incomprehensible. 

“Almost there, kid,” Din responds, sparing a quick glance down the baby. “How does soup sound?”

Instead of trudging back to the hangar, Din wanders to the cantina. Call it a hunch or just you and your aunt’s tendency to lurk around the premises, he’s certain he’s going to find one of you here. 

Din is right.

The moment he steps inside, he spots your mess of hair, the low solar lights illuminating the rich colors with a soft orange. The baby coos and blinks up at Din, his tiny clawed finger gesturing in your direction. 

Din hums. “Good job—you found her.” 

The child’s little teeth peek out, pleased with his discovery. Din steps into the doorway, down the carven stairs and over to your table. A older man—a ship rigger by the looks of his uniform—sits across from you, a game of Sabaac spread across the table between you. You’re winning. 

“Hello, Shiny.” You greet, dipping your chin in his direction. “Your armor is looking a tad ripe.” 

It’s true. The layer of slime coating his armor had baked and crusted under the suns—probably doesn’t smell too good either… 

“I killed a Krayt dragon.” Din states it with a twinge of smug satisfaction despite knowing how little something like that would mean to you. He could conquer three dozen planets and shower you in all the precious metals in the world and you’d still turn your nose up at everything.  

“And I curb stomped a centipede today—you aren’t special.” Your eyes never leave the set of worn cards you hold between your fingers, acutely ignoring him like you would an overly enthusiastic puppy. You inhale and scrape your right thumbnail along the edge of the hexagonal cardstock—it’s a subtle tell, one Din would more than likely miss if he were the unlucky bastard brave enough to sit at the other end of the table.  

“You playin’ or what?” Your opponent gripes. He scratches his unkempt salt and pepper stubble and quirks a furry brow. 

You lift your chin in scorned defiance and lay your hand down—full Sabaac. The man hisses through his crooked, clenched teeth and utters a curse as he shoves his winnings towards your end of the table.  

“Peli promised me information.” Din pushes, hearing the kid coo in curiosity as you begin shuffling the cards with practiced flare. “About others like me.”

“Do I look like my aunt to you?” You grumble. It’s the first time your eyes leave the perimeter of the game to look at him. They settle on the kid first with a guarded version of compassion, then leap to the faded green armor clipped to the heavy luggage, and then his visor. Your lip twitches at the green slime still coating the beskar. “I’m assuming my speeder didn’t make it.”

“A technical difficulty.”

You roll your eyes and snort, dealing out the cards then setting the stack in the middle. “Right…”

The background ambiance of the bar and the quiet rasp of cards fill the brief lull in conversation. Any other rational person would take the blaring hint to leave, but Din is just as stubborn as you are. 

“I don’t remember where the hangar is,” Din lies, cocking his head to the side in mock innocence, “could you show me?” 

The tip of your tongue peaks out of the corner of your mouth. The unconscious tic is not one of irritation—not yet. Though before you’re able to respond, your opponent beats you to it. 

“Yeah—I know where it is. It’s between fuck off and take a hike.”  

Din turns his head, the cool, even tone of his words sharper than shrapnel as he address the man. “I was speaking to her.”        

This is funny to you Din realizes—one of the tiny mysteries of your entirety clicking into the place of the puzzle map he’s conjured for you. 

“Well, I don’t have the time of day for cowards who wear shiny buckets over their head.” The man gripes into his drink, dark eyes flicking over to Din as he sizes him up. “What’s a Mandalorian doing out here anyway? Thought your planet exploded or something.”

The man’s ignorance irks him—sure. How could it not? But with years of harsh words and jabs at the foundation of Din’s very being, he’s learned to adapt. It’ll always sting no matter how many layers of beskar he wears but you on the other hand…

Your eyes spark, molten and bright like the last solar flare on the surface of a decaying star. Each encounter Din’s had with you, he’s bared witness to the deep well of your anger that fuels your being like the auto-mechanical heart of a droid. He’s felt the bite of your rage firsthand, but this anger—this is the tragedy of the delicate mayfly wings trapped between the black teeth of misfortune—the story of the boy who rammed a spear into the flank of an ancient beast that bites before it barks and gnashes its yellowed teeth in warning.

Din’s hand inches towards his blaster. He’s not willing to weigh the safety of the kid against your rash decisions, despite it being on his behalf.   

Though, just as quick as it appears, it recedes like the cool drawback of a tumultuous ocean. Din’s arm relaxes at his side as you release a puff of air. 

Your scuffed up fingers, stained with years of engine grease, scars and dirt, curl around your half finished drink. You stand, lay your cards face down onto the table and flash the stranger a feral grin.

Without a word, you toss your drink directly into the man’s unsuspecting eyes. In another breath, the pointed edges of your knuckles fly forward and hook beneath the point of his chin with a meaty thunk. The man’s head whips backwards and connects with the gravely wall—

Out like a light.  

Jaw clenched tight, you shake out your bleeding knuckles and gather up the strewn credits over the table. You shove them into the pockets of your jacket and side eye Din. “Restitutions for damages,” you mutter. 

The other patrons keep their eyes to themselves as the three of you hurry out the door. Only an apathetic glance from the bar tender serves as proof that something did, in fact, occur. No one wants to dirty their nose sniffing about where they shouldn’t be when they have their own business to safeguard.

The crisp night air rustles the stray strands of hair that escape from your ponytail. Ghostly moonlight carves the shape of your cheeks into an almost ethereal sight—one of those deep space creatures with pointy teeth and hellfire for eyes. Stuff of legends you’d never think to look in a dingy bar for.     

But he knows—Din knows that cool mask is just a front from what you hide. It is a hungry ghost that hounds your thin stretched shadow—what ifs and the glories of war you never really escaped. You forget that you are flesh and blood and ghosts are only air and echoes, nothing more. 

Din is sharp edged steel. A stray fragment of a shattered mirror, the lacerated reflection of a nameless purpose and a faceless existence. He’s torn edges and cracked glass but his heart beats within his chest with the blood of a thousand suns. Two souls under the umbrella of the word damaged but entirely different in nature.     

“No one—“ you growl, your voice a steady and lethal timbre that terrifies a part of Din’s unconsciousness, “—speaks that way to my friends.” 

Touching. 

“Don’t look at me like that, Creature,” you huff, staring down at the child who gurgles in return. “He deserved it—“

The reunion certainly wasn’t the one Din imagined, though it’s a relief to find that there’s no roughened edge like sandpaper over skin wedged between you. Picked up right where you left off—no questions asked and no inglorious retelling of how Din nearly died on the floor of a shitty cantina. There’s not a doubt in his mind that you'd laugh at him for it—it is sorta funny…   

The rest of the evening is spent walking back to the hangar, arguing over the fact that yes Din should take the couch instead of that miserable little hovel he calls a bed, and spend the night. He’d have to find some other mechanic to work through the night if he wanted to leave in the morning, because you certainly did not want to volunteer for that. And so—Din reluctantly takes the couch and agrees to let you tackle the monstrosity of fixing up his ship for tomorrow. 

He has to admit…the couch is a bit smaller than the length of his body, but it’s comfortable…maybe he’d buy a better blanket while he was here. As a treat.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- 

You purse your lips and whistle. “I swear each time I see it, it gets worse. Y’know, I know a couple guys selling—“ 

“Can you fix it?”

You fold your arms over your chest and roll your eyes.“Yeah I can fix it, jeez—no need to get your undies in a twist.” 

You try not to take offense, because hey—you’re offering him the info on the good deals on new ships (and at this point anything would be better than this old rust bucket). But if Din doesn’t want anything to do with that, then whatever. His loss.   

When you wander onto the ship, toolbox in hand, the Mandalorian tags along. Unsure if he doesn’t trust you with his things or just wants to hang out, it blankets the space with an air of uncertainty. Turns out it was neither of those guesses. All he does is throw open his stash of weapons, collect his pile of vibroknives, and set them on a table to polish and sharpen. 

Makes sense, you suppose. Everything has to be as shiny as his armor. 

You drop to your knees near the closest wiring panel you find. You wrench open the paneling and frown at the disarray of sparking wires and tangled cords. You organized these perfectly last time he was here. “Who the fuck junked up my rigging?”

Mando sits at the little table tucked away in the corner, brooding over his cache of weapons. He shrugs. “Could’ve come loose when I landed.” 

You roll your eyes at his half assed excuse and mutter a foul string of curses under your breath that’d make even Peli wince. It’s fine. It’s cool—no biggie. You can sort through this in a couple hours, maybe three. 

But of course rarely anything goes as planned. As time ticks away, arms deep in wires older than the kriffing Clone Wars, the distractions begin. The scrape of metal on durasteel makes the hair rise into little pricks all up your arms—you shoot a glare over your shoulder. Din tilts his head, your kneeling self reflecting within the ever dark visor, features scrunched into an obvious tell of annoyance. Huffing, you bury your head back into your task at hand. 

The second distraction arrives in the form of a quiet hum of curiosity originating from the Mandalorian. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bring a vibroblade up to his visor, inspecting the notch in the blade that disrupts the electrical current that flows through the weapon. Din then rubs his thumb over the handle of the vibroblade in a slow, sensual circle. You lick your lips and tear your eyes away. That shouldn’t be hot.

You furrow your brows and tear apart another wire, but the metallic tap, tap, tap of Din bouncing the tip of a different blade over the table is bothersome. You swing your head to your left, mouth parting to snap at him, but his hand—sans glove—brings you to a halting stop. 

It’s alluring, the way his long, weathered fingers twirl the knife with practiced ease—like silk through water and followed by the low hum of electricity meant to slice through flesh. Din tosses it in the air, watching it spin three rotations then catches it by the handle. Your lips purse when his visor meets your eyes. He spins it between his fingers.  

“Am I bothering you?”

Fucker.   

You scowl. “It’s fine.” 

The soft rasp of his thumb sliding along the flat of the blade entices the eye and damnit—he’s doing this on purpose. 

“Doesn’t seem fine,” he hums. 

“Well, it is.” You retort hotly. You snatch up your pliers and imagine you’re pulling his teeth out in place of the crooked paneling. “I’m currently thriving in my element.”  

Din hums, the sound buzzing with grainy distortion. “Do you want a closer look?”

You chew your bottom lip. He’s playing with an open flame and you with volatile jet fuel. 

“I don’t know, seems kinda lame from here.” You scoff, busying yourself by pinching and twisting another set of frayed wires between your fingertips. “A toothpick if anything.”

Din snorts behind you. The deadly whisper of beskar against the durasteel tabletop makes the hair on the back of your neck prick into points. You tense as heavy boots shuffle along the floor, the near silent rustle of armor tinkling behind you as Din steps closer. You’re slow to stand, even though the presence of the Mandalorian is no less than overbearing. You wipe your grimy hands onto a spare rag, continuing to face the paneling. You then turn, a coy smile threatening to break across your face. 

Stars Din is broad—and close enough you swear you’re able to see the perspiration of your breath fog the beskar plating. Your eyes follow the seams of the cuirass, across the leather bandolier and up to his helmet that’s fixed in an impassive glare of tempered steel. Your back bumps into the wall as Din takes another step forward, boxing you in. To escape you’d need to duck under his arm and yet…you refuse to move.   

Your breath catches as he languidly lifts his hand and taps the flat side of the vibroblade over your collarbone. The sharpened point tickles up the column of your throat, a crackle of nerves and your pounding pulse following in its wake. Din turns the blade to flat edge and pushes into the space right below your jaw—you squirm when he chuckles, the sound low and deep. 

“You like this…”

Din grunts as your hand reaches between his legs, squeezing the growing hardness there. “So do you.” 

Din circles his hand around your wrist with his free palm. Moons above his hands are warm. He murmurs your name—you shiver. “Tell me you want this—want me.”

A blush, hotter than the surface of Tatooine in the midday sun, rushes up your neck and pools into the apples of your cheeks. Maker you want him. With a shuddering sigh you nod—braving the scathing shrapnel of vulnerability. “I need you, Din—please.”

A low chuckle rumbles through Din’s chest. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say please before.”

Din drops his hold on your wrist as you roll your eyes. “Shut up, Bucket Head.”

The Mandalorian snorts and dips his head—gesturing towards the blade still lightly pressed against the base of your throat. “This ok too, Skitter?”

You flash him a wolfish grin. “Gonna fuck me with it?”

Din swears under his breath, crowding his body closer to yours. You hear his strained sigh as he dips his head closer, the beskar a chilly whisper against your cheek. “You’re depraved…take off your pants.”

You smirk, tear off your belt and shimmy out of your pants and underwear, bottom half now bare. His visor dips, entranced.  

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he settles one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other trails the blunt edge of the handle from your clothes collarbone, and down your belly. From your mid thigh he skates the handle up your bare thigh and then rests it over the crack of your thigh. Heat flushes through your entire body, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the handle. A shiver races down each vertebrae when he drags it over the swell of your cunt and then carefully pressing it against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure. It’s cold, rigid and filthy. Who knows where that knife has been—how many lives it’s taken or severed through muscle and skin. 

You don’t find it in you to care all that much.    

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. Fuck—it’s been so long since you’ve indulged in this sort of pleasure.You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him, the handle of his knife slipping through your folds as arousal drips from your cunt.   

Your groan as you tilt your hips into the handle, craving any lick of pleasure he’ll give. Your breath hitches as Din pushes the hilt closer to your throwing entrance, murmuring praise as he sinks the first couple inches inside of you. It’s cold—the knobby feel of the handle not too much thicker than one or two of your fingers combines. You huff and grab at his cowl, the warmth of his hand grazing your pussy each time he rocks his wrist forward. 

“You’re so quiet,” Din goads, pulling the handle free from your aching center. “You usually have plenty to say.” 

You shoot Din a glare, tongue weighed down by arousal to come up with a god retort. You lean your head back against the wall of the Crest and with a chuckle, Din’s hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. The blade clatters to the floor and instead brings his calloused fingertips to your cunt. He softly rolls your swollen clit between his forefinger and thumb, delighting in the way you shake. “Be a good little thing and cum for me.”

Shit, you didn’t think it’d be that easy. Your body seizes as white hot heat ripples through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a high pitched cry filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around the thick fingers he slips inside of you. 

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body in wake of your euphoric high. You groan as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. “Fuck—that was good.”

You can only imagine that Din rolls his eyes. He takes a step back but before he can escape—

You drop to your knees, a wicked smile curling over your lips. The muscles in his thighs jump as your palms smooth over the outsides of them, then up to his narrow hips, your thumbs lightly massaging the ligaments that protects the fragile joints. Din sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertips hook around his trousers. 

“What are you doing?” Din asks, brushing a thumb over your jaw. 

You pause and glance up at him. You quirk a brow. “Was gonna suck you off, but if you have something else in mind…“ He hisses and tips his head back, flashing the underside of his chin as your hand leaves his hip to cup the heavy bulge tenting in his trousers. 

“Maker—“ He looks off to the side, inhales a choppy breath and then snaps his head back. “You’d…you’d do that?”   

You nod and flash him an encouraging half grin. “Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to.”

Din mumbles an incoherent string of words under his breath and shifts his weight onto his right leg. His fingers touch your cheek again then tuck a loose hair behind your ear. “But—“

Moons above this man is straight out of some kind of fucking fairytale—arguing about getting his dick sucked—or not. 

Whatever.       

“Din…” His breath hitches at the sound of his name. “I’m asking you kindly to fuck my mouth—it’s cool if you don’t wanna, but my knees already kriffing hurt and—“

He cuts you off with a hasty nod. “Yes—stars, please.”

Fuck yeah.

You smile and slide your eyes past Din’s legs to the cargo crate shoved up against the wall. “You should sit—easier that way.”

He nods and shuffles over, lightly perching himself on the edge and ready to flee at the barest hint of well—anything.

Din’s knee jumps when you place your palm over it. You assume his nerves are from the nature of his occupation—trouble always strikes when you least expect it—and what better time would that be when his pants are around his ankles. “Relax—I’m not gonna bite—maybe.”

He makes a wary sound low in his throat as your fingertips hook into the waistband of his trousers and pull. Din lifts up as you tug the fabric further down his legs, tan skin and solid muscle following in its wake. Fuck…

You swallow, mouth feeling quite dry when your eyes drift between his legs. Din is thick, a rosy brown color, flushed at the tip and curling towards his bellybutton. Beads of liquid shine at the tip, dribbling down the underside and pooling into the dark patch of curls at the base. Din’s fingers hook over the side of the crate, squirming under the weight of your stare. 

Yeah—that’s gonna leave your jaw aching.    

You hear his breath hitch, magnified by the crackle of the vocoder as your lips descend over a silvery scar on the inside of his right knee. You pepper a trail of wet kisses and light nips up his thighs, and by the time you reach the crease of his leg, his hips mindlessly rock with need. 

The second the wet warmth of your tongue brushes over the tip of his cock, his hips jolt off the crate, a load groan echoing through the empty ship. It’s like striking a match to an open line of kerosene—devouring and explosive that’ll leave your delicate skin singed. You’re not nervous playing with fire if this barest scrap of wild heat is anything like burning to a crisp. 

Emboldened by his initial reaction, you wrap your hand around the base, pulsing and achingly hard beneath the velvety flesh. You flatten your tongue over the tip, lapping up the sticky liquid the slip the head of him into your mouth. His hands fly to your hair, tightening into fists as he throws his head back. The beskar scrapes over the durasteel with a sharp squeal, but you don’t find it in you to care about the abrasive sound—eardrums be damned.  

“Fuck—kriffing hell—“ Din snarls, arching his hips to seek more of your warmth. “K-keep going.”  

Your own rekindled arousal blazes hot in your core hearing his stuttered pleas. You pull away to catch your breath, feeling almost guilty for doing so at Din’s low whine of protest. He picks his head up, watching as you languidly jerk him off—entranced with the way your hand rolls over the leaking tip, back down to the base, then up again. You could keep him like this—tease until he cracks under the pressure and begs you for whatever iota of pleasure you want to give but—

You’re not that mean.    

Wetting your lips with your tongue, you part your mouth and slide nearly half of his length into your mouth. Din mutters something garbled, his hips jolting as you hollow your cheeks and bob your head.

