#Fluorescent Vermin

[fluorescentvermin]

I'm working on the cityscape for the first page, and it's looking really cool but it has been pretty time consuming. So please, enjoy how cool it looks so far and imagine how awesome it'll look when I actually finish it.

#cyberpunk #cityscape #digital painting #digital art #digital aritst #cyberpunk city #Neo City #work in progress #wip #Krita #fluorescent vermin

[reznuak2703]

The Starlight Mauve (Short Story)

There it was, The Starlight Mauve, the place where the passions of love came to die. Formerly a prestigious retreat from society’s ever righteous morals, the mighty niterie now stood barren atop that once virident hill, projecting its melancholic memories upon the lands below. Run down in desolation, that famed house’s fluorescence could no longer mystify the minds, nor could its thick air of lust and betrayal charm the lowly denizens of the night. It was a pathetic sight to see, how the marvelous nightclub had resolved to nothing more than a shelter from Boreas’ cold fury, but it was a fate well deserved. Now, the only beings who called this pitiful den home were the vermin and dregs birthed from its sinful sludge many moons prior. 

  It had been three years since I'd last been there, but its maroon walls and musk of intoxicated love never ceased to plague my mind. Haunting my dreams and eating away at my soul, the memories of the fateful night spent in that degenerative hell had conjured before my eyes all that I had lost. For months on end I was convinced this was the fate I was damned with, convinced these nightmares would never cease and neither would my suffering, but then I read of The Starlight Mauve’s condemnation. It was then I knew that to find the closure I so desperately needed I’d have to return there once more. 

Now, having proceeded through a litany of snow-clad forests and once traveled roads, I found myself at the foot of The Starlight Mauve’s great entrance once more. There I stood before the precipice, glaring at the soft glow emanating from the purple-tinted star which bore the nightclub’s name above me. Even in its desolation, The Starlight Mauve taunted me, illuminating the frost below me with neon lights and reflections of lovers blowing kisses that no one would catch. Seeing these illusions, I felt a heat begin to rise from my chest. Feeding off of my sorrows and regrets, this heat manifested itself as a melancholic haze that brought painful memories of my night three years prior. Enveloped by the past, I no longer felt the slow descending snow peck my cheeks with its chilling barrage. Instead, I now felt the jealousy that consumed my heart the night I lost my dear Elizabeth. 

We were two wildfires caught within a storm. Tangled by our lust, we’d spend every night dancing atop every aspiration and commitment we ever had, burning them down just for one more sunrise together. For months I believed that our bond was unbreakable, that our destinies would be forever intertwined, but I soon found out how wrong I was. Elizabeth was my everything, my angelic rose, and I lost her before I could truly love her. 

I tried to pull myself from my mind, but It took me a moment to find my composure. Tears streamed down my face, escaping my sorrowful eyes and descending down upon the snow. Each droplet burned a hole as it sank, producing ascending mists before me. In the steam I could’ve sworn I saw Elizabeth dancing like she used to, but before I could grasp her beauty, the vapors would vanish. Sighing, I put out my lantern and made my way into the dark recesses awaiting me, knowing that regardless of if I was ready or not, closure would be coming soon. 

Upon entering, I immediately felt overwhelmed by a wave of crashing heartache. Regardless of its emptiness, The Starlight Mauve still carried with it the pains of its past. Every soul that had been taken, every love that had been murdered, every virgin turned wanton, all of it was there, forsaken by the burlesque’s lustful ignorance. Solemnly, I traversed deeper into the nightclub, desperate to pass these piteous pockets of loathing. 

Soon I found myself standing where the dance floor had once been with my sight obscured by a heavy haze of stink and despair. I was lost beneath this veil, blind to all that surrounded me except for the lavender carpet whose pile sung with each step. Despite this, my spirit’s rising panic began to fade and I felt assuaged by the ambiance before me. The wool called to me, and as I allowed the voracious fabric below to pull me to my knees, I began to retrieve three sacred items which haunted the hollows of my heart. 

First, from my lapel I pulled the brooch Elizabeth pinned to my chest the first night we met. Once shining with a striking silver gleam, the metal which warded the black rose that centered the ornament had now decayed with spots of red and orange. The rose contained within it was all but dead, except for a single petal which refused to fall from its sepal. Giving it one last longing glance, I placed the brooch to my left and continued my ritual. 

Next, I pulled from my breast a locket which contained a faded picture of Elizabeth and I. Its oxidized corners had turned yellow over time and the paper smelt of buttered popcorn, sparking my memories of the circus where we met. My mind was overcome by the sound of her beautiful laughter and the image of her soft smile that carried infinite joys and sorrows. Now, seeing my eyes reflected in the rhinestone crest which adorned the inner recess, I reflected on how her irises would sparkle under the moonlight. It took all I had in me to separate myself from that image, and it took more strength than I believed I had to place her locket down upon the ground before me. 

 Finally, from my pocket I pulled the ring I had planned on giving her that fateful night. Staring at the purple hue which painted its golden band, I recalled how excited I was when I had bought it. I had spent weeks going from town to town, looking for the perfect jeweler to bedazzle my love, and when I finally found the right ring my giddiness had overwhelmed me. Unfortunately, that giddiness has faded, but my love for her has not. For three years it had been burning a hole in my pocket, never seeing the light of day or feeling the wind bend to its diamond crest, but now it was finally time to separate myself from it. 

Contained within a triangle of my past, I sat solemnly, whispering both nothing and everything to the world around me. I hadn’t seen Elizabeth in 3 years, but I hoped that somewhere, somehow, she’d hear my message.

“I don’t know what occurred that night. I don’t know what happened to cause you to leave, but I am sorry. I hope that wherever you went, wherever you are now, you’re safe and happy. Goodbye Elizabeth” 

Before a sea of sorrows could escape my eyes, a small shower did instead. Three solitary tears sank through the cracks in the floorboards, binding themselves forever to the foundations of this woeful wretch. This was it, this was the end. I had to let Elizabeth go, here, now, and forever. 

With a deep sigh, I rose to my feet and turned towards the door. For the first time in nearly an hour I felt the brisk wind chill my bones, invading every depression within The Starlight Mauve and I. Turning towards the door, I prepared myself to leave and never return when suddenly my essence was compelled by the sting of an old chord. 

Across the room I saw the old stain-ridden piano alive and well, its ivory keys playing a somber scale that quickly transitioned into a melodious swing. The wind picked up, now tunneling through the corridors before slamming those velvet doors shut, enveloping me in darkness. Surrounded by shadow and painful nostalgia, I prepared myself for hell to come once more. Instead, I found heaven. 

The room exploded with a barrage of lights and sounds. Music blasted from every direction and within moments I was caught between a mob of dancing spirits locked within an eternal tango. Ghostly quartets played the masquerade on as phantoms brought the ballroom to life, rebranding The Starlight Mauve as a house of romance and passion. Darting my eyes back and forth, I almost couldn’t believe what I saw. The crowd before me was neither alive nor dead, but rather a beautiful union of transcendent love across the ages. Old widows reunited with their husbands, lovers embraced in death without the judgment of society, and couples conjoined with a bond so strong that even death could not part. Each soul had been joined by their equal, locked hand in hand, swaying to the hypnotic thump of the bass and the flourishing strings. Young or old, flesh or bone, the shades of the hall oscillated rhythmically and smiled as they fell into the arms of their lover. 

It was impossible not to find joy in the pure ecstasy occurring around me, but part of me felt a stinging loneliness begin to rise. I searched among the crowd for someone to take my hand, for anyone to acknowledge my presence, but it was useless. Invisible amongst these amorous couplets, the pain in my heart returned, and it returned with fury as its partner. 

“Why is this happening?” I thought to myself as I angrily pushed through the ghostly crowds. Just moments before this eruption occurred I had been mourning the loss of my love, casting aside my history and pain for a better tomorrow, but nobody seemed to notice nor care. I was caught within a rushing river of compassion, yet my skin ran dry and my throat contracted from thirst. 

Scorn riddled my heart as I looked for an escape from this mirage. I had spent three years searching for the right moment to let go of my painful attachment and I wouldn’t let these spirits ruin this chance. I couldn’t hear my thoughts over the mesmerizing harmony emerging from the brass around me but I knew that I had to leave. Compelled towards the large velvet set of doors before me, I found myself below its imposing frame grasping the copper handle before I suddenly heard her voice. 

“Leaving so soon? I was hoping we’d at least have a dance together”

Overcome with fear, confusion, and fervor, I found my eyes bound to the floor below me. I couldn’t turn my body to face this voice and I couldn’t dare meet its gaze, afraid that what I’d see would either disappoint or revive the fires in my heart I had just put out. My shoulders tensed and my hands shook with a freezing burn that chilled my veins. I wanted to run away from all of this, but I couldn’t. 

“It's ok Henry, It’s me. I promise it's me.”

Taking a deep breath, I drew from what willpower I had left the desire to face this voice. Back towards the center of the hall stood Elizabeth, looking just as beautiful as the day I lost her. 

Everything about her was a dream. Beneath the dim lights that guided loving dancers’ souls around the picturesque ballroom her eyes shone brighter than ever before. In her hair I found a heart of chestnut and lavender that could burn you with its fiery touch. Her ballgown ran black with streaks of gold and on her breast sat a pinned nightingale whose metallic wings reflected my deepest desires back at me. 

For three years I had prayed for a night like this, a night where I would finally see my love once more. Now that it was here I had no idea what to do. I had neither the preparation nor the rationale to truly navigate the situation before me, so instead I followed my heart and glided across the hall to her. 

Within moments we were in each other’s arms, picking our love up right where we left off. With her hands behind my neck and mine around her waist, I felt safe for the first time in years. The music was soft and smooth, slow enough to match a heartbeat, but fast enough to keep our feet moving below us. Elizabeth danced just like she used to, dragging me across the ballroom floor with a hasty flourish. Each dip, spin, jump, and lunge that we performed worked only to further join our hearts. Our fire was alive once more, but the pains of the past were persistent in their beckoning. 

“How is this possible?” My eyes glazed past her, landing on the undead procession behind her. “Is any of this real?” 