Din shifts, arching his back and stuttering out broken whispers of encouragement. Placing your hand over his thigh, you can feel his pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips, wild and alive—something real beneath all that heavy armor and unforgiving helmet. 

“You—you look…” He grunts as you hum around around his cock, swallowing him down further. “Shit—you look so p-perfect like this.”

You groan and squeeze your thighs together, attempting to ignore the gnawing hunger snapping at your insides. 

Rolling your tongue along the underside of his shaft, your fingers slide over what your mouth cant reach—squeezing and gently coaxing him towards his high. He seizes up tight—yet, just when you think you’ve got him skidding off that precarious edge—

His hand fists your hair at the base your neck and yanks you off his cock. He huffs, breathy little pants as he folds into himself like he’s been punched in the gut, his head rolling forward onto his shoulder. Din shivers as he scrambles for control, beginning to loose that slippery foothold he’s so intent on maintaining. His cock, flushed an angry red and still slick with your saliva, twitches and throbs for the release so cruelly wrenched away. 

You let him catch his breath. The fingers tangled in your hair go lax and drop away to rest at his sides. You swallow, his previous skittishness suddenly clicking into place. “Din, are you…?” A virgin. Your question tapers off, unsure if it’ll embarrass and scare him off. 

“No,” he answers—not in a sharp way like you’d hear with a bruised ego—just stating a fact. “Just not—not this. Never had someone—stars—“

Your teeth roll your bottom lip between them, forcing your face to remain neutral despite the stroke of pride blooming singing in your chest. You’re his first—lucky enough to make this the best goddamned oral he’ll ever have. Something he’ll remember for years.  

“Do you want me to stop?” You ask, praying to the Maker he’ll say no. 

He shakes his head, sucking in another calming breath and unfurling himself. His fingers clench into fists then relax, crackling with pent up energy and unsure nerves as to where he should put them. You solve it by threading your fingers through his and placing them around you head. 

Your lips quirk. “You’re allowed to cum in mouth—don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches as a quiet moan fizzles through the modulator. “You su-sure?”

“Oh, yeah.”

With a smile you bring your mouth back to his cock, tongue swiping up the entire length of him. Din groans as the soft warmth of your mouth slips over the flushed tip of cock, his thick length twitching as you hollow out your cheeks and suck. You bob your head as you slowly work him in further because even like this, hardly halfway into your mouth, you feel your lips stretching a bit too much around him. You groan and part your mouth wider, letting him sink into the soft warmth of your throat.  Din inhales, the sound shaky and unsure as his hips twitch with a few tentative thrusts. 

You take it slow—lifting your mouth nearly all the up to the tip then back down to the base. Din rolls his hips, helping you ease into the gentle pace. Saliva drips down his cock and over your knuckles making an absolute mess you have zero intentions of cleaning up. It’s his ship after all. Din swears as his hips stutter, your hand squeeing around him, trying to push him off that edge he so deserves. Din gasps your name, the pitch of his words knocking up to a lighter, more airy tone, warmer than melted butter. 

“Ca-can’t believe, it—ah—it fits.” He groans with astonished reverence. You preen under his praise. 

You swallow around him and grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you let him rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans. 

You can feel is cock twitching over you tongue—he’s close—and when your eyes roll up to meet the darkened visor, he’s gone. He shouts your name and knots his fists around your hair as he spirals of that edge. You nearly gag from the force of his release hitting the back of your throat—cock throbbing and jerking in your mouth like he’s been denying himself release for months. His moans, fragile and gasping, filling the quiet space as his hips grind his cock deeper down your throat, his hands threaded into your hair acting as an anchor—the sole tether he has to the waking world. 

Din’s grip relents as the last few catastrophic waves tear through his body. He doesn’t move his hands, just lets them rest over your skull  as his chest heaves for precious air, a harsh crackle through the vocoder. You pull his still twitching cock halfway out, dragging the tip of your tongue below the frenulum while one of your hands circles the base of his length. Maker—he’s still going—

Last little dribbles of his cum spurt onto your tongue and drip over your knuckles still securely wrapped around him. His legs and lower abdomen flex when your hand falls lower to carefully knead at his balls, milking out his pleasure for all its worth. You let his softening cock slip from your mouth when he swears and mumbles your name.      

When you rest your back against the wall, he slips himself back into his trousers and joins you. You take a risk and rest your head over the chilly beskar pauldron. You’d never call this love—the word is much too harsh for this delicate string of seconds. Love means giving pieces of yourself to others like martyrs give their hearts to the sky—or risk fragile skin against the rays of an unforgiving sun. Broken ribs and clenched fists, immensity beyond comprehension—

“You should come with us,” he says with a hesitant mumble. Love is formidable—but you know that somehow, here, pressed against Din’s side, that this is right. In a golden way, a honeyed way, a path that tastes of blood, freedom and blaster smoke that will leave your lungs stained with blackened soot. Cowardice has long made a home inside of your soul, and he’s offering you a chance to shake off the layer of frost clinging to your bones and step into the gentle merciful dawn.  

“Yeah—alright, Din. I will.”

tags (only tagging some moots for now bc i have no clue what’s going on in this fandom anymore dbdndn): @goldafterglow @jango-fettish @djxrxn @blsmjoon @spookoofins @krissology @steeeeeeeviebb @teaofpeach @comphersjost @gummiishark @delusionsxfgrandeur @pettyprocrastination @huliabitch

[anarchy-n-glitter]

The Volkov Files

Summary: Years after the Raccoon City incident, questions arise after the body of an old friend is used to taunt Leon Kennedy on a mission. Who was Envy Snow really? Why was she in Raccoon City when the outbreak happened? When was she killed and who killed her?

FILE 1, FILE 3

FILE 2

IV

Leon looked at Envy as she stood, bent over and catching her breath. She was rather tall and pale, her hair matching that same snow white skin. She wore a blue, zip-up vest and a white skirt that was already splattered with blood. She looked at Leon through her long, doe-like lashes with eyes that resembled icy water. Her lips were parted slightly as her chest rose and fell, taking in deep breaths. However, Leon could see the deep red gashes on her upper arm that contrasted with her pale skin and stained her gloves.

“We have to get out of here.” She breathed. Leon nodded before pointing at her arm. She looked down at her arm, lifting it slightly to observe it. He got down onto one knee, leading Natalya to do the same.

“I’m aware. I didn’t have time to patch it up, as you can tell.” She said before gesturing to the dead zombies on the ground. Leon reached into a pouch on his hip and retrieved a small can. He shook it before holding out his hand. Natalya eyed it suspiciously then, slowly, she held out her arm, allowing Leon to take it. He began to spray her wound with a cold, scentless liquid that stung slightly. Natalya winced, shocked by the sudden sensation. Leon finished up quickly and reached into his pouch again to grab bandages, which he promptly began to wrap around her arm.

“Now we can get out of here.” He said. Natalya looked at him, silently figuring him out as if he were some sort of puzzle for her to solve. He was bright eyed and painfully optimistic, young too. She feared that he was a danger to himself; that he’d end up getting killed. She knew it wasn’t fair, but it was how the world worked, no matter what field of work you were in.

Natalya’s eyes glanced at the letters on his chest: RPD. She smiled in a fake manner, hoping that he knew what he was doing.

“Then lead the way.” She said. Leon took her hand and helped her up to her feet. She brought her other hand up to grasp at her wounded arm and watched as Leon cautiously walked down the hall, flashlight and gun pointed in the same direction. He seemed capable enough, but Natalya wasn’t quite ready to trust someone she just met.

Puddles splashed beneath their heels as the walls groaned and creaked. Leon was ready to fire, because he knew at any second a zombie could round the corner. Being ready meant life or death. Natalya felt incredibly vulnerable standing behind Leon. She didn’t have a flashlight of her own and the light of his wasn’t enough to illuminate their surrounding area. Something could sneak up behind her and she’d be done for.

Perhaps that is his plan, she thought to herself, maybe he knows and he’s leading me to my doom. Of course, Natalya knew that this was just paranoia. Years of being a spy took a toll on how one views the world and the people living in it. Now that Raccoon City was having its own mini apocalypse, this thought process was amped up to one hundred.

Normally she wouldn’t be so reliant on someone, but now? Now that she was out of bullets and wounded? Now she would certainly rely on someone, as long as she knew that they were trustworthy.

“How much longer?” She asked him. He glanced back at her, opening his mouth to reply, but he was stopped by the sounds of growling. He whipped his head around and focused on the rotting creature in front of him. He backed up slightly, the hand with the gun coming down and out to the side so he could shield Natalya.

“Get back!” He yelled to her, and she obliged without question. The zombie reached out at Leon, its fingers flexing and moving in unnatural ways as it attempted to grab at his warm flesh. Natalya drew a knife. It was a small pocket knife that was easily concealed by her thigh-high boots. It fit easily into her hand and remained hidden there until she knew what Leon was doing.

The zombie lunged, screeching hysterically. Leon dodged its pathetic attempts at catching him and re-aimed his gun, pointing it directly at its head. He fired, blood splattered everywhere as well as chunks of skull, but the creature was not deterred. Natalya backed up against the wall, watching wearily as the zombie went in for another attack. It grabbed Leon by the shoulders and prepared to bite, but he pulled a knife and buried it deep into the monster’s chest and pushed it away. He aimed again and took two more shots, both hitting the head of the zombie. This time it fell, collapsing to the ground with a loud THUD!

Leon walked over to it and grabbed his knife back before turning his attention to Natalya.

“Come on. I don’t think this thing is gonna stay down for long.” He told her, and she obeyed, running toward him, her footsteps echoing in the quiet corridor. She found herself grabbing ahold of his shoulder, allowing him to completely lead the way. They reached a door and Leon slowly opened it, peeking through the crack to be sure the coast was clear. They entered the main hall of the RPD, it was empty save for Marvin, as it usually was. Natalya broke away from Leon, looking around as he rushed over to Marvin, who was behind a screen, laying down on one of the couches.

He stopped and glanced back at Envy.

“Hey, the way out’s over here. I just gotta get Marvin and put this last piece in the thing and then we can get outta here.” He told her, gesturing to where the giant statue of a woman stood. Natalya nodded and followed him over to the back of the hall, where she finally saw the man Leon was referring to as “Marvin.” He sat on a green couch, holding his right side, which was bleeding profusely. Leon placed the last medallion into a slot on the base of the statue, and the base shifted, revealing a tunnel below the floor. Natalya stared in awe, shocked that such a place would have secret tunnels. Although, she supposed that wasn’t the oddest thing she had come across in America, especially in this city.

Leon had been a bit preoccupied, arguing with Marvin as Natalya stared into the depths of the RPD. Things got more heated behind her, but she wouldn’t realize that until she heard a gun being cocked. She turned around to see Marvin holding Leon by gunpoint.

“It’s on you now… just go!” Marvin told Leon. Leon simply stood there, looking at the dying man. Natalya came up behind him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

“I understand.” Leon said before touching Natalya’s hand and turning around. The two walked down the steps together and took their first steps to reuniting with the outside world. Before they entered the tunnel below, Leon took one last look at Marvin.

2

The rookie cop, as I had heard some people call him, whether through notes or actual survivors, was a kind man who had helped me escape the RPD. I fear that, had I not met him, I might have been the only living person left in that place. I might not have made it without Leon.

He led me into a room below the RPD, which might be in your interest to investigate after this. There was a small model of the station on a desk, and it didn’t seem to have any significance, despite how many times I searched it.

Leon and I made it into some sort of boiler room, but that was when we got separated. He went ahead of me after we heard a noise. I had already picked up some ammo and reloaded my weapons, so I went to investigate. Something happened and a tunnel collapsed behind me, the last thing I remembered before that was the sounds of metal getting smashed in. I supposed maybe some sort of foundation involving pipes broke and it caused the doorway to crumble, but I wasn’t sure, so I continued on.

3

Natalya picked up a box of handgun ammo and quickly loaded it into her gun, following Leon closely into a boiler room. It was large, and, despite its size, was rather cramped. The floors were metal and echoed loudly as they walked. Steam rose from a machine below them, creating a thick fog that temporarily blinded the two. She gripped her gun tighter.

There was a loud grunt, followed by booming footsteps above them. More sounds resonated throughout the chamber, unsettling moaning that communicated pain. Leon lifted his gun again and looked back at Natalya.

“What was that?” She asked. Leon didn’t answer, instead, he continued to travel down the path. When the noises didn’t stop, Natalya froze in her tracks.

“Envy…” Leon began. Natalya lifted a finger to her lips.

“I’m going to investigate.” She told him. He wanted to tell her not to, but he knew it would do no good. It took him a few moments, but eventually he nodded. Natalya turned around and ran off in the other direction in search of some stairs.

Leon continued on the path he was taking before.

V

Transcript (translated):

September 24th, 1998

N: Leon and I were separated. I can hear the sounds of metal hitting metal from down the corridor. I might need backup, I might need to be extracted from the city; there aren’t many people left in the city and I haven’t seen Ms. Wong anywhere. Not a trace of her.

P: Who’s Leon?

N: A man I met. He knows his way around the city; a police officer.

P: What does he know of us?

N: Not much. He doesn’t even know my real name.

P: Good. I’m afraid, NV, that we cannot extract you from the city until you find Ms. Wong. You have to trade information.

N: I don’t even know if she’s alive!

P: That doesn’t matter, find her and get the information. If you cannot do that you are useless to us.

N: So if I don’t find her you’ll leave me to die here?

P: I’m afraid so. You’ll be a liability.

N: Fine.

P: Report back when you find the target.

N: Yes, sir.

(Phone line ringing.)

2

The halls were dark and quiet, save for the brief shuffling of feet coming from a zombie or two. Natalya held up a dying flashlight, one that she found on the body of a dead officer. From what she could tell, she was in a prison. Cells could be seen to her left and right, some occupied by zombs (as Natalya liked to call them), some not. They would reach through the bars, their bloody hands grabbing for her even though she was just out of their reach. She wanted to shoot them, just to be sure they didn’t get out and try to kill her later, but she knew that she was low on ammo again. Despite being in a police station, ammo was pretty scarce.

Then she saw them, a figure, a shadow moving in the darkness. She could see from their silhouette that they were wearing heels, and assumed that this person was a woman. She hid behind the wall, peaking around the corner every now and then to watch what they were doing. The woman opened the gate down the hall, entering and talking to someone. Natalya wanted to move out, but knew that she couldn’t. Silently she hoped that this woman was Ada, but she remembered Leon mentioning a woman named Claire, so the chance was slim.

She could hear two voices vaguely. They spoke in a whisper; one was a deeper voice that sounded vaguely familiar, and the other was the distinct voice of a woman. The man’s voice rose, claiming that he didn’t even know her name. Then Natalya heard it, he announced his name. “Leon Kennedy.” Natalya could feel her hopes rise and immediately became relieved now that she knew that he was okay. Heels clicked as the woman began walking down the hall.

“Name’s Ada.” She told him, her heels clicking loudly as she walked off. Natalya pressed her back against the wall and began to move away from the corner. The target was there, but she needed to see Leon again, just to make sure he was actually okay. She found a door and opened it, which led her into a closet. She hid and waited for the target to move, then she’d follow her… after she talked to Leon. She opened the door again to watch where Ada went, and once she was sure she was gone she moved toward the corner again.

She saw him standing there, reading a paper. She grabbed ahold of the bars on the gate and tried to push it open, only to realize it was locked. Leon turned around after he heard the gate rattle, gun pointed at her. His face softened as soon as he realized it was her.

“Leon?” She called out. He smiled at her.

“Envy.” He breathed out before immediately rushing over, stopping just in front of the gate.

“How’s your arm?” He asked. She smiled.

“Fine.” She reassured him. She looked over him, making sure that he didn’t have any wounds on him. He reached out to push on the gate, which didn’t budge even on his side. Natalya shook her head.

“It’s locked.” She told him. He sighed and took a step back before drawing his gun again.

“I’ll come find you.” He promised her. She shook her head again before looking behind her, eyeing the corridor Ada had gone down.

“Don’t worry about me. I have something else I need to do. Maybe we could meet up in the parking garage.” She told him. He looked over his right shoulder after hearing a groan, then he looked back to her.

“Yeah. Deal.” Natalya then ran off, attempting to catch up with Ada. Leon was left wondering what it was she had to do; and what she was doing coming from where Ada had walked in.

Natalya ran down the hallway to her left before coming to a door.

3

I had tracked Ada the best I could in the prison but I ended up losing her. I’ll admit, perhaps seeing Leon beforehand was a mistake, but I needed to know if he was okay. When I had met him, I was sure he was doomed. But, as time went on and as he fought, I realized that I was routing for him. I wanted to see him succeed in this unfair world. We would grow closer as time went on, after we had reunited of course.

As time would go on, I would fall for him. He was so optimistic; it was almost contagious. He tried his best to protect the survivors, and, if I weren’t in the predicament I am in as I write this, I would have loved to see him continue on as an officer. He had the heart for it, and he wore it on his arm for the world to see.

I just wish I could get out of here, but I can’t right now or they’d find me. And I know he’ll never see this, but I wish I could have gotten on the train with him and his friend Claire. I knew that they were following me, that man and his woman, so I knew not to lead them to the last few survivors. They’d kill them and then me.

So here I am, writing this as some sort of sick memoir. I’m hiding in a locker, shining my flashlight on this small notebook that I found on a nearby desk. I just wanted to explain how I got here, possibly even what led up to my death, if this should go in that direction. And I want-again, even though I know he won’t see it-Leon to know that, despite how short our time was together, how wonderful he was as a person. Any other person would have left me to die in the station, but you helped me.

4

Leon clutched the note in his hand, crumpling the sides slightly as he read. He couldn’t believe it. He knew she was killed, he saw her body on his last mission but… she had died years ago. The people who had killed her were tracking her in Raccoon City and she refused to go with him because she knew that they’d come for her and kill them all.

Leon knew that Wesker was involved. He had to have been, why else would he leave her body for him to see? But the thing that got him was, they preserved her body. They had planned to use her for something, whether it really was just to taunt him or for something else.

He knew that she had cared for him though, and that on its own was something to behold. Despite how emotionless she seemed, he could tell that she was fond of him. Although, from the way she worded it, it seemed like it was more of a fascination with him. Now, with this new evidence, he questioned what his life would have been like had the Raccoon City incident never happened. Would she still have come to Raccoon City to look for Ada? Would they still have met? What would have happened if Umbrella wasn’t after her? If Wesker wasn’t?

So many questions. All without answers.

5

She had lost Ada, but she gained a stalker. It was the man. The man from the party. He had come for her. Natalya was still unsure of the reason, but she knew it wasn’t good. Perhaps he knew who she was, possibly since the party, but now he was going to get rid of her. She picked up her pace, walking faster, acting like she didn’t know he was there. He walked at the same pace, allowing her to get some distance between her, but she was a tricky one. The next zomb she saw she’d throw at him and make a run for the parking garage so she could wait for Leon.

He was silent. Every part of him was silent, even the way he walked. Natalya didn’t like that.

She turned another corner, and, for once in her life she hoped a zomb would be there. There wasn’t. So she kept walking, searching every nook and cranny for ammo or other valuable items. She found a hip pouch just a few minutes earlier, and now she was looking for other things. For example, a key card so she could get the hell out of the station and out into the streets so she could lose this creep.

Natalya only had ten days left to live, and now the reaper is following her.

VI

“Leon!” Natalya shouted. He turned around immediately, watching as she struggled to run. Ada stopped dead in her tracks and watched as a familiar face ran up to them. Envy Snow, she knew her and she knew that Envy was a codename. She eyed the woman wearily, but didn’t bother to say anything to Leon, who seemed relieved and overjoyed to see her.

“You made it.” He breathed. Natalya nodded and looked over at the woman in the trench coat: Ada. She stood at the mouth of the garage, staring the two down behind her dark glasses. Natalya, for once, felt like she couldn’t be bothered with the mission. Ada was there, yeah that was great, but she didn’t feel rushed to get info out of her. She didn’t want to do the tradeoff yet, especially if it meant leaving without Leon.

Leon followed her gaze to Ada.

“Oh, Envy, this is Ada. She’s helping me get out of here.” Natalya stepped forward, smiling at the woman she knew was a spy.

“I know… we’ve met.” Ada didn’t say a word to Envy. She knew that she had to do an exchange, but she knew she couldn’t do it there. Not in front of Leon. There was a loud crashing noise from the corner of the garage which put Leon on edge. He began to move forward slowly, which in turn caught the attention of Ada and Natalya.

“I think we should get going.” He said, moving ahead of the two spies. Ada was next to get moving, but Natalya stood there staring at the wall that began to crumble as something large moved through it, going deeper into the building and moving away from them. She finally turned around to follow Leon and Ada after being sure the thing that caused the hole wasn’t going to follow them.

The streets were as she remembered them: wet and simultaneously on fire with the infected hiding behind every corner. Ada took the lead, guiding the other two through the dilapidated roads to-what they hoped to be-freedom. Leon stood protectively in front of Natalya, despite her own urge to protect him and her ability to protect herself. She would never admit it aloud, but she thought it was sweet.

Zombies toppled over crashed cars as they attempted to get to the group. Natalya would try not to jump when she heard one scream or groan, but, especially when it was a scream, she couldn’t help it. Ada walked coolly and calmly through the streets, clearing whatever she could with what little ammo she had left, leading Leon and Natalya to do the same. Gunshots would echo through the open world, which, despite what they were aiming to do, would draw more zombies to their location. They would come in droves, lunging at the group when they got close enough. Natalya grasped her pocket knife in her hand and went in for the kill. She figured if she could stab it in the head they’d die. This plan, however, only worked for certain zombies. Natalya quickly realized this as one grabbed ahold of her arm and prepared to bite into it. She panicked and tried to rip her arm away, but to no avail. Her free hand fumbled for her gun.

Her gloved fingers kept grazing the handle, but in a panic, she was unable to grab ahold immediately. Luckily, as they were walking, Leon heard the commotion. Natalya had finally managed to get ahold of herself and the gun and promptly raised it. She was still fending off the creature, trying her best to keep its gnashing teeth away from her arm. Leon rushed over, his gun aimed and at the rotting person. Natalya had managed to get her knife free with her gun hand (on accident, of course), but in the process, she had lost her hold on the creature’s head. It was about to bite down, when two gunshots rang through her ears.

The bullets had torn through the back of the zombie’s head, shattering its rotting teeth in the process. Its grasp loosened around her wrist as it fell backward, still gurgling and growling. Natalya took a moment to process what had just happened, but Leon grabbed her shoulder, turning her around to look at him and Ada.

“We gotta keep moving.” He reminded her as more of the infected closed in around the trio.

2

They were in a lab. An underground one. Leon had just gotten Ashley back, who hadn’t shut up since they got there.

Hell, she hadn’t shut up at all.

She was complaining about something he had said, something that was supposed to be a joke, but he supposed that didn’t matter to her. Scrap metal laid below them, on the ground glistening in the sunlight that leaked through the large opening above them… the one that they fell through. Leon was sure there was nothing else there, right?

Wrong.

He saw it as he observed their surroundings, laying there like some abandoned doll. Hair, as pale as it had been before. He felt himself go cold as his heart sped up. He cautiously approached the object

(or person)

in question, hoping that whatever

(or whoever)

it was hadn’t been laid there as a trap. As he grew closer, he realized that it, indeed, wasn’t a what… but a who. He couldn’t help but gasp in shock, unable to suppress what he had been feeling. He had been looking for her for seven years, and he found her… but…

She was as pale as she had been when he met her, but with more hints of grey in her complexion. Her mouth hung open, her lips looked like pale rose petals. He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t believe it. She was smart, she knew what she was doing. She survived that hell only to be killed in the end. He bent down and placed his hand on her shoulder, allowing the cold flesh to come into contact with his own warm skin. She was dead alright… but for how long had she been dead?

It looked as if she had been killed recently; surely if she were killed in 1998 she would have decomposed by then, right? Everything was still intact. Her skin was flawless still, save for the puncture mark on her neck. Leon ran his hand over it, feeling the bump as if touching it would tell him what happened to her, but alas, nothing. She laid on piles of scrap metal, her body contorted in a beautiful way.

She laid with her head facing her left, her hair covering the lower part of her face and falling into her mouth. Her right arm was raised beside her head; her hand was curled into a loose fist, while the other laid over her midsection. Her legs were bent, both facing the left with one foot underneath the knee of the leg on top. She looked as if she were sleeping, but Leon knew that was far from the truth.

Why was she there? Who would have done this to her? Who could he turn to and trust enough to find him these answers?

“Leon!” Ashley screamed out, drawing his attention away from the corpse of the woman he once loved.

3

A man and woman watched a wall of screens, each with a different image being displayed. The woman’s head turned in the direction of one particular screen before leaning down to whisper something in the ear over her lover.

“That one.” She told him, her vivid green eyes glancing over at the far left of the room and pointing to the lower image. He brought the surveillance footage up and into the front, allowing it to overtake all the other screens. It showed Leon as he observed the corpse of Natalya, as he searched her for any signs of life. The woman giggled to herself, so quietly that her lover didn’t seem to notice. She watched, completely fascinated by what the man on screen was doing. He knew she was dead, right? She had been dead for years, but they knew. They knew that he was there, and they had dropped her preserved body onto the pile of trash for him to find, because he’d never know. Not like they did, at least. He’d never learn what had happened, he’d never know why they dropped her there to be found by him. He’d never understand why she had killed the spy herself.

“Looks like he’s found our present.” The man stated in his usual monotone. He laced his fingers together in front of him and continued to watch, also intrigued. He wondered what Leon would do. How would he react? Would he be able to piece this one together? Or, perhaps, he would be stuck wondering what happened for the rest of his life. It was a game to the duo; one created through jealousy and manipulation as well as their mutual love and respect… but this? This was different.

“He has…” She agreed. She then looked down at her lover and wrapped her arms around him from behind.

“I love you, you know.” She uttered in his ear. He turned his head slightly, facing the direction her voice was coming from.

“I’m aware.” He responded with a hint of amusement in his voice. She laughed and stood up straight.

“I’m going back to the labs, come down when you’re finished… and tell me what Mr. Kennedy does next.” Her lover nodded in agreement and she left promptly, allowing him to return to the screens.

4

“Thanks for saving me.” She said to him in a voice barely above a whisper. Leon smiled.

“It was no problem, really.” Ada, who was becoming impatient, turned around to face the two.

“Look, we have to hurry if we want to get out of here alive. Pretty soon there’ll be no hope for us.” She snapped. The two stared on in silence, eventually nodding in agreement and continuing on with their journey. However, Leon had some questions that needed answering.

“Was that the intel you needed?” He asked Ada. She didn’t look back when she spoke to him.

“Unfortunately no. Ben didn’t come through.” She told him. Leon processed what she had said before asking yet another question.

“Well, what exactly are you looking for?” He asked.

“More info on the people responsible for this mess.” She answered. Natalya froze in her tracks, suddenly remembering her mission. She was sure Ada knew as well, but she wasn’t going to say anything in front of Leon. Instead, she pushed past him to walk beside Ada, leaving him confused as he stood En garde.

Ada glanced at the platinum blonde out of the corner of her eye. She did, indeed, recognize the girl. She was informed that she would be sent over to exchange information. The girl would give her more insight on Umbrella, as promised, and Ada would tell her whatever she found.

She observed Natalya closely, noticing that she was a few years younger than herself. She walked with a certain confidence that not many girls her age would have. She was rather similar to Ada, in that respect. From a young age she had been confident in herself and oozed said confidence, and it showed even then… in the midst of a damn apocalypse.

Ada knew why Natalya had walked over, but she wasn’t ready to exchange just yet.

END FILE 2

[davids-cartoon-corkboard]

Do you think that if Shredder!Raph will occur in rottmnt, the aftermath might result in Raph inheriting some of Shredder’s rage even after saved? Maybe that is how the crew is going to implement Raph’s trademark temper throughout previous generations and maybe even make him have to step down due to it, making Leo the new leader?

Short answer: “Inheriting the rage of a centuries-old demon" is a dope-ass idea, so if you’re a writer I would definitely encourage you to use that in your own stuff. But I think that if Raph’s temper worsens throughout the show, it should be because of his own character development and not a magical effect. However, a Shredder!Raph scenario could contribute to said worsening temper by inflicting emotional/psychological damage instead. :)

Long answer ahoy!

Looking at “Many Unhappy Returns” from the Shredder’s perspective makes it very clear why he does what he does. Like, he’s been dead for five hundred years, and then something went wrong with his resurrection. He’s waking up with no idea where he is or what’s going on and oh shit those guys are pointing weapons at him, that’s a threat!

Note that he doesn’t even bolt for them immediately, he does a warning stomp and screech (back off!) before starting to approach.

Those other guys are yelling, that’s also a threat,

and they’re closer so he’s gonna attack them first, actually. (None of the Foot wind up even comically injured, suggesting that flailing them around was an intimidation tactic rather than genuine Murderous Intent.)

And then the first group attacks, so of course he’s going to retaliate.

And then suddenly he’s somewhere else, with other threats (the animatronics), and then the first group that attacked him is back, so he’s gonna fight them again.

And these jerks just keep following him? He’s not going to ignore that. And WOW that’s a lot of bright lights and loud noises, which are also threats, what the fuck is going on?!

And then this tiny human girl chucks a giant metal box at him, holy SHIT?! Sure, the Shredder is a dangerous antagonist, but at this point I wouldn’t call him a “bad guy”, he’s literally just responding to what’s happening to him.

In summary, the Shredder was stressed tf out because he didn’t know where he was or what was happening, he retaliated against perceived threats, and quite possibly wouldn’t have attacked the turtles in the first place if they hadn’t just rushed in without understanding the situation.

Gosh, doesn’t that sound familiar?

So yeah, I’m waiting for Rise to give us that good good Shredder!Raph content.

As for the possibility of Leo taking over afterwards... no, but also yes, sort of? On the one hand, we know that Leo does have leadership capabilities, and it would be a waste for the narrative to not explore that. On the other hand, Rise has broken from the status quo in many ways, and it would also be a waste for the show to do a complete 180 and return to Leo Being The Leader™.

Consider how the “leader” role has influenced Leo in past iterations: his perfectionism wears on him and his brothers, any failure tanks his self-esteem, he feels isolated from the rest due to taking on such a large share of responsibility, being an authority figure grinds everyone’s gears, etc. It’s just bad for his mental health.

No doubt all this responsibility will also wear on Rise!Raph as the story progresses and the stakes get higher. It will be bad for him as well. But if Raph steps down, Leo will once again suffer from the weight of this role. So if neither option is quite correct, if neither brother can shoulder the burden of leadership alone, then the solution is just... for neither of them to shoulder the burden of leadership alone. Sure, Raph will probably remain leader in title and in spirit, but Leo taking on a sort of “deputy” role makes sense from a strategic standpoint, and would be good for his character development.

Here’s how I think it could go down:

The Shredder!Raph scenario will be different from the Shredder!Draxum scenario. The Shredder was starved for mystic energy the first time around, so he immediately chewed Draxum up and spit him out. But Raph could be compared more to a battery than a meal; it will take a while for the Shredder to drain him. And at this point the Shredder could be back in “evil samurai” mode, and thus will understand the value of holding Raph hostage.

Y’all who have followed my blog for a bit know about my “Raph is a system” theory; that when he was little, he got separated from his family and pursued by some cryptid hunter. This trauma formed Savage Raph, who is able to handle “being lost/alone/threatened” when Host Raph cannot. “Pizza Puffs” didn’t give us a lot of info about who I’m calling “Red Raph”, but he made his presence known when Host Raph was sort of... "emotionally alone”? In that his brothers were dying a little bit and too stoned to care.

So if Raph is trapped inside a living cage, scared and helpless and hurt and exhausted, his family unable to help him... he’s not going to be able to handle it.

Or, rather, Host Raph isn’t going to be able to handle it.

These two can, though.

I’m imagining a scene in the mindscape where the Shredder says something like “Your pathetic family cannot bear to strike you down, and so there is nothing that can stand in m- wait, why are there three of you OW FUCK-” Red and Savage will mentally kick his ass long enough for the other turtles to rip off a chunk of the armor so Leo can portal it into another dimension or something. Shredder gets K.O.’d since he’s not whole anymore, and the battle is won.

Since the armor didn’t drain Raph as severely as it did Draxum, he won’t become as weak as Draxum did. However, it will still take him some time to recover. Raph trusts Leo in serious moments as of “Many Unhappy Returns”, and he already took charge when Raph wasn’t available back in “Man vs. Sewer”. So Raph will be like, “Hey Leo, can you handle the Mad Dogs for a bit? Just long enough for me to get back on my feet.” And Leo will be like, “Sure bro, I’ve got this.”

He does not, in fact, “got this”. Leo’s ego has caused trouble before (”Shell in a Cell”, “Minotaur Maze”), and being in charge will no doubt go to his head. This has the potential for both comedy and seriousness, leading to wacky mishaps and genuine danger. Being the leader is hard work and it’s not always fun, but someone has to do it and Leo will have to put the others before himself for it to get done. Once Leo realizes this, he could bond with Raph by asking for his advice on leadership. Sometimes Leo will follow the advice and sometimes he won’t, sometimes that will work out and sometimes it won’t, laying the foundation for the idea that there are situations where it will be better for one or the other to lead, rather than having one lead all the time. But that will only happen for a few episodes, because Raph will heal quickly and he’ll be the leader again and everything will be fine!

Everything will not, in fact, be fine. Raph is the strongest in the family, the tank, the one who can take a hit so the smaller ones don’t have to... the idea of being hurt, of being weak, scares him because his family is also in danger if he’s unwell. So I don’t think he’ll acknowledge to anyone, not even himself, that getting possessed hurt him emotionally as well as physically. And when a wound isn’t acknowledged, it doesn’t get tended to, and when a wound isn’t tended to, it gets worse.

That he’s a system will add another layer of complexity to this. The Shredder!Raph incident would make all the alters aware of each other via mindscape shenanigans, but it would also leave them with the fear of not being in control, so I think they’ll come in conflict with each other for a bit. They’ll argue with themselves, switch, and lose time more often, enough that it impedes their ability to function and the other characters start to notice something is wrong.

Host Raph will convince himself that Everything Is Fine and try to get things “back to normal”, which probably means he’s just straight-up not going to acknowledge that he's a system. He’ll rationalize that he’s always “gotten weird” from time to time, so it’s nothing to think too hard about... right?

Savage Raph will be on high alert because they just survived a near-death (a near soul-destroying) experience. He’ll probably take the front and go overboard fighting some villains that Host Raph could have ordinarily fought on his own. It might also take a while to convince Savage Raph that these “sewer monsters” who keep following him around really don’t mean him any harm.

Red Raph will get snappy (pardon the pun) about the more social aspect of “not being in control”; that Host Raph asked Leo to be in charge and then Leo started being an egotistical dumbass. And when Leo does make the right decisions, Donnie and Mikey might side with him over Raph, and that will also grind his gears.

Mix all that together and you have a recipe for a capital b Breakdown.

So yeah, I can definitely see how the Shredder!Raph incident and its aftermath would worsen all three of their tempers, trauma will fuck up your emotions real bad. Perhaps Host Raph loses faith in himself and tries to step down and get Leo to replace him as leader... only for Leo to be like “Bro I cannot do this full time I will one hundred percent have my own Breakdown if that happens.”

The life lessons here are that Leo learns to offer support by sometimes taking the leader role; not to benefit his own ego, but because he wants to help Raph. And Raph learns to accept support by letting Leo be in charge sometimes; not because he’s weak or incapable, but because he can’t always be a Staunch Immovable Rock and he needs to let himself rest by trusting Leo.

And then the Raphs can work on communicating, cooperating, letting their allies know about them, digging into their trauma, etc. now that they have some breathing room.

(Do you think the Hidden City has therapists? Steven Universe and Mao Mao both have therapists can we BLEASE get one for Raph.)

[freudensteins-monster]

His Heart’s Desire (the beginnings of a Good Omens/Stardust crossover)

WARNING: This is unfinished and will probably remain unfinished. It was only meant to be a short crossover synopsis like always but it got away from me, then it made me fight for every last word for about a week until I could get it to the point where I felt I could leave it.

The idea popped into my head while scrolling through Ao3 and seeing the tag “angels used to be stars”.

Also posted on Ao3.

There was once a young man who wished to gain his Heart’s Desire.

And while that is, as beginnings go, not entirely novel (for every tale about every young man there ever was or will be could start in a similar manner) there was much about this young man and what happened to him that was unusual, although even he never knew the whole of it. - Stardust, Neil Gaiman

Ezra Fell, for all the gentlemanly qualities he possessed, had always been treated as something of an outcast by the townsfolk of Tadfield. For all he was kind, and well-read, and taught the children of the village their letters with such patience and enthusiasm, they could never forget what he was: a foundling from beyond the ancient stone wall that marked the eastern border of the village, the ancient stone wall that protected them from all manner of strange and terrible creatures that surely dwelled in the forests beyond. Not that they ever mentioned it. No well-bred person spoke of such unbecoming things, but they always managed to say a lot without speaking when it came to Ezra Fell.

Their poor treatment of him had only gotten worse after the death of the local vicar, the only father figure Ezra had ever known, culminating in R.P. Tyler, his snobbish landlord, drastically increasing the rent on Ezra’s beloved childhood home-turned-library in an effort to force him out. Ezra had worried over the notice for the better part of the day before getting up the nerve to confront his landlord as he and his yappy little terror of a terrier made their way home from the only pub in the village. It was a personal attack Ezra had tried to argue as delicately as possible, tugging nervously at the hem of his brown hand-me-down waistcoat - after all he’d never raised the rent as much as a penny for as long as the old vicar had been alive. When that failed Ezra practically begged his landlord to consider some sort of arrangement which would allow Ezra to purchase his home from him. Tyler was never going to sell, and told Ezra as much, but then a flash of fiery golden light shot across the night sky catching their attention and a cruel thought began to take shape.

“The only way I’d sell to a man of your background, Mr Fell, is if you brought me back that fallen star,” he most assuredly did not slur.

“The star?”

“Aye. You present that star to me by weeks end and I’ll gladly hand over the keys to you. But if you don’t, and if you’re so much as a day late with your rent, I’ll toss you and that absurd collection of tinder you call a library into the gutter.”

An idea once planted is a hard thing to kill, and as R.P. Tyler stumbled home Ezra’s gaze turned eastwards, trying to recall the path of the fallen star and wondering just how deep into the forest beyond the wall it had landed.

Several minutes earlier in the kingdom of Etherium, many leagues beyond the wall, in the largest bedchamber in the highest tower of the Palace of Light a queen lay dying. She is surrounded by her remaining children. There had been eight of them once but one by one they had perished – accidents, she was told – until only four remained; Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon, and…

“Aziraphale?” she called, her eyes struggling with the dwindling light.

“No, mother. It’s Gabriel,” the youngest of her remaining children huffed impatiently. “Aziraphale died as a babe. Raphael lost him in the forest when his camp was attacked by bandits. Remember?”

“And poor Raphael took an arrow through his righteous heart,” Michael feigned a sigh.

“Such a shame,” Uriel added, herself an excellent shot with a bow.

“Little Aziraphale was claimed by wolves, one can only assume,” Sandalphon grinned.

The queen feels the loss of her other children keenly and laments that she must leave her throne to such ill-suited heirs. Unable to choose one over the other, for they are no good choices, she gathers the last of her strength and walks to the window, looking out over her kingdom for the final time. She pours the last of her light into the pendant that had hung about her neck; a translucent crystal on a gold chain. It glows brightly for but a moment then turns cold and opaque as the queen hurls it into the night sky. It seems to hit something at its apex before careening back to earth. Her children watch on curiously, wondering if the old girl had finally lost all her marbles. She turns to face them, her skin now ashen making her look every one of her considerable years, and addresses her children.

“Whoever of royal blood can return the Light to the palace shall claim the throne of Etherium.”

Her children step over her cold body, shoving each other out of the way to get a better look at the pendants final resting place. Sandalphon accidentally falls out the window in his eagerness, or so the official report will say, and his three remaining siblings do not so much as even glance at his mangled corpse at the foot of the tower as they take their leave of their ancestral home to hunt down the pendant.

Hidden in the darkest depths of the darkest forest, someone else sees the star fall, and to them a fallen star means far more than a home or a throne. To them, a being who was old when the foundation stones of the Palace of Light were still hot and gooey, a fallen star is a means to restore her and her siblings to health and vitality and power beyond imagining. She hobbles back inside to share the joyous news with her siblings.

“A star has fallen!”

Her voice echoes through their cavernous and cluttered home but she gets no reply. She rushes about the place with a sense of urgency and a hunger she hasn’t felt in centuries. She retrieves a prized metal box from its hiding place, clicking her tongue in irritation at the three sets of bindings - one red, one black, one white - and seeks out her siblings. She finds them slumped together on a fetid sofa in what could be assumed to be the sitting room.

“A star has fallen!” she almost weeps with happiness. “One of us must seek it out.”

Her siblings rouse then, slowly. Her brother is dark and frail, and every bit of exposed skin puts his bones on display. He smiles the sharp smile of a predator, his mouth already watering. Their sibling is pale and weak, every movement disturbing the thick layers of dust that have accumulated on their hair and clothes, and when they speak the air becomes more putrid.

“A star? It has been so long,” they sigh.

“So hungry,” their brother echoes.

She shoves the metal box onto their laps and presses their hands to the knots of their respective bindings. A small spark of magic from each of and the bindings undo themselves.

“I will bring it back for us,” she declares as she pulls the box back towards herself.

Her siblings are too tired to fight her for the right, and though relieved she despises them for their weakness; they once fought all out wars to decide petty arguments, but that was so long ago now. She reaches into the box, her fingers tingling as they wrap around a glimmering scrap of the last star they found. She drops it into her mouth and almost faints in sheer ecstasy. As the power courses through her she stumbles drunkenly about the room and until she spies the silhouette of a large gilded mirror. She rips away the cloth that covers it and promptly does the same with her brittle once-red wig and the rags that covered her thin frame. She watches her reflection in awe, never tiring of the transformation, finding it just as magical as it had been the last time over four hundred years before. Her skin becomes radiant and smooth, her hair regrows cascading down past her shoulders like rivers of blood, her body fills out and she feels strong again for the first time in an age.

She runs – runs! – to their shared bedroom and digs out her favourite outfit and armour, preserved with care at the bottom of a solid oak chest. She dresses with haste but savours the feel of the blood-tanned leather on her skin, the weight of the armour, the familiarity of the sword at her hip. Her siblings have found the energy to leave the sitting room and are waiting for her by the front door. Their eyes rove over her restored form with unabashed hunger and envy, and it’s almost as heady as the star’s light coursing through her veins.

“The star lies 1000 miles to the north,” her brother tells her, handing her a leather pouch of runes stones carved from the bones of his first kill. “You must make haste for others seek it out.”

“Bring it back so we may all be young again, sister,” their sibling begs her, handing over a blade of darkest obsidian.

She takes their gifts reverently and secures them to her person. “I will find the star and cut out its heart,” she swears. “And when we are all of us restored to our full power the world will know fear once more.”

When we return to the other side of the wall, where magic and murder are not so commonplace, we will find Ezra Fells rather impulsively packing for a journey that will surely be more perilous than taking a carriage to Ipswich, or even all the way to London. Both of which he’s done precisely once.

He was second guessing himself for the hundredth time in less than an hour when there was a sharp rapping at his front door. As he went to answer it he tried not to think about how it may not be his front door for much longer.

“Anathema, my dear. What are you doing here so late?” he asked of his one and only friend, ushering her inside.

Anathema Device was considered something of an outcast herself and would tell anyone who asked (not that they dared) that she was a witch. She lived on the outskirts of town in a small cottage that had been in her family for generations and her oddness was tolerated by the townsfolk more so than Ezra’s for this very fact: there had always been a witch in Jasmine Cottage. It was downright traditional, and as long as Anathema kept curing their ailments without gossiping about them to their neighbours, and brewing her grandmother’s particularly potent spiced cider at Christmas, the townsfolk let her be.

“It’s Agnes,” Anathema groused, as though that explained anything. The woman had been dead and buried fifteen years now. “She left me something in her will with strict instructions on when to deliver it to you.”

“That time is now, I take it?”

“Right…” Anathema paused until the grandfather clock in the sitting room struck 10. “Now.”

She pulled a small parcel wrapped in waxed paper from her pocket and passed it over to Ezra. He took it gingerly wondering what on earth could be so important that Agnes would put such a plan in place. She had always claimed to have been able to see the future and doled out predictions to any who would listen. Ezra had been respectful of her claims, even helping her get a book of her prophecies published, but had never truly believed her because for all the years Ezra had known her she had never once offered him advice on his own future. At least not until this night.

At Anathema’s urging he took a seat and began to unwrap the small parcel only to find a smaller parcel inside of it with letter in between the layers.

“It’s from Agnes,” Ezra remarked before reading her missive aloud.

Dear Mr Fell,

I must get right to the pointe, for time is of the essensse: it was I who first found thee as a babe, crying in the night by the broken section of the Wall. I Saw thou were in need and sought thee out. I Saw who would love thou best in this smallminded village and left thee on the doorstep of the church for deare Reverend Andrews to find.

In the basket with thee was the enclosed parcel. I Saw that thou would be in need of it this night after thou talk with that bunch-backed toad, Tyeler, and Anathema and I have kept it safe for thee alle these yeares.

And though I’m sure thou would rather I just tell thee what to do to keep thy home, truste me when I tell thee that it will alle work out in the end, and that halfe the joye is in the journey. Now, be a dear and put on the kettle before thou opens the next parcel. Thou won’t get to drink it but the routine should steady thy nerves.

Sincerelee,

Agnes Nutter, Witch.

P.S. You tell R P Tielerr from me that if he keeps harassing thou or that poor Young boy his precious apple trees will never fruit again! Theyr going to be struck downe with a fungus come Spring regardless, but it would be a great lark if he thought I was haunting him from beyond the grave.

 “What did you talk to Tyler about?” Anathema asked after allowing Ezra a moment to digest the truths Agnes had laid out in her letter.

“Hmm?”

“R.P. Tyler. Agnes said you talked to him.”

“Oh, yes. He increased my rent – almost doubled it, in point of fact. I had been trying to reason with him, or perhaps strike a deal that would allow me to purchase my home from him.”

“Let me guess: he wasn’t interested.”

“No, he seems quite eager to see me destitute,” Ezra lamented. “But while we were talking we saw a shooting star land beyond the wall and he said that the only way he was going to sell to me was if I could bring him that star.”

“What rot,” Anathema spat. “Ezra, please don’t tell me you’re even entertaining such nonsense; he wasn’t being sincere.”

“Of that I had no doubt,” Ezra huffed. “But surely some man of science somewhere would have interest in a rock fallen from the heavens? I could sell it, and if I can’t buy my childhood home from Tyler perhaps I could buy another. Somewhere as far away as London, or even Paris. Some place where no one whispers about what I am.”

“What you are,” Anathema recited patiently, “is my friend. And I want to see you happy, I do, but not by putting your life at risk. No one travels beyond the wall outside Market Day. Not even Agnes.” She waited another moment for her words to sink in before gently prodding him. “Do you want me to stay, for when you open that one?”

Ezra broke himself out of his muddled thoughts to offer her a small smile. “I think I’d like a moment to myself, dear.”

“Of course. But I’ll be back first thing tomorrow with a warm loaf of bread to break our fast, and we can talk about that,” she said, gesturing at the unopened parcel. “And find you somewhere else to live that isn’t under R. P. Tyler’s thumb,” she added as though he didn’t play landlord to half the village.

Alone in his home-for-the-moment, Ezra read Agnes’ letter once more for good measure before following her instructions and putting on the kettle.

A few minutes later, with warm but still trembling hands, he unwrapped the second parcel. Inside was a solitary white candle peppered with gold flecks and another letter. From the moment his eyes caught the first sentence they began to tear up…

 My dearest brother,

Leaving you here is the hardest thing I have ever had to do, and though you and mother may never forgive me for my actions, please believe me when I say it is for the best. It is not safe for you here. Every day our siblings jealously of your light and the attention mother gives you grows. They will do anything to gain her favour, even eliminate the competition, and I cannot hope to both protect myself and be there to stop every attempt made on your own cherished life.

I realise this cannot be easy to read but it is my greatest wish that my decision has allowed you to live a life free of pain and fear and the greed that has poisoned our siblings souls. I hope you have found a home and a family who loves you like you deserve, but selfishly it is my deepest wish that we may meet again once you are a man capable of defending yourself. To that end I have enclosed a gift.

The fastest way to travel is by candlelight. To use it, think of me and only me.

All my love,

Raphael

It took Ezra several moments to get past the realisation that he had a brother, and a mother, and an unknown number of fratricidal siblings, to acknowledge the gift mentioned. The candle must be magical in origin, he reasoned, and thus it would make sense to wait for Anathema’s return to study it further… but if it meant finding a way to return to his brother’s side – his brother! - who was no doubt beyond the wall that she would still be hesitant to let him take such a risk. He fidgeted with the candle while his tea grew cold, all the while turning words like “brother” and “mother” and “home” over in his mind.

How does it work, he wondered. The fastest way to travel is by candlelight, his brother’s letter had said, so Ezra had to assume that one had to light it, thus creating candle light, and… just think of his desired destination. Simple enough really, he mused, gathering up his half-packed leather satchel (a gift from the late vicar), adding some rations (half a block of cheese, the last of his bread, a few apples, and a canteen of water) just in case, and seeking out a match before he realised what he was doing.

He should probably leave a note for Anathema for she was sure to be cross with him in the morning when she found him gone. But perhaps, if the magic candle worked as he imagined it would, she need never know. Perhaps the candle would take him straight to his brother and perhaps there was enough magic within it to allow a return trip?

“Perhaps, perhaps…” Ezra muttered anxiously. He quickly found a pencil and wrote “Anathema – Back soon – Regards, Ezra” in his patently elegant script on the brown paper wrapping, then pulled the long strap of his satchel over his head, fussing with it until he was comfortable. With a deep breath he lit the match and took up the candle in his other hand. He counted to three and with a trembling hand brought the flame to the wick.

“Home,” he implored the universe.

A roar like a wildest thunderstorm assaulted his ears as the world rushed by in a dizzying blur and just when Ezra thought he might be sick it all stopped rather suddenly and Ezra found himself tumbling to the ground atop of some poor bystander.

“Oh! Oh, Raphael!” Ezra exclaimed, jumping to his shaky feet and reaching out to the man he assumed must be his brother. “I’m so… I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not! And I’m not bloody Raphael, so get off me!” hissed the body on the ground.

“You’re… You’re not my brother?”

“Do I Iook Iike I’m your brother?”

Ezra properly took stock of the man he had crashed into. He was tall and lean and wore strange robes of midnight. He was fair of face, his naturally sharp features were verging on knifelike in his irritation, with long red hair that seemed to shine without a light source, like each strand possessed within itself a flickering flame, and his eyes were an unnatural shade of yellow that burned with the ruthlessness of a midsummer sun. Ezra with his stocky frame, mousy, untidy hair, and too snug second-hand suit could not imagine a man more his opposite.

“No. Sorry. I was mistaken.” Ezra glanced nervously around the strange clearing he found himself in and seeing no one else, let alone a possible long lost brother around, turned his attentions back to the man who had still not made an attempt to get up off the ground. “Well, are you all right? Do you want some help?”

“You can help by Ieaving me alone!” the man snapped, slapping away Ezra’s outstretched hands.

“Very well then,” Ezra bristled, leaving the strange man to his misery to focus on his own problems.  "Light the candle and think of me,” he muttered staring down at the candle still in his hands that was now half its original length. “I was. I was thinking of Raphael… But then the star just popped into…” Ezra spun in a circle, his eyes growing wide with the realisation that he was not in a man-made clearing but an impact site. He turned back to the strange man. “Oh, excuse me, sir. Sorry to bother you again. This may seem strange, but have you seen a fallen star anywhere?”

“You’re funny,” the man huffed, though his glare said Ezra was anything but.

“No, really, we’re in a crater,” Ezra pressed on. “This must be where it fell.”

“Yeah, this is where it fell. Or if you want to be really specific,” the man drawled, jabbing a finger towards the night sky. “Up there is where this weird bloody necklace came out of nowhere and knocked it out of the heavens when it was minding its own business. And over there is where it Ianded,” he said, pointing towards the deepest part of the impact site. “And right here,” he growled, pointing to the ground on which he sat. “This is where it got hit by a magical flying moron!”

Ezra faltered as his brain was forced to make several adjustments rather quickly about its understanding of the universe.

“You’re the star! You’re the star? Really?” Ezra babbled, the colour draining from his face as this new reality came crashing down around him.

The star was human, or at least human shaped, and he could not sell off said star to secure his childhood home (though he was not naïve enough to think there weren’t men who would desire to buy such a creature).

The candle had not taken him to his brother, though he had initially wished it. Perhaps stray thoughts of the star had derailed the candles route, or perhaps his brother was no longer living and it was not possible for the candle to take Ezra to his side. What proof did he have either way?

And the candle only had one journey left in it – how best to use it? Should he return to Tadfield and his uncertain future, or try to go to his brother again, which was filled nothing but uncertainties, or did Ezra do what the voice in his head that sounded a great deal like the vicar said and offer the candle to the star so he could return to his home in the sky?

Ezra patted his coat pockets in an increasingly erratic pattern before sinking to the ground opposite the star. In the end it wouldn’t really matter which he chose because he had forgotten to pack a second bloody match to light the damn thing with.

“Oh, fuck.”

[let-them-eat-rakes]

RED REALITY (part 1)

(my longest post yet.)

Item #: SCP-3001

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: To prevent further accidental entries into SCP-3001, all Foundation reality-bending technology will be upgraded/modified with multiple newly developed safeguards to prevent Class-C "Broken Entry" Wormhole creation. While knowledge of SCP-3001 is available to personnel of any level should they wish to learn about it, research and experimentation with SCP-3001 and its associated technology is strictly limited to personnel of Level 3 and above, with special clearance designation granted from Sites 120, 121, 124, and 133.

Description: SCP-3001 is a hypothesized paradoxical parallel/pocket "non-dimension" accessible through the creation of a momentary Class-C "Broken Entry" Wormhole.(1) While believed to be an infinitely extending parallel universe, SCP-3001 is almost completely devoid of any matter and has an extremely low Hume Level of 0.032,(2) contradicting Kejel's Laws of Reality with the relation between Humes and spacetime. This phenomenon causes matter inside it to decay at an extremely low rate, and damage that would otherwise prove fatal does not impede any biological/electronic function; simulations suggest an organism can lose more than 70% of their body's tissue and still operate normally, as long as at least 40% of the brain remains. However, prolonged exposure will cause said matter to gradually approach SCP-3001's own Hume Level, resulting in severe tissue/structural damage as the matter's own Hume Field begins to disintegrate.

SCP-3001 was initially discovered on January 2, 2000, at Site-120, a facility dedicated to testing and containing reality-bending technology. Dr. Robert Scranton and his wife Dr. Anna Lang were Head Researchers at Site-120, and were developing an experimental device, called the "Lang-Scranton Stabilizer" (LSS).(3) Dr. Scranton was transported to SCP-3001 after unexpected seismic activity damaged several active LSS in Site-120 Reality Lab A.

Initially presumed dead, Dr. Scranton has survived in SCP-3001 for at least five years, 11 months, and 21 days. During this time, he was able to record his experiences and observations within SCP-3001 through a somehow still functioning LSS control panel, which was also brought into SCP-3001 with him through the Class-C "Broken Entry" Wormhole. These recordings were later recovered upon the panel's sudden return, an unexpected side effect from testing improved reality-bending technology; these logs are the basis of SCP-3001 study. Despite new technologies being developed, retrieval and re-integration of Dr. Scranton has been unsuccessful. His current physical and mental states, if he is still alive, are unknown. [Further information on Dr. Scranton's possible retrieval is under Ethics Committee review.] Transcripts of Dr. Scranton's logs are below.

[No discernible/coherent dialogue can be heard from Dr. Scranton for the first eight days. He cycles through periods of panic, confusion, and anger throughout, and it seems he was attempting to navigate SCP-3001 to find a way out. He finally moved close enough to the recording log on the eleventh day, though did not notice it was operating for several more hours.]

…

Name, Robert Scranton. Age, 39. Birthday, September 19, 1961.

Favorite color, blue.

Favorite song, "Living on a Prayer."

Wife… Anna…

Anna…

Name, Robert Scranton. Age, 39. Birthday, September 19, 1961.

Favorite color, blue.

Favorite song, "Living on a Prayer."

Wife, Anna. She has green eyes. I love her very much.

Name, Robert Scranton. Age, 39. Birthday, September 19, 1961.

Favorite color, blue.

Height, 178 cm.

Weight, 85 kg.

Wife, Anna. Anna, I'm sorry.

Name, Robert Scranton. Age, 39. Birthday, September 19, 1961.

Favorite color, blue.

My wife's name is Anna. We got married August 12, 1991.

I hope she got out okay.

Please let her be all right, please let her be all right.

Robert, Scranton. 39. Anna, blue, wife. Please… please, God, please…

Anna… Anna… Anna bo banna… Anna bo banna…

What the… what the hell is that? [It is assumed at this point Dr. Scranton noticed the flashing light of the recording module.]

What the fuck, this thing's actually recording?

[Metallic clang heard.]

[Voice is highly agitated and panicked.] My name, is Robert Scranton. Yeah, yeah, my name, is Robert Scranton, former researcher at Foundation Site-120. It has been… I don't know, actually, I… I can't remember. I… I estimate it's been ten days, but, I-I-I don't, I can't… Oh God, can anyone hear me?! I-I-I don't know what's happened, I-I don't know where I am, and-and, please, please is anyone there?! Hello?! Anyone?! ANYONE?!

No one can hear me. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK.

Why the hell is this thing even working, it can't be working, it SHOULDN'T be working, so what the hell?! I need to — God, I need to, I need to… see, how… long can I talk here, I think there's a-a-a cap or something on the recording log, and I-I-I can't see anything, I can only see the red light blinking on and off, I can't see any of the switches next to it…

I'm really hungry.

Thirsty, too. I think I should be dead from dehydration by now, but… I don't know.

Hi, little red light. Can you talk to me? Can you talk to… Anna, for me? Hello?

I found the controls.

Two weeks, three days, forty-seven hours, and fifty-eight minutes.

Two weeks, three days, forty-seven hours, and fifty-eight minutes.

Two weeks, three days, seven hours, and fifty-eight minutes.

Two weeks, three days, seven hours, and fifty-eight minutes.

Oh… Jesus.

ERROR WITH PLAYBACK, ERROR WITH PLAYBACK. ERROR WITH PLAYBACK.

Wherever the hell I am, I'm pretty sure now that… I don't need to eat to stay alive. It hurts… a lot, but… at this point I don't think I'm gonna die… So… I'm gonna… I'm gonna take my time… I guess. I… Maybe some sort of miracle will happen and I'll get out. Heh. Keep dreaming, Robert. Yeah, I'm… I'm tired, I'm gonna sleep.

Three weeks, four days, nineteen hours.

I have a picture of Anna in my pocket. I almost forgot. Little red light, let me see her face, please? Just a little bit, I just… I just want to see her a bit.

Hi, Anna, I'm still here, I'm still here. I'm coming back, okay?

Two months, four days, three hours.

… Hi. Robert here. Yeah, I-I haven't really recorded much to hear in the past few weeks. Ha. Hahahaha… Hahaha… huh… huh…

Sorry, gotta keep it together. Breathe.

I've been… I've been busy. Trying to learn more about the place I'm in. My prison. My kingdom all my own. Heh, King Robert. God, I stink. Is there even air in this goddamn place? Stinky King Robert, king of GODDAMN NOTHING FUCK.

…Sorry, sorry. I, I gotta keep this professional. I'll… I'll come back when I'm feeling rested.

… Okay, here goes. [Inhales then exhales deeply.]

My name is… Robert Scranton. I am a former Head Researcher of Site… 120, a Foundation facility dedicated to studying various reality-bending SCPs, for the purpose of developing more advanced countermeasures towards such threats.

For the last… red light, speak to me,

Two months, eight days, sixteen hours.

What red light said. I have been trapped in what I believe to be an empty pocket dimension. Alone. Yeah… alone. All alone.

I'm calling this place SCP… I don't know, I can't remember where we are, screw it. I don't know what's happened in the past… red light, please, again.

Two months, eight days, sixteen hours.

But… no one else is around to argue, and at this point… I'm just talking into this control panel to keep myself together. I… I need to keep a record. There might be some poor bastard in the future who ends up like me, and… if this ever actually makes it out… maybe, maybe I can help stop that from happening. That's all I have going for me right now, and I really need something to go for, hahahaha…

…So, yeah, Robert… Scranton… documenting a new SCP for… future research purposes. That'll have to do. Here we go!

- Close.

…

Two months, eleven days, ten hours.

Item number, SCP I don't fucking care.

Object Class, Euclid, I guess, but I don't know, I might update this in time. I need to explore more.

Special Containment Procedures, god I sound so much like a shrink right now… Um… I don't know if we could… contain wherever I am. It's… definitely not on Earth. To be honest I don't know where it is. I… I think it has do something with the Stabilizer prototype… I'll explain that more later. Okay… um… yeah, wherever I am, I don't think it can be contained much as… created. No, no, that's not the word I'm looking for. Um… entered. Yeah, entered is better. I came into this place because of some really bad reality-bending accident and… no, no, Robert, don't be like that yet, you don't know if there's no exit yet. Ooooh… livin' on a prayer… halfway… there. Ahem.

Two months, eleven days, eighteen hours.

So… wait, no, Description, Robert, stick to the format… This place… It's some sort of reality gap, I think. It's dark. Really dark. As in, this little red light that shows my words are actually being recorded is the only visible light in this entire place. I can't see my hands, and I can barely see the control panel here. I've had to basically use the light as a center, and remember how many steps I take and in which direction. I haven't gone past a hundred yet. I'm too… I'm too scared to. Heh. I wonder if my hair is turning white, right now? I can't even see what color it is anymore. Speaking of which, my head has been a bit itchy recently. If I don't concentrate on it, it's fine, but I feel this… tingling all over my face. I'm not sure why.

Two months, fifteen days, four hours.

Okay… hoooo… I-I need to relax for a minute, Jesus, god, shit. Holy… shit, shit, shit… I… just discovered a new property of this place. All this time, I've been thinking I might be walking on… some sort of… flat ground, if you will. I kept eye contact with little red as far as I could see, and it seems I could walk in a straight, flat path. Jesus, my head is buzzing right now, I think the adrenaline is still kicking… But, if my hypothesis is correct, and this really is some sort of reality… void, then there shouldn't be anything to walk on. Now that I think about, the whole time I've been in here, it's felt like… I'm walking, but I'm also swimming through something. And this something is thick, and form-fitting, it has this… pressure, which I know isn't the correct term, but goddamn it, this place makes no damn sense and I'm doing my best to understand it, okay?!

God… Sorry.

So, the best analogy I can come up with is… it's like I'm walking through really thick black gel. There's enough tension to keep me on a… "surface", but if I… imagine myself pressing down hard enough, I can descend. Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, I think… I think I need to test this more, I'll be back.

Two months, seventeen days, two hours.

Navigation is largely affected by… conscious impulses to travel in a certain direction. So, this definitely isn't a complete reality gap, at least according to mine and Anna's theories. If-if it were I wouldn't have been able to move at all, since space wouldn't have existed. Holy shit, okay, okay, this makes a lot more sense than it did before, great, great job, Robert, you're getting there. …Come to think of it, I should've realized that sooner when I was able to move in a flat plane to and from little red. It also explains why I'm not dead from dehydration or hunger yet, time barely passes in here. Okay yeah, so, I stood right next to little red, and went straight… "down." Okay, from here on out, imagine little red as the origin of a 3D space. I went straight… down, right, yeah, and then… and then I was then able to come back "up" to little red again. I've also been able to "fly" above red. Movement in here is slow, like I said, gel analogy, best I can describe it by.

Two months, twenty-two-days, three hours.

Reporting back for another update, red, SIR! Hahaha, come on red, lighten up. Ha! Pun not intended… Come on red, crack a little smile, it's funny!

…

… Fine, whatever. Ahem.

This place still seems like it barely follows Kejel's Laws of Reality Parameters. And by barely, I mean, really just barely. I'm pretty sure my math is right, but… hold on, I'm gonna check again…

Jesus. Yeah, yeah, pretty sure it's good still. Okay, this place… if we're using the standard Hume scale, I'm pretty sure I'm in a reality where the Hume Field is… point zero… four… ish. Yeah, really, really, really fucking low, so… Like I said above, space-time exists on a very minuscule scale, so my biology is not getting shot to hell and back because of any malnutrition, but that also means… I… I'm actually not sure what that also means…

…

Adding on from the last entry. I'm… I'm not sure how my biology will react in such a low Hume concentration, actually. I mostly worked with higher than average Hume Fields, and the reality benders we tested never had a Field lower than 0.8. This… this is gonna be a first. An all-time first. I remember Site-133's "Prommel Killer", they called it that because it broke the previous theory about the lowest limit of Hume concentration. Really expensive, really weird machine that brought down a small area to 0.4. 0.05 is… yeah.

I was lying. I was lying, last log… I… I'm lying to myself. My own body, and… little red here too… We're about the realest things in this place. And that means… over time… the Hume field's going to want to… equalize, and… I'm… I'm gonna go for now, I have some… some calculation to do again. Red, Anna, take note I'm using Kejel's Second, Third, and Fourth Laws, got it? Use… use 0.05 as the surrounding, my external field as… somewhere in between 1 and 1.4, use the Second Law's error estimation correction, and my internal as… as… as… shit. I'm not done yet.

I am real. I am super-real. Super duper real. Ultra real, the realest guy in a world of no-real.

You have no sense of humor as usual, red. I'm talking about the LSS, red. When we got sent here, I think… I think our reality got cranked up a notch. Red, didn't you pay attention in class? Hey, don't get fucking smart with me, red. Okay, the point is, the LSS surge got us up to… to…

Two months, eighteen days, seven hours.

No, red, not even fucking close, you must've converted Kejel's Third Law equation wrong. Because of the malfunctioning LSS we got blasted by, we're somewhere in between 2.2 and 3.6. Yes, that's good red, that's very good, because that means we have more time than we thought to… to… yes, red, before we fucking DIE, okay?!

Two months, twenty four days, five hours.

About three years. Four, if… If I don't interact too much. If… If I had had an LSS here, I could maybe stretch it out to… eight, maybe, that's best case scenario… But I have… I have to… I… know… but… but… three years. Three years, then it's past the point of no return. Ha. Hahahahaha. I should… I should definitely figure something out by then. I think I still should be pretty good for a while… At least… no, no, I won't be in here that long… I'll definitely figure something out…

Anna, what would we do with a case like this? I need your help, honey. That… that tingling I've been feeling… That's my Hume Field diffusing… My… my reality fading… Three years. I need to stabilize myself within three years.

I've been thinking… Anna and I, we had this theory… Even though the Hume Field is low, it's still a Hume Field. And precisely since it's so low, Hume diffusion should take quite a while. Now if… if I could… contain… recycle the fields, keep the diffusion from spreading too thin, I could… And I could also maybe… it's only a theory, but… It's worth a shot. But that means…

Hey, red. I… I'm gonna have to go for a bit. I want to test something, and you can't come with me. I… I'm sorry. No, no, red, I'm really, really sorry, I want you to come, I do, but… if we're together the diffusion will increase faster… We both need as much time as possible. I need to figure this place out more, and you need to make sure you keep all that info in your head. It's… red, come on. You- you'll be fine red, I know you will, you're tough. A lot tougher than me… it'll only be for a bit, red, but I need to see if I can find a way to keep us alive a bit longer. Maybe even get us out of here. If I can contain enough field, I can… I can maybe even get us out. No, no I'm not sure, but I need to find out. Red, we're talking about possibly escaping, okay? Yeah, it's a gap. A gap should have an end, like a… like the walls of a canyon, understand? I need to find a wall, and then, and then I can…

…

I'm sorry, red, I hope we're still friends when I come back.

…

I'm… I'm going now… I'll see you soon.

…

- Close.

Six months, ten days, five hours.

Hello again, little red. It's been a while.

You know… thinking back… I don't know what the hell I was so excited about. This place is… god, this place. This place is is fucking… hell.

There's no end. It just goes on. And on. And on.

I traveled in one goddamn direction for two, damn, months. God, I'm so fucking stupid, why did I think I could get out? I'm thinking like those old European shits that thought the end of the world was at the horizon. Fucking stupid, Robert, stupid, just-just- GAAAAAAAAAAAH—

If I let myself fall down long enough would I eventually hit a bottom?

Ten months, 28 days, 15 hours.

There's no bottom. And fuck you, red.

I'm sorry, red, don't go out, I'm sorry I turned you off, come back, come back, please—

… I turned 40 today. Happy birthday, Robert.

I was adopted, did you know that? Yeah, my parents left me in a box on the side of a street. Got picked up by some American couple, which explains my not-so-Chinese names. I don't even know my original last name. Just thought I'd share. How about you, red?

Anna and I met on-site in 1988. God she was beautiful. She still is. It was our eyes. She has beautiful eyes. My eyes are grey, they're boring, but hers… God they're beautiful. Do you think… Do you think she's still worried about me, little red? Is she looking for me?

You know, red, you're a great listener. But I never hear you talk about yourself. Come on, don't be shy, there's no one else around, right? Hahaha, right? Hahaha… hahahahaha…

"I'm sorry, Robert, I'm afraid I can't do that." Hahaha, red, you're hilarious.

Were you married? Kids? Any family at all? Girlfriend? Boyfriend? Come on, red, I won't judge, just… talk to me, please. God, my head hurts. And my feet feel like they've been asleep for forever.

I worked at a comic store as a kid. So much cheaper back then, and I got free stuff at the end of each week. I liked Spiderman the best.

I was in a box, side of the street.

I… what the fuck… no. No. No, no, no, no, no, no, red, have you seen my picture? The picture red, Anna's picture, where is - come on, come on, where-where- Anna! ANNA! ANNA! Where did - no, no, no, no, no, please, please no, anything but, PLEASE.

It's fading, she's fading, she's fading, please, Anna, no, please, come on, sweetie, stay here, it's too soon, it's TOO SOON, my math isn't wrong, it's NOT WRONG, YOU SHOULD BE FINE. ANNA, ANNA, I can't hold you, come back, Anna, sweetie, honey, Anna please, I need you, I need you, please, please, don't go, I'm here, I'm still here. RED GET HELP. Anna, please, please, don't go, don't -

Black hair, green eyes, 160. Black hair, green eyes, 160. Black hair, green eyes, 160. Black hair, green eyes, 160. Black hair, green eyes, 160. Black hair, green eyes, 160. Black hair, green eyes, 160. Black hair, green eyes, 160. Black hair, green eyes, 160. Black hair, green eyes, 160. [Dr. Scranton repeats this for three hours.]

Anna and I got married in '91. We couldn't really get the nicest suit and dress we wanted because of work, but, damn, we both looked great. Anna looked better, of course. We just danced, and danced the whole night, got the whole week off. Even a job like mine lets you enjoy your honeymoon… So, come on red, open up, put 'er there, high five. Come on. Come on, red.

One year, two months, twenty-seven days.

…

…

AAAAAAA—

[The next recordings only play the control panel's automated voice giving times, with intervals of one to three days, with several month-long gaps in between as well; also intermixed are Dr. Scranton's sobbing, screaming, and mumbling. These recordings continue until the time reading reaches two years, seven months, and 28 days, after which they cease to pick up any sound until two months later.]

[tricklesandtides]

Rising Stars [4]

If there's one thing that U.A. prides itself on, it's the strength and solidarity of its students. Regardless of their quirks, students of the hero course were put through intensive physical regimes, were expected to be in peak condition at all times. Sero was no exception. He had too much to prove, too much to compensate for, to neglect his body. Plus, it's difficult to slack off on training when one of your best friends is Bakugou Katsuki.

This makes it devastatingly embarrassing when Sero feels his strength start to dissipate.

Yosetsu Awase, U.A. alumni , class B graduate. While the competitive spirit flew high between classes A and B, there was a kinship too. They fought, and argued (some more than others), but who else could understand the trials and tribulations of the hero course?

Awase drags Sero to his feet, yelling to his companion picking through the rubble beyond them. Sero wobbles, clinging to Awase's arm. Thick ropes of pink hair fly wildly, as Hatsume Mei climbs out of the wreckage, arms full of busted computer parts.

“Do we really need those? They don't even look like they work.”

“Of course they don't work, why do you think I'm bringing them with us? They need me!”

Am I blinking too much? Sero finds himself thinking. Is this how I normally feel? Should I say something? Experimentally, he closes his eyes, and finds instant relief. The world fades and the voices of Awase and Hatsume fade, and all Sero feels is relief.

When Sero opens his eyes next, his face is pressed up against someone's shoulder. His arms are wrapped around their neck, his long legs dragging on the ground behind him. He recognizes Awase's spiky black hair, poking him in the cheek. Awase has Sero draped over his shoulders, Hatsume keeping pace beside them.

“Sorry for the rough trip,” Awase says, feeling Sero begin to stir. “Best I could manage under the circumstances.”

“You owe me, by the way,” Hatsume pipes in, a bright smile on her face.

Sero weakly turns his head to look at her. He groans out, not trusting himself to speak.

“We could have managed a whole lot more scrap if we didn't have you with us,” she explains. “So next trip, you'll just be my pack mule.”

“Mei, he can barely walk, let alone-”

“Should have thought of that before he ruined my day!” Hatsume slaps Sero lightly on the back, causing stars to flit across his field of vision, and his ears to ring. He hears Awase speak again, but can't make out the words.

“We're here.”

Sero lifts his head, taking in the sight around him. A dirty, trampled patch of earth surrounds an expanse of concrete. A few partial walls stand, built into the foundation, and lengths of rope tied tightly around them. From the ropes hang tarps and blankets, offering several humble shelters. A handful of tents are scattered around, fit in between the broken lumps where other walls once stood. Off in the distance, perhaps 30 feet from the concrete, lays a pile of debris, the remnants of those same walls.

A couple of people stand between the shelters, and Sero stares at them with wide eyes. He'd never known how many people had managed to pull through. His group had never ran into others. He had barely stopped to consider the possibility of other groups, because as soon as he started to think about the number of people who survived, he would start to think about the identities of people who survived. And he had grieved enough.

Awase drags Sero into a tent on the outer perimeter of the camp. A middle aged woman sits inside, sorting through a heavy metal toolbox.

“He needs help. Don't know what, specifically.”

Sero finds himself on an air mattress, one covered by a thick, multi-colored quilt. The woman hovers over him, expression neutral.

“What happened?” She turns and begins to collect items from the toolbox.

“Collapsed building. Bitch that was with him left him to die. Passed out. Wasn't breathing.”

She shines a light into his eyes. When Sero flinches away, she grabs his face, forcing it back towards her. “Chest compressions?”

“Yup. And he passed out again on the way here.”

“How long before you got him breathing again?”

She lifts up his baggy shirt, leaving it pooled around his neck. She slops a stethoscope onto her ears, pressing the cool metal disc to his skin. He breathes in and out, deeply, slowly.

“I'm not sure.” Sero can't see Awase, but his voice is close. “As soon as we head the building go, we ran over. Didn't even realize anyone was in there at first.”

“How long?”

“I don't know! Maybe ten minutes? Maybe less? Hatsume dove right in to scrounge for stuff, and he was sitting right there at the top of the pile so it didn't take long to-”

“Awase” The woman stops, and turns away, lowering her voice. Sero turns his head, and can barely make out the form of Awase, just beyond the doctor. “This boy's lucky to be alive. He may not stay that way.”

“What?” Sero can't believe how rough his voice sounds. The woman's gaze shifts back to him.

“I'll do what I can,” she says, slowly,” but I don't have the tools for this. Oxygen deprivation is dangerous enough on its own, let alone without treatment. I don't know what effect it's had on you.”

After that, she shoos Awase out of the tent, instructing him to return with water.

“I'm going to get you to answer a few questions, alright?” she says. Sero nods. “Do you remember your name?”

“Sero Hanta.”

“Age?”

“Twenty.”

“Date of birth?”

“July 28, 1998.”

“High school?”

“U.A.”

“Year of graduation?”

“2017.”

“Can you sit up on your own?”

Sero does, with difficulty. Bruised ribs? Broken? Who knows. Falling two stories and having a building land on you does that, sometimes.

“Squeeze my hand, please.” The doctor reaches out a hand, her eyes boring into him. He takes it with his right hand, squeezing tightly. She nods. “The other, now.”

He shifts her hand to his left, trying to ignore the shaking in his arm as he does. He presses down as tightly as he can.

“Squeeze it, please.”

“I am.”

Sero can feel it. The lack of strength, the lack of control. The woman drops his hand, clasping hers tightly together. Neither say anything as the minutes pass. She hesitates before speaking again.

“The longer the body spends without proper oxygenation, the greater the risk of, well...” She trails off, unable to meet his eyes. “Permanent damage.”

Sero doesn't reply. She runs through a handful of tests, which pass in a blur. He's damaged. Worse than useless. Who knows what else is wrong with him. Eventually, the doctor excuses herself, leaving Sero along in the tent. Just how it should be.

The next two days pass slowly. Unable to determine if anything else is amiss, the doctor begins Sero with some kind of off-brand form of physical therapy. Exercises focusing on his left hand and arm. Squeezing balls of cloth. They hurt. Sero can't tell if they make a difference. In a way, he'd rather they didn't.

Awase forces him to eat. This camp is smaller than Sero's, with about half as many people. Meals are more community based. Everyone huddles closely together, laughing and joking and telling stories. Sero sits and eats and gazes into space.

“I appreciate all you've done,” Sero tries to explain to Awase,” I really do. But I need to go back.”

Would he really go back to his group once he left this one? Who knew.

“They left you for dead. We both know they don't give a shit about you,” Awase laughs.

“I can't just leave them. It's not right.”

As much as the two argue, Sero finds himself staying just one more night. Then through the day. And then the next night. Every morning, they have the same argument.

“You're not well enough to go on your own.”

“I made it this far. You think a little tumble's gonna keep me down?”

Every night, the same excuses.

“I'll stay just one more sleep. Then I've got to go. First thing tomorrow.”

“If you stay put all night, I'll take you there myself.”

On the fifth day, the tiny camp is buzzing. Sero wanders past the tents, searching for his fellow alumni. He finds them in the center, under the largest grouping of tarps and blankets, where the rest of the camp is gathered.

“You were gone so long! Did something happen?!”

“Find anything good? Food? Chips? Chocolate?”

“Weren't even supposed to go that far! Why can't you ever listen.”

A blonde boy stands in the center of the group, his back to Sero. Awase and Hatsume stand beside him, the others in the camp pressed close around the trio.

“Oh, you know. Just the usual business. Thought I'd go sight seeing a l'il, too. See if I couldn't find anything good.”

Sero knows that voice. He starts to walk towards the crowd.

“Well did  you?”

“Nah, nothin' this time.”

Sero breaks through, elbows making a path between the bodies. He grabs the boy's shoulder with his good hand, spinning him around. He fights back tears as he takes in the face in front of him. Wordlessly, the two embrace, wrapping their arms around each other.

“You never bothered to mention this,” Sero says to Awase, accusatory.

“Wow, rude,” Kaminari interjects, grabbing Sero's shoulders and putting enough space between them to look him in the face. “I actually have a name, and it's not 'this'.”

Sero laughs and hugs him again. “I missed you, man.”

“Ditto. I'm glad you're alright.”

A grin fills Sero's face. One bigger than he's let out in months.

“Still plannin' on makin' a swift exit?” Awase asks. Sero can hear the smirk in his voice.

“You were going to leave?” Kaminari asks, his eyes narrowed.

“No,” Sero replies. “I think I'll do just fine right here.”

First Part

[spacebrick3]

Political Dealings: Part 1

So I saw a prompt that said “have an interaction between two OCs who would never meet” and so have an interaction between the two political boys Crowe and William (cameos by Sadie and Emil too).

It ended up…longer than I expected, and went in a completely different direction, so it’s behind the cut:

The two stepped forwards and shook hands. Sadie watched as they sized each other up, Crowe assuming a look of bored disinterest while the other curled his lip into a sneer of distaste. She thought that was a bit hypocritical, given that he was wearing a bright red cloak with an ostentatious gold star embroidered into both sleeves. Crowe’s formal engineering jumpsuit, in comparison, was nothing.

“Crowe Leonid. Representative of the Galactic Science Foundation,” he said, stepping back.

“I see. William Esperante. Leader of the Conservative Faction of sorcerers-“

“Sorcerer, huh?” Crowe asked. “Prove it.”

“Oh, we’re already getting into the threats, are we? I don’t have to prove anything to you,” Esperante snapped back. “If you want this to be a diplomatic meeting, then-“

“Look,” he said, pulling out his tablet and making a few notes, “I’m not going to make any negotiations with so-called ‘sorcerers’ if you can’t even demonstrate that you can do what you claim you can. Now, are you going to demonstrate and let the negotiations continue, or do we need to leave now?”

Esperante glared at them, then scowled and raised his hand into the air. In a few quick strokes, a shimmering blue star formed in the air in front of him. He tapped it and a wall of the same sparkling energy formed in front of him. “That good enough for you?”

Sadie tried to get a few readings on the shield that had just appeared, but the computers of the ship didn’t seem to be able to get anything out of it - it was like the casting of the…well, the magic had created some sort of bubble that didn’t allow electromagnetic waves to pierce it. That was an interesting side effect, if it was a side effect. She tried to contact him and tell him that the apparent magic broke down electronics, but all she heard was static.

She swore, and Emil - their chosen pilot for this - looked over at her strangely. “What’s the problem?” he asked. “Are they lying about that magic or something?”

“No,” she replied, hitting a few buttons to see if it could just be a malfunction. “It looks like…well, I don’t know, but it looks like whatever that was it…blocks electricity somehow. I can’t contact him anymore.”

He sucked in a breath, “And you think they’re doing that on purpose?”

“I don’t know! Maybe it’s just a side effect of their spells or whatever! But I don’t know - I  don’t know if they’re trying to cut us off or something or…or-“

Emil nodded. “Well…let’s see what happens. I mean, we wouldn’t want to disrupt a diplomatic meeting just because we thought something might be wrong…but I’ll warm up the drive and stuff, if you’re worried.” He flipped a few switches on the dashboard, and a faint whirring spread through the ship as she turned distractedly back to where Crowe and Esperante were arguing again.

“-won’t you work with me here!” Crowe was shouting, and threw the papers Esperante had given him onto the ground. “Whatever argument you’re trying to get through here is unreadable - I don’t even know why you called this meeting if you’re not willing to negotiate!”

Esperante smiled, drawing another sheaf of papers out of his cloak. “I’m perfectly willing to negotiate. I just…prefer to do it my way, you could say.”

“Well, negotiation means that sometimes you have to give up a little of that,” he snapped back. “That’s what it means.”

“I’m sorry,” Esperante said, still smiling the unnerving grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “But there’s simply a position of mine that I will refuse to give up in any type of agreement.”

“…And what position would that be?” Crowe asked. He glanced from side to side, as if expecting something.

Esperante stepped back. The two sorcerers on either of him, hulking figures in black armor that glowed faintly in the light of the scarlet spells they both held, stepped forwards at the same time. “The position of power. Enforcers, take him and their transportation.”

Sadie sat bolt upright, but Emil was faster. His hands flew over the control keyboard, but the only response was a flickering on the screen of the ship before everything died. “The magic,” he whispered, typing frantically, “it’s broken the ship. We can’t do anything.”

She would have responded, but at that moment a stabbing pain went through her eye. Sparks danced in her vision and through the pain she could vaguely smell burning metal. She doubled over, clutching at the metal where her eye should be.

“What’s wrong?” Emil’s voice asked, panicky. “What’s happening?”

“E-Eye,” she managed to get out. “Magic…ah…breaking…eye….hurts.” One final pop sounded from the circuitry in her eye, and everything went dark. 

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked again.

“Get us out of here!” she snarled, pulling her hand away. “Get us out of here now!” They shouldn’t have come here. They should have left as soon as they lost communications with Crowe. They shouldn’t have stayed.

“I can’t!” he shouted back. “Nothing’s working!”

“Alright - alright,” she said, breathing deeply to try to calm herself down. “I can’t see. What’s happening?”

“Well-Crowe appears to have brought a gun,” he said, words tense, “He’s pulled it on the two people and is backing away. They’re moving in - he’s firing - it…doesn’t appear to be doing much - he’s dropped it and is running now - they’re moving in - casting their spells at him - and he falls-“

Emil’s voice caught for a second. “I…I don’t think they killed him, though. They’ve turned towards the ship now - what are we going to do, Sadie?”

“We hide,” she said, standing up and hoping desperately that she remembered the layout of the ship well enough. “There’s - there’s a little bit just behind the engine room - if we go now then we should be able to get there-“

“You go,” Emil said, and she heard the scrape of a chair. “I’ll…distract them.”

“No!” she shouted. “Why would you-“

“Because they know someone’s in here,” he said with a sigh. “If they can’t find anyone, then they’ll search. But if they find me, then they won’t know you’re still here.”

“But-“

“Go!” he shouted. “We can’t fight them right now! We don’t know how to fight them! Now go!”

Sadie nodded, not having the words, then touched her finger to her forehead in the salute of the 84th. Then she ran, just as the the sound of clamping boots started to echo on the floors of the ship.

——————————————————————————————————

I don’t know who I should tag for this - @cog-writes, @ava-burton-writing, @aschenink, and @smokescreens-n-otherillusions, maybe @lady-redshield-writes - does anyone else want to be tagged in this?

[linzinator]

When a Girl Walks Down The Street

Back in June I posted this and @notsomolly said I should write a story about it. Four months later I decided to actually do it and now, a month after that, it’s done!

It combines two things I’m passionate about: street harassment and the Harry Potter universe. That being said, please be warned that there’s a lot of discussion about street and sexual harassment in this story. Also I’m not trying to step on your toes, JKR, so please don’t sue me. And FYI it’s like 4500 words.

She’s walking down the street, late for class as usual. Headphones in, sunglasses on, as usual. Her music is loud enough to make the sounds of cars and people blend into the background (but not too loud that she couldn’t hear someone approaching!). The day appears to be off to a good start. It’s sunny and warm enough that she could leave her jacket in her bag but not so hot that she’s sweaty by the time she arrives to her lecture. There’s an essay tucked into her bag that she knows is worth an A, and she’s wearing her favorite jumpsuit.

An old man tells her good morning and she replies in kind.

Then there’s a slightly younger man who drags his eyes up and down her figure and just as she’s passing, just loud enough to be heard over her music, he goes “Mmmmm,” as if perusing the selection at a bakery counter or considering the meal set before him at a five-star restaurant. The noise sticks to her body and slides down like slime, leaving a filmy residue behind. She wants to turn around and tell him off, that she’s not a piece of meat, or maybe at least give him a mean look, or something…but who knows what he’ll do and she’s already late and at least he didn’t touch her. She chokes down the words she hasn’t said- fuck you and fuck off and leave me alone! - and continues on.

She gets to her lecture and takes her seat and rubs her hands up and down her arms, like maybe that lingering slime can be washed off.

 There’s another day. She’s running late as usual but this time it’s hotter than Satan’s asshole and the humidity is making the air thick and she’s hauling the jugs of orange juice she agreed to bring for the literary magazine’s start of year brunch. There’s sweat already pooling under her boobs and she’s wondering why she bothered to put on makeup as most of her foundation has coalesced in the area where her chin turns into her neck.

Thankfully she’s turned onto a road surrounded by tall buildings, so she has a moment of shady respite. She’s moved past the store fronts so the only people around are also hustling to get somewhere and don’t have time for niceties or catcalls. She’s fine with that. All she wants is to get to the English department building so she can set down these heavy ass jugs. It’s quiet for a few moments—not as many cars or people—so it’s just her and her music until

HONK HOOOOOONK! She braces, expecting the next sound to be a loud crash of metal on metal or screeching brakes or screams, but it doesn’t come. Her heart is hammering in her chest and it feels like she’s just run a marathon. She looks behind her to inspect the damage and sees nothing but a truck driver peering out his passenger side window, waving with a grin. He turns to keep driving but she hopes he caught her scowl first. She tightens her grip around one jug and wonders if she’s strong enough to hurl it at the truck’s window. Probably not. She briefly hopes he gets into a fender bender or has a flat tire or something. She takes a few slow, shaky breaths in through the nose and out through her mouth to try to slow her heart rate, then hauls up the bottles of juice for a better grip and heads on.

She gets to the brunch and dumps the jugs on the table. As she deposits her personal effects in the designated corner she can’t help but clench her fists and flare her nostrils. In her peripheral vision she thinks she sees the old, leather-bound books quiver on the floor to ceiling shelves, but when she looks up, nothing has changed. She stares, squinting for a moment, until her friend Ashley asks, “You good?”, and she tells her all about the asshole trucker who scared the shit out of her.

“What the fuck?!” is the reply.

“I know, right?!” she says. And they grab plates and start filling them with food and move along down the line but her heart hasn’t fully slowed and that honk is still ringing in her ears. She’s deflated and exhausted, as if the truck had run her over.

 Her cell phone screen has shattered, and she wonders why she spent money on this screen protector if it can’t do its one job. She can make out the time- 11:15- through the cracks spreading across the screen like a spider web. The repair shop is dark inside and when she pulls at the doors they don’t budge. “Of course,” she thinks. She needs her phone fixed and the shop that apparently opens at 10 is closed. She decides to walk into the mall across the road to pass the time. There’s a car pulled over in a loading zone and there’s a man in it yelling something at a young woman up ahead. She feels her lip curl and speeds past the area.

This cell phone repair is going to take up all of her spending money until she’s paid again, and soon she tires of looking at clothes she can’t buy. She strolls back around the block to see if the store is open and expels a frustrated sigh when she sees that the shop lights are still off. She tries the door just to check and finds it is still locked, as she expected. She tries to call the number on the door and reaches a voicemail. She doesn’t bother to leave a message- if the store can’t be bothered to open during business hours, it would be silly to expect them to check their voicemail. She turns to go home, and her path leads her by the loading zone again, where the old man is still sitting in his car, though it’s been much more than the 10 minutes one is allowed to stay. As she passes by he begins his chorus, entreating her to come closer with all manner of endearments—baby and honey and sweetie. She scoffs and waves her hand in a dismissive gesture, as if he were a fly buzzing in her face. He doesn’t appreciate it—he’s shouting, “Aw come on! Get out of here with that.” And perhaps some other things but she’s turned up her music. She feels brief twinge of satisfaction but he’s still there shouting whatever. There aren’t any traffic cops around (how is it that they were always right next to her car when she’s overstayed a meter by a minute but not when they were actually needed?). “Ugh.” She rolls her eyes and continues on.

She doesn’t know it, but as she walks off the man’s radio, which was playing smooth jazz, scrolled rapidly through stations. His lights flashed and wipers sprung to life and as quickly as it all started, it stopped.

She walks the rest of the way home and finds her steps getting slower and slower. She had plans and a to-do list but instead she collapses on her fluffiest chair for a snooze.

 She’s at home, reveling in a day with no responsibilities. She’s in her unicorn onesie wrapped in her favorite blanket surrounded by snacks, enjoying a Netflix binge. She’s watching The Office for the 10th time because she doesn’t have the energy to take in something new. She’s been so tired lately, the sort of tired that doesn’t go away no matter how much sleep she gets. She usually doesn’t get sick so she just attributes it to stress.

As the employees of Dunder Mifflin scramble during Dwight’s impromptu fire drill, her roommate Kaitlyn comes in with her boyfriend Kyle. She greets them briefly before returning her attention to the show. Kaitlyn drops her things and moves quickly through the common area to her room, while Kyle sits at the kitchen table, loudly dropping his things and making himself at home. She rolls her eyes.

Kaitlyn returns from her bedroom and sets about making food before asking, “Do you want to eat with us? I’m making tacos.”

“You know I never turn down tacos,” she answers.

Soon after the food is done so she turns off the tv and extracts herself from the couch, shuffling to take a seat at the table. “Muchas gracias,” she states as she begins to assemble her meal.

They fall into easy, casual conversation between mouthfuls.

“Ugh, the rest of the TAs in my cohort for this year are such heinous dicks. They think they have to explain every concept to me because I’m the only girl in the group,” Kaitlyn says, disgusted. She’s starting her doctorate in philosophy, with a concentration on morality. A minute or two of her talking about a topic can have you questioning everything, she’s so obnoxiously brilliant.

She groans sympathetically but before she can speak Kyle chimes in, “Aw babe, come on, you can’t let them get to you so much.”

She side-eyes him before dragging her gaze back to Kaitlyn and responding as if Kyle hadn’t spoken. “Ugh. That is the worst. I can’t imagine being the only girl. The guys in my group drive me nuts and there are only a few of them. If I get told to smile one more time I’m going to punch someone, seriously.”

Kaitlyn rolls her eyes. “They’d deserve it.”

“Oh come on, for telling you to smile? It’s a compliment!” Kyle argues.

She slides her unimpressed gaze to him once more and through a mouthful of taco says, “No it’s telling me what to do with my face.”

“They think you’re pretty and want to see you smile,” Kyle contends, bearing a grin himself.

Her face remains blank, the only movement from her chewing. “Then they should tell a joke. And anyways, I don’t think it’s true that they actually want to see me smile. Because they say it when I’m in the middle of reading through a paper or lugging a stack of books or walking down a hallway. Like do you just walk around doing things with a huge smile on your face? I’m not a fucking Disney princess.”

Kyle’s not satisfied. “Now you know you wouldn’t be so pissy about it if it was coming from someone you thought was hot. It’s just because those English TAs are all pale and nerdy and weird.”

She expels a heavy sigh and closes her eyes for a moment before responding. “I generally don’t find it attractive when people tell me what to do with my face. So I think I’d be pissy either way.” She slides her chair back from the table. “I’m gonna take a nap. Thanks for the tacos, Kait. I’ll clean the dishes later if you want to leave them.”

“Oh no, don’t worry about it, I know you’re not feeling well,” Kaitlyn replies.

“Ok. Well I’ll see you later then.” She pauses. “Kyle.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but closes it again when she fixes him with a tired glare. He thinks he sees a black shadow, like a puff of smoke, trailing behind her, but when he blinks it’s gone. He shakes his head. No more all-nighters.

She collapses on her bed and dreams about Jim Halpert telling her to smile.

 She wakes up the next morning, feeling as though she hasn’t slept at all. She extracts herself from bed and manages to trudge to the shower before putting on the first clean garments she found on the floor. She probably should just keep resting but has a really important seminar to attend in preparation for her thesis so she’s going to make her way to school.

On days like this she wishes she had a car, but alas, she has to make her usual trek through the city. She’s dragging her feet in a zombie-like shuffle. Her face bears a scowl and dark circles. Normally she does everything she can to be inconspicuous in hopes of being left alone—sunglasses and headphones and looking down—but today she’s left her headphones at home and squints in the glare of the midmorning sun. She looks at each person she passes as if daring them to say something. Her internal monologue is a chorus of “I wish a motherfucker would.” She is poised for action, a bullet in the barrel of a cocked gun.

No one talks to her on her way to school. She hopes they were scared off by the force of her glare, but really it was the air around her—charged and crackling, humming like a bug zapper, ready to shock anyone who comes too close.

 After the seminar, she heads to the library to pick up some additional reference materials. She’s way behind compared to her classmates—these past few days of feeling run down led to a halt in productivity. She’s grabbed a few books from which to make notes and is making her way to a table in the study area when she spots Ashley. She makes a beeline to her corner and drops her books on the table with a quiet, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Ashley replies, looking up from her book briefly. She turns back to her reading and the two women sit together in silence until the repetitive jiggling of Ashley’s leg becomes too much to ignore.

“Are you alright?” she blurts.

“What? Why?” Ashley replies, brows furrowed.

“Your leg is going crazy.”

“Oh, you know, thesis stuff.”

She tilts her head slightly, her gaze not wavering from Ashley, whose eyes are downcast. “Uh huh.”

“Ok so…you know Dr. Hall?” Ashley whispers.

“Yeah,” she replies, looking around, as if the man himself might wander into their corner.

“I’m just—I’m having some trouble with him.”

“Like in class? I’ve heard he’s a hardass but—”

“No, like…personally?”

Her brow furrows and her nostrils flare. “What happened?”

Ashley takes a deep breath and looks around as if the words she’s looking for may be hanging in the air before her. “Well you know I’ve been TA-ing for one of his classes…and he’s just…weird.”

She leans forward to encourage Ashley to continue.

“Like he’s always talking about how I look and giving me those looks—you know, like the up and down ones—and talking about how we should have lunch. At first I said yes because people go to lunch with professors sometimes, and I thought maybe he did it for all his TAs but Patrick said he didn’t ask him to lunch, and the way he keeps talking about it is so strange. I keep putting it off but he’s been so persistent and now he’s saying things like ‘Oh I hope your boyfriend won’t be mad when we go to lunch’ which like, why would he be mad if it’s just a professional lunch, right? Unless it isn’t…”

“Ugh, Ashley I’m sorry that’s so inappropriate.”

“I know and he keeps sending me emails that seem to have less and less to do with work and more just trying to have conversations with me…I stopped responding so hopefully he’ll stop.”

“God, Ash. Man that is the worst. Have you told anyone?”

“No, I mean, I did talk to Nick about it but he said Hall wasn’t doing anything illegal so there isn’t anything I could do. I thought about telling Keller since he’s the department head but he’s a guy so he probably won’t get it either…and I mean, a TA versus a tenured professor? Come on.” Ashley throws her hands up, defeated.

“Right…that’s a tough spot. I mean obviously what he’s doing is wrong and Nick is an idiot—no offense. Maybe you could—I don’t know…talk to Maxwell? She’s a woman, she’s pretty young, so she probably would know what to do. You don’t have to report it, maybe just get advice?”

“Yeah, I guess. All the other professors seem to like him so much that it seems pointless. If it’s him against me he’ll always win.” Ashley places her elbows on the table and her head in her hands.

She reaches across the table and places her hand on Ashley’s arm. “I’m so sorry. Hopefully the semester will go by fast and then you can get assigned to somebody else’s classes.”

Ashley nods without lifting her head. After a moment she picks up her book and resumes reading, signaling the end to the conversation.

She picks up her book, too, but glances up at Ashley every couple of minutes. She hopes she’s okay but knows that uneasiness she’s feeling hasn’t gone away, even if her leg is still.

 She stayed at the library later than she anticipated, but she’d hit her stride and didn’t want to stop working. It’s dark now and she doesn’t have cash for the bus or enough in her account for an Uber so she’s walking.  It’s not a long walk so she’s just trying to move quickly and get home as soon as possible. She’s nervous and scared, like girls are supposed to be. She’s looking down, mostly, but every few seconds her eyes shift upward or to the side. Only one earbud is in and at the slightest noise she turns to look behind her. Her hands are in her pockets, her right hand with a firm grip on her keys—she wants to be able to get into her building quickly, and also be ready to stab somebody if she has to.

Getting home is at the forefront of her mind as she hustles down the dark streets, but she can’t help but think about Ashley and Hall. She’s angry for her friend and wishes she could so something to protect her, but she can’t. That feeling of powerlessness—that’s what gets at her the most.

She’s moving down the main street, full of stores and restaurants, when she sees a group of guys ahead. There are several of them—maybe 7—a bit older, perhaps, and definitely bigger than her. She averts her eyes, lest a bit of accidental eye contact make one of them think she’s interested. She lengthens her strides, hoping to propel herself forward even more quickly.  Her brain is simultaneously a chorus of “Please leave me alone please leave me alone please leave me alone,” and a scrolling list of contingency plans (“If he grabs my bag I’ll just drop it and run and if he grabs my wrist roll out toward the thumb and…”).

She’s upon them now and mumbles, “Excuse me,” hoping they’ll just part and let her through.

They start to move and one says, “Hey,” drawing out the vowel as he runs his eyes up and down her body and licks his lips. “How you doin’?” Like he’s fucking Joey Tribbiani.

She holds back the scowl that threatens to form on her face and responds with a terse nod. She tries to keep going but another of the group speaks out. “Hey! My friend was talking to you.” Like her silence is offensive.

“Hi,” she responds timidly, still trying to move forward. Has she not moved, or are they following her? She’s not sure. An alarm is going off in her brain, and she wonders if she can outrun any of these guys.

She suddenly feels a twinge of pain in her left ear as the ear bud is yanked out. The same guy who was offended by her is closer now. “He asked you a question.”

Now the scowl appears in full force. She just wants to get home, to heat up her leftovers and relax after hours of research. But no. This fucking guy needs her to respond to his friend. Once she’s sure her meanest look is burned into this asshole’s retinas, she turns to go.

The asshole wraps his hand around her wrist and pulls her back toward him. She whips around, her hair flying up into a halo around her head. Her eyes are wide, brows pulled together, and nostrils flared, like a bull about to charge. She feels the slime sliding down her skin and hears the honking of the semi-truck and “Smile” and Ashley’s bouncing leg. And then nothing.

 She’s laying down, and suddenly being jostled. She hopes that was all a bad dream and Kait is waking her because she’s late for class but it’s more likely that the pack of guys have drugged her or knocked her out and now she’s on the floor in some empty warehouse and they’re going to have their way with her. There’s a high-pitched ringing in her ears and it’s so loud. She squeezes her eyes shut tighter, not ready to face her current circumstances.

She’s jostled again. “Ma’am, can you hear me?!”

She opens her eyes abruptly and is greeted by an array of flashing lights. She has to blink a few more times to adjust. She manages to croak out a quiet “Yes.”

As her eyes adjust further, she can see that the man before her is an EMT. She’s lying on the street, but she’s not sure where. Based on the amount of lights, she estimates there are several police cars and ambulances around. She tries to sit up to take in more, but is stopped by a hand on her shoulder.

“I need to stabilize your neck, ma’am.” He produces a cervical collar which he places carefully around her neck.

“Where am I?” she asks quietly.

“Athens Boulevard, ma’am.”

So she hadn’t gone far. That’s the street she was walking down when she ran into the guys, and then—“Wait, what happened?”

“There was an explosion. Please look at me so I can check your pupils.”

Once he’s satisfied that she’s fully conscious and her pupils are equal and reactive, he and his colleague helped her onto a stretcher. From her higher vantage point, she can see much more of the scene. She was thrown into the middle of the street, right on the yellow line. The sidewalks are covered in shattered glass from the storefront windows, reflecting the lights from the emergency vehicles. She sees some other people strewn about being attended to by paramedics. She can’t make out who they are and wonders if any of the guys that were bothering her were hurt. She glances over the spot on the sidewalk where she last remembers standing and sees a group of police and guys in suits talking and taking pictures. She figures it was some sort of terrorist attack.

As she’s loaded into the ambulance, she feels exhaustion wash over her like a wave and allows herself to drift off to sleep again.

 She wakes up in the hospital. She’s been changed into a gown and is attached to an IV and all sorts of monitoring equipment. She sits up slightly, the miniscule movement causing her to wince in pain. She takes in her surroundings, trying to see if any of her belongings made it to the hospital with her intact. She doesn’t see any of her things, but her eyes land on the remote sitting on the bedside table. She grabs it and turns on the tv, hoping to find a news channel with information on the attack.

After a flipping through a couple of channels, she finds the local news. The blonde anchor has on her best serious face as she warns, “Please note that the following video is graphic and could be upsetting to some viewers.”

The screen cuts to black and white footage of the Athens Boulevard, shot from a high angle, presumably from a surveillance camera. She sees some random people passing by, and then there it is—her and the men. The fear and fury come rushing back to her as she watches herself be harassed. She sees the last thing she remembers—when the asshole put his hands on her—and then something happens. There’s a huge puff of thick black smoke that looks like nothing she’s ever seen from a fire. She hasn’t seen a bomb in real life but none of the action movies she’s seen have looked like this. The smoke spins like a miniature tornado, throwing the group of men off their feet. It then takes off, moving like an erratic serpent as it destroys the windows of the stores, before changing direction. It’s flying about, going every which way, almost like a deflating balloon that’s been let go. The smoke moves toward the camera and the video cuts off.

She’s not sure what she just watched. She flips through channels, hoping to find the video again, before settling on national channel that is playing to video on loop as various experts espouse their early theories.

She watches it four, maybe five more times. She finds herself leaning closer each time, watching the spot where she stood. Each time she watches it becomes clearer—the black smoke starts with her.  

She falls back into the pillows, her mind a mess of questions. Did it throw her immediately? Did it come out of her? Did she turn into the big black smoke monster from Lost? She looks around the room, as if the answer may be apparent in the signs on the walls or her vital signs displayed on the screen beside her. She looks down at her hands, clenching and unclenching her fists. What the fuck?

She wonders what is wrong with her, and what happened to the group of men. She assumes they’re hurt but she refuses to consider the possibility of something worse. She’s ashamed of it, but part of her—a very small part—is happy they were hurt. The thought of what could have happened had she not gone all smoke snake on them makes her stomach turn. Her face contorts into a snarl as she clenches her jaw and wrinkles her nose. The number on the monitor that represents her heart rate begins to climb. She feels heat growing from her chest and spreading outward as she thinks, “They should have just left me alone.”

The heat reaches her extremities and her body feels charged, like the AED paddles sitting across the room, when suddenly the door swings open.

“You’re awake!” the nurse greets. She’s wearing bright pink scrubs and a warm smile. “I’m Wendy, and I’m your nurse for the next 6 hours or so. How are you feeling?”

The heat within her has dissipated and suddenly she’s overcome with exhaustion. She’s like one of those inflatable lawn decorations when the plug has been pulled. “Just tired, mostly. A little sore, I guess.”

“Okay. Dinner will be here in a little while, but in the mean time I want you to get some rest. The doctors want to keep you here overnight to monitor you, but you should be able to go home tomorrow. So far things are looking good. Nothing’s broken, and your head CT was clear. You made out pretty well, lady. You’re lucky.”

She quirks the corners of her mouth in a hollow approximation of a smile. “Oh, I know, Wendy.”

  (And that’s it! I’d planned on ending it there but a friend said she’d be interested in more, so maybe to be continued...?)

[noise-eternal]

Khadavra - Interview

Hey Khadavra! Can you introduce yourselves for us?

Hello! We are Alex, Seb, Jón, Nils & Ole - Khadavra. A band started by Alex in Arvika, Värmland in the spring of 2012. Started as a doom metal band, but after regrouping in september we changed our path and started treading in the footsteps of Tool. Trying to make emotional, cinematic and complex music that could invoke the presence of the profound.

This were times when I, Alex, was very naive, pretentious and looked for meaning in my own way. Now, seven years, a move to Gothenburg and two albums later it's easier to just call us a progressive rock band with a shoegaze attitude and a post-rock state of mind.

How does it feel to have your new album out, are you pleased with the process and where did you record it?

Great. Incredibly relieving! Now all that music and emotional bagage has manifested in something that no longer burdens us. It is now free and not something that is kept alive by our imagination, it lives it's own little life, fed by the collective imagination.

As with our first album, Hypnagogia was conceived and recorded in Khadavergrottan, our rehearsal studio in Gothenburg (as all recordings with Alex and Seb's other projects: Enstam, Dimma GBG and She Sees). This is where all the drums were recorded in may 2017. Additionally all bass and almost all guitars and vocals were done there as well. Keyboards was recorded in Nils home studio.

We are very happy with the result! But the process.... well, let's not go there...recording on your own, without much production knowledge or experience and with no real budget, well there's a lot of backsides. But the tedious and frustrating process was worth it.

Who writes the lyrics and/or music in Khadavra?

Well, the creation of the music is a pure collaborative process. Usually Seb or Jón has ideas for riffs or melodies that make up the foundation for the songs, but those original ideas go through a long process of jamming that lets us all be an essential part of the shaping of the idea, and the creation of the rest of the song.

When it comes to lyrics it's same but different. The lyrics to Lucid Parasitosis I on our previous album was written by Jón, Down the Rabbithole was written by Alex and Seb, Nils and Jón collected the words to Tryptophan. We don't really have rules for this, It's all very intuitive.

Your first album were to me, frankly, a bit too sterile sounding for my liking. Do you agree or was this perhaps just a mistake with the production?

Wow. We find that really odd, and have a hard time agreeing with that statement actually. A big part of our first album was recorded live (bass and drums were recorded together on most of the tracks), with only like 6 shitty microphones in our rehearsal space, by Alex. Den första vilan, Den sista vilan, Lucid Parasitosis II, I sol itu and Födelsen was done with guitar, bass and drums recorded simultaneously in a few takes with keyboards done after.

We recorded it during 2 weeks, as we lived 4 people in Alex tiny cottage. We told Tobias Carlsson to do as little as possible to the songs in his mixing production, and he did it in only a couple of weeks. With that said, and having the sound of it in mind we don't really find that album sterile at all... if anything, Hypnagogia is the sterile sounding of the two. But as this statement of defense is made, we respect your opinion. And to answer the last part of your question: No real mistakes were made in the production of our first album. Some of the performances on the recordings could have been better... but it was a conscious decision to make everything as pure as possible at the time.

To me you sound like some sort of dreamy progressive rock, have you also taken any cues from bands from the swedish genre “progg”? Like Nationalteatern, Hoola Bandoola Band etc? Because I can somewhat sense that as well.

Well... even though we absolutely have listened to a lot of the good ol' "Progg" we wouldn't say that we have been taking cues or inspiration in a conscious or direct way. At least not in a melodically technical way. I think we've taken more of the attitude and the perception of music as a weapon that is found in the swedish "progg" scene in the early to mid 70's.

We take a lot more of direct creative inspiration and cues from other bands active in Sweden in the same time period as: Bo Hansson, Träd, Gräs och Stenar, Älgarnas Trädgård, Baby Grandmothers, Pärson Sound, Fläsket Brinner and Samla Mammas Manna.

If we’re talking inspiration/influences we have to mention: Tool, Anekdoten, Dungen, Slowdive, Godspeed You! Black Emperor and of course BLACK SABBATH!!!

You originally are from Arvika, Värmland. How has this affected the band? Are there any bands to talk of in Arvika?

Well, firstly: Värmland has really beautiful, wild and authentic landscapes of deep, narrow and dark woods. I cherish the fact that me (Alex) and my brother (Seb) always had the opportunity to explore and play in the woods as kids. When we make music together, most of the times it moves to some kind of spiritual forest-rock, I like to imagine that it has to do with our environment while growing up. I also think that the monotonous vibe integrated in Arvika's social nature had a big effect on us. Having the same friends from kindergarten until graduation, walking the same streets, meeting all the same people who only talk about past activities, always repeating routines - you grow up being bored. At least for me this was frustrating and made us seek some kind of outlet, something that could set some of those suppressed feelings in motions and to find our identity.

So the music, in a sense, came out of neccessity. That we wanted to do experimental and somewhat edgy music was because of the state of Arvika's music scene at the time. Nothing stimulating in it, at all. When you don't have anything inspirational around you to tap in to, you have to make it yourself - that was pretty much my take on that situation and period in my life.

The sound of the first album (written while still living in Arvika) is representative of my and Seb's experience of living there. Frustrated, angry and a bit lost in the newly found adulthood. There's a lot of factors that effect the way we make music and our sound.

Bands in Arvika? Well... Nephila is pretty cool. Feels like they have kept something we stirred up alive after we left. One of Sweden's best bands, Vulkan are almost from Arvika... they are always worth talking about.

I always like this one even though it’s a boring question one might argue, which (up to) three records have each of you had a hard on for lately?

Alex: Russian Circles - Memorial, Sonic Youth - The Eternal, Nirvana - In Utero

Seb: Catherine wheel - chrome, My Bloody Valentine - Isn't anything, Aphex twin - I care because you do

Jon: Black Sabbath - Technical ecstasy, Rainbow - Ritchie Blackmores Rainbow, Captain Beefheart - Safe as milk

Ole: Porcupine Tree - In Absentia, Björk - Utopia, John Frusciante - The Empyrian

Nils: Toby Driver - They are the Shield, All Traps on Earth - A Drop of Light, Steve Reich - Pulse/Quartet

Can you explain some of the albums’ themes and/or messages? If there are any.

Ok. Hypnagogia is the state between awake and dreaming. Sometimes, before falling into deep sleep you can enter this state of pure hallucination, reminicient of the kind you can experience on hallucinogenic drugs but different. In a segment of a lecture called "Dreaming Awake at the End of Times" Terence McKenna argues that we, as we are now in our time of civilization, are neither awake or asleep (like conspirationists saying that we are asleep and must wake up to see and acknowledge the truth), we are in an universal hypnagogic state. Hallucinating together.

I don't really remember the rest of the lecture, and what the real point is... but this is in a way a backdrop to the theme of the album. You need to sleep to wake up, and if we're not really sleeping or being awake... an interesting idea to linger on, but without much sense or hope of resolution. The album explores different sensations that are in one sense completely natural but at the same time it has a somewhat supernatural vibe to it. Maybe these sensations are a product of what could be deemed hypnagogia, not completely real or unreal, but a personal experience nevertheless.

But mostly the themes is a projection stemming in our personal experiences, individual and collective evolution and growth as human beings in this new urban environment in Gothenburg. If our first album was based on our perception about life in a town like Arvika, then this one is based on life in Gothenburg.

We wouldn't say the album holds any conceived and coherent messages though...

What’s up for Khadavra in the future. How come the long wait between the albums?

Just gonna take it as it comes for a while... we got some cool shows closing in, maybe got some more coming this fall. We have been given the chance of playing with musical heroes Gösta Berlings Saga in august and Vulkan in october. It's going to be amazing!

We've also completed the writing of two new songs! Both are featured on our setlist for the summer and we're planning on recording them both and releasing them separately, when the time comes...

At this moment we're not that keen on the idea of any new full length album though. Well, maybe if it comes naturally, but for now we got more of an urge to relearn and renew older songs and perfect our new ones for the shows ahead, because playing live is actually our main outlet and something we finally can put more energy and focus into.

Oh yeah! We got a new member, Ole, by the way. A lot of our time will be spent getting him in our unit and let him shine brightly in our sonic landscape. He provides vocals and a lot of guitar to our upcoming shows!

[ghostofasoldier]

Reconciliation Chapter 4: Triggered.

Chapter 1: Easter Eggs

Chapter 2: Memory Lane

Chapter 3: Tiny Dancer

Chapter 4: Triggered.

Warnings: SMUT. 

Thunder rang through the mountains that surrounded the Avenger's compound.

Each passing boom shaking the whole house. Each boom makes my heart skip a beat, but the little girl before me lays in her bed completely asleep. I watch her closely, my eyes narrowed as I study her. As I take her in and memorize her. After the attack we faced I could still feel my irregular heartbeat. My hands still shook and my breathing was still uneasy.

Hydra's threatening message and antics had impacted my daughter. She had to experience the fear and horror that I'd been trying hard to keep from her. The same horrors her father and I faced.

Thunder rings through the mountain once more, lightning causing the world to light up around me. In the bed she stirs, her small body holding the blanket to her as she turns in her sleep. My eyes continue to watch her closely until I feel the faint touch of hands on my waist. At first my body tenses at the touch, my paranoia from the earlier events still weighing on me.

“She's safe.”

His voice whispers in my ear, his lips dangerously close. So close that I can feel the hairs on my neck seeming to stand on end as I look at our little girl.

When I don't respond he gives the side of my head a faint kiss, his hands drawing my body in against his. It's a slight touch, but it's enough to make my breathing hitch.

“Bucky...”

My voice shakes lightly as his hands manage to turn my body towards him. Once we're face to face I feel all my fear waver. The moment I look at his pale blue eyes at pierce me as he peers up at me through the brown hair that falls in his face.

“... I'm scared.”

The words sound small when I utter them in a faint whisper. My fear making his brow furrow as his hands bring me in closer to him. When our chests touch and he studies me the way I'd been studying our daughter. He doesn't speak a single word the entire time his gaze fixates on me, instead he guides my body with his as he pulls us out of the room.

Once we're in the hallway he lightly pushes me against the wall on the opposing our daughter's room. His blue eyes capture mine when he does this, his hands reaching for mine.

“It will all be okay...”

He rasps.

“... I've got you.”

I feel my eyes water at the words he rasps. The sound of promise laced within them. But the truth was we'd been through so much shit that I was afraid it was all going to be taken away. I was afraid that somehow everything we'd built together was going to break apart at the seems. All because Hydra wouldn't let us have a happy ending. All because Hydra always had a nasty way of rearing its ugly head.

The tears the find my eyes make his face contort to sympathy, his pale blue eyes watching me carefully. I can tell there's so much he wants to say, but that he's unsure of what to say. He knew that a threat from Hydra was not to be taken lightly, but he also knew that we'd defeated them before and we could do it again.

We would do it again.

“I won't lose you. I won't lose her. I can't.”

I mutter as my mind fixates on the note that had been left for me. The note that confirmed my deepest fears. That he was still living after all this time. Like a roach that had survived a nuclear explosion.

With shaking hands I move to touch Bucky's face, the pads of my fingertips light along his face. I look at him the way I'd looked at our daughter. My eyes memorizing every single detail that I can see. Every single part of him that I'd spent loving after all these years.

His breathing seems to change when I do this. When my hands move to guide some of his long hair out of his handsome face.

“We've beat them before Emilia. That threat was just them being desperate.”

My jaw clenches at the accusation, my eyes straying from his only to find his lips. It didn't matter that the threat had been empty. It only mattered that they dared to try and ruin what I had. What Bucky and I had.

“I'm just so scared.”

I whimper, my jaw still tightly clenched as I look at him. As I feel my confidence waver. I knew we could take Hydra, but I also knew what it had been like to grow up with Hydra. Just as Bucky knew what it was like to be molded by Hydra and a part of me was terrified that somehow my daughter would share the same fate.

My admission causes him to shake his head in protest, his eyes never leaving me as the cracks of my once strong foundation begin to show themselves. Since he'd come home I'd been so strong. I'd been on my game and no one could break it, but right now I felt as if anything tough about me had been shattered into a thousand pieces.

It's when he sees me begin to break that he shakes his head, his lips moving against mine before I have the chance to whisper another fear. Instead he claims my lips and guides me against the wall, my body instantly surrendering to him. My body allows him to distract me, my fear vanishing as he deepens the kiss.

Without hesitation I let myself become putty in his hands, something he takes full advantage of when he guides his hands to my legs. He lifts me up and wraps me around his torso before guiding me out of the hallway, his legs carrying me to our room. Once there he shuts the door behind him lightly, a groan escaping his lips once he knows there's no chance of waking our daughter.

“I'll protect you Emilia...”

He growls when I break the kiss. When I feel the need to breathe again.

“... I won't let anyone touch our daughter. I won't let anyone touch you. They'll be sorry they ever tried.”

When he says this I feel my heartbeat quicken, my eyes remaining locked with his as we feel a new sort of survival pulsate beneath the surface of our bodies. A survival that the both of us know we will act on the moment we need to.

Staring at each other I feel myself in need of him. I feel myself in need of a distraction from reality.

“I don't want to talk about Hydra anymore tonight...”

I feel myself murmur as I guide my hands to his broad shoulders, my legs seeming to tighten around his torso as we watch each other in anticipation.

“... They ruined enough of this night. I won't let them ruin the rest of it.”

He wastes no time arguing against my words once I've finished speaking. He instead guides his lips back to mine, resuming the deep touch of his lips on mine. I moan at the forwardness of his kiss. At the sensation of his chest moving against mine. Out of instinct, my hands seem to lightly maneuver themselves down his shirt covered chest, my fingertips getting lower and lower. A faint groan passes lips when I do this, his metal arm stopping my hands before I have the chance to put my hand between our attached bodies.

Instead he guides me to our bed and puts me on the comforter, my blouse acting as a barrier between myself and the soft fabric. He glances down at me for a moment before deciding what to do next, his eyes clearly infatuated with the way I look beneath him. His pale blue orbs seem to fixate on the way my hair is strewn about, my body a complete and total mess as I try to capture my breath.

“I'm going to fuck you so hard you forget all about tonight.”

He mutters the words and I feel my heart skip a beat. In our years together he'd never spoken quite like this. Bucky had always been the quiet type when we got into these sort of position, but now I see a side of him that is determined to claim what is his. What Hydra's threatening to steal once more.

His promise provokes me to sit up on the bed he'd so intently laid me on, my eyes never leaving his while I do this. I reach out for him, my hands finding his jeans, my fingers finding his empty belt loops. I pull his body towards me and feel my breathing hitch when I see the look that enters his eyes. A look that is dangerous. I swiftly move to the button of his jeans and smile up at him when I unbutton them, another groan daring to escape him.

“Then do it.”

I feel myself whimper as I pull the fabric of his jeans down, my eyes noting the bulge that I reveal the moment the jeans move down his body. I guide the fabric down him slowly, but I can sense that he's eager. I can sense that he's in the mood for more.

I stand before him the moment I sense this, my eyes wide as I move to the bottom of his shirt. He's wearing a simple black v-neck that I am desperate to rid him of. Something that I manage to rid him of without any hesitation on his part. In one swift moment I have him before me in nothing but his black boxers, his bulge more prominent than it had been before. I smile up at him for a moment before placing my hands on his collar bone. Moving my fingertips along his collar bone I stop at the metal arm, the arm that had been fused to his skin all those years before. I trail my fingers from that spot, the pads lightly studying every muscle of his torso until I make myself go lower and lower.

The whole time he watches me in silence, his eyes never leaving me when I do this. It isn't until my hands move to the hem of his boxer that I hear him make a sound. A faint hiss that tells me he's as hungry for more as I am.

“Is all this for me?”

I whisper as my eyes study the bulge, my hands cautious as I pull the boxers down. He inhales sharply when I do this, when he's completely exposed before me. Smiling I move my hand to the tip of his cock, a light movement causing another hiss to pass his lips as I begin to work him.

At first my movements are slow and cautious, but after a few seconds I feel him move beneath the palm of my hand.

He's breathless and needy.

He's desperate and ready for me to finish him off after just a few movements of my hand. After a few skilled manipulated gestures, but he doesn't let me finish him off completely before stilling my actions.

“If I'm going to cum...”

He starts, his hands moving to my blouse as he rips it open.

“... It's going to be inside of you.”

My jeans don't last much longer than my blouse does before he forces me back onto the bed he'd put me on minutes ago.

Hovering above me, his eyes fixate on the bra I'm wearing, a small smirk moving to his lips as his metal hand lightly traces my rib cage. I feel my lips part at the sensation of his metal fingers lightly tracing my skin, until he decides when he wants to make his next move. A decision that is made the moment he spots the front clasp of my bra. A decision that he makes the moment he unfastens it and gets a look at my now exposed chest. It's after that, that he doesn't allow me a moment to prepare myself before his hands guide my legs apart and he's inside of me.

He thrusts with everything he has as his lips move back to mine. His touch as dangerous as his gaze had been when I'd initiated this. He deepens the kiss as I moan against him, my legs wrapping around his torso. I try my best to match his thrusts, but find that I'm sloppy beneath him. He pushes me to new places with each movement his body makes.

“Oh fuck...”

He mutters when my hands dare to move to his hair, my fingers lacing themselves in the strands of his dark brown hair. I find myself pulling slight as my back arches into his touch, his lips moving from mine to my neck. He slows his thrusts at this point, a slow rhythm starting when he feels my body grow closer to a release, one his body is starting to feel too.

“... I love you.”

His lips mouth against my neck as he moves down from my neck to my chest. His lips drag along my chest slowly, marking me with every touch.

“I love you too.”

I state simply as he thrusts once more, deeper than before. He speeds up his movements mere seconds after he hears my feeble reply, my body ready for a release the moment I feel him cum. It's once he's over the edge that I follow behind, a moan passing my lips when I do.

We remain locked together as we struggle to breathe once more, our chests heaving up and down as we watch each other closely. Just by looking at him I can see that there's so much the both of us want to say to one another, but we don't know if we want to say it.

So instead of talking I move my lips back to his, my touch slow and tender. He uses his hands to prop himself up, each hand resting on either side of me. He deepens the kiss when he feels the sensation of his chest moving against mine, a sensation he seems inclined to increase when he dares to put his metal hand against my hardening nipple.

“Bucky.”

I whimper when I feel his cold fingers massage me, his kiss somehow deepening as he does this. Even though he'd just finished off moments ago, I can feel him hardening once more. His body once again resuming thrusting, only this time he's painfully slow. He chuckles as he feels my hips meet his, my body responding to his just as it always does.

“I will never get sick of this...”

He murmurs when he feels me clench against him, the pit of my stomach seeming to tighten as I feel myself getting ready to go over the edge once more. It's when he feels this that he moves even slower, his hips seeming to grind into mine as he finds new ways to make me fall apart.

“... You're a sight that I'll always be addicted to.”

My lips part as a moan escapes me once more, my body nearing its end of its lustful high.

It takes a mere three more thrusts before I release once more, his body managing to find its release at the same time. But this time when we cum I feel him pull out, his body laying next to mine as his eyes study me the way they had before.

Looking at him now I feel as if I'm on cloud nine. As if all the bad scary stuff had been some sort of bad dream that I'd made up.

Looking at him now I felt invincible.

Even though I knew we weren't.

“Sometimes I don't know what I did to deserve you.”

I whisper as he pulls my body in against his, my head finding his now sweaty chest.

“I think the same thing Emilia. I think it every day.”

He responds softly as he holds my bare body to his. He lets me rest my head on his chest and  I feel the remnants of his lust burning within him. I feel it in the way his chest moves up and down. I feel it in his touch as he holds onto me tightly.

As he holds onto me with everything he has.

Because at the end of the day we knew that there was a chance that Hydra would win.

There was a chance we'd lose it all.