“Don’t focus on that Henry, focus on me.” 

“But how can I not focus on that? Are they really dead? Are you dead? What happened?” 

I waited for a response from Elizabeth but before she could answer the tempo picked up and we were swept into the crowding cadaverous sea. My body felt foreign as my feet took initiative, swaying in 2/4 time to keep up with Elizabeth’s fiery tango. Had it not been for the waltz which had previously united us I believe our souls would have lost one another once more. However, the crescendoing accelerando that possessed the guitarists sharp chords and percussions swift rhythm gave our bodies no rest. In an attempt to ground myself, I returned to the questions that I had been asking Elizabeth.

“Where have you been for the past three years? What happened to you?” 

“You’ll learn in due time my Starshine, until then let us enjoy this.”

 From that moment I wanted to continue my questioning but her calm words and loving smile eased all of my queries. I felt as if I could fall into her arms and spend an eternity wrapped in her warm embrace, swaying on the dance floor between a mob of lovers and memories. Everything was perfect, and I wished that these ever fleeting seconds would drag their feet in their quest to progress time’s agenda. 

For hours we danced, forgetting about the worlds beyond and their woes. Every sonata, ballad, and flamenco that the revenant quartet performed filled my heart with promises of a forever that I believed were right there for the taking. I was happy and my love was stronger than ever, revived by the searing affection found within Elizabeth’s affectionate visage. 

With every strut and step that we took I felt more energy flow through my body. Exhaustion was a mortal worry and as I spent this night among my love and the dead I was granted the gifts that come with immortality. 

Life was a dream, a pleasant serenade of love and devotion that made me feel alive once again, but unfortunately all dreams must come to an end. As Elizabeth and I glided about the ballroom I began to see the faux illusion that had occupied my eyes fail. The polished floorboards began to splinter and the music adopted a minor key that distorted the fantasy before me. I turned to Elizabeth for an answer, but she instead met my gaze with a longing look that told me all I needed to know.

“No…stop looking at me like that! Don’t tell me this has to end!” I uttered in a shaky voice.

“I’m sorry Henry, but it’s time. I wanted this to last as long as it could but our night must end for you to be able to grow.”

Before I could bring myself to interrogate Elizabeth further I was stopped by the deconstruction of the world around me. I watched as the spirits that once shared the dance floor with Elizabeth and I began to dissipate and how the many instrumentalists that provided us all with beautiful melodies began to fade into oblivion. The vast variety of colors and joys were draining from my surroundings, leaving behind the desolate interior that I had found within The Starlight Mauve hours earlier.

Panic rose throughout my body as I veered back towards Elizabeth, hoping that even if this all went away that I'd still be able to keep her. Reaching out, I grabbed at her hand and prepared myself to run away with her but as I held out to hold her my hand passed through hers. 

“Elizabeth please! Please don’t tell me this is the end! I just got you back, I can't lose you again!” I yelled as I looked into her eyes longing for her sympathy but all I found was a distant smile.

“Henry, this night was amazing but it was not meant to last. I know this is hard but remember this, you’ll never lose me. You can learn to let go, but you can always remember our time together.”

“But I don’t want to let go! I thought I did but I don’t” 

“Yes you do Henry, and you will. You are stronger than the desires your longing heart feeds you. Soon you will learn the reason behind tonight but until then I want you to know that it’s ok to move on.” 

Elizabeth smiled at me and for a moment caressed my face, looking into my eyes lovingly. I tried to return that affection, that touch, but her form turned to mist in my hands.

“Goodbye Henry, please take care of yourself.” 

With those final words I watched as she began to fade away along with the final remnants of the fabrication conjured before me. Within moments she disappeared and all that was left before me were the broken down vestigial veins of The Starlight Mauve. 

It was over. The vivacious promenade of rhythmic footsteps had been overcome by a deafening silence that shook my very essence. The dozens of lively souls marching to love’s tempo had been replaced by an empty ballroom and a note that sat forlorn upon the wooden floorboards. I rushed over as fast as I could to this parchment, hoping that written on it would be some explanation of what had happened or some trace of my love. As I picked it up my eyes began to hastily read the ink-blotten contents. 

“Henry, I’m sorry I had to leave you again. I know how hard this must be for you to read and I’m sorry for any more heartbreak it causes you, I just wanted you to finally know the truth. That night, our first night at The Starlight Mauve, I was dying. I hadn’t much time left to live and I knew that if you had to see me suffer it would break your heart. I ran away that night because I thought it would protect you, save you from the agony I know you would have felt, but perhaps I did it for myself as well. I wanted in my final days to have control, to be able to decide the terms in which I left my affairs, and in my desire to do so I felt I had to leave you. I shouldn’t have robbed you of the ability to care for me, nor should I have robbed you of your goodbye, but I did anyway and I am truly sorry for that. Tonight, I did what I could to be able to see you again. No matter the consequence, no matter the struggle, I wanted to make sure you got that goodbye that you deserved. I wanted to make sure you knew that I truly did love you.”

My throat closed up as my eyes began to water, leaving me heaving for air as I tried to resist the tears. The more and more my sight glossed over the words written, the further Into my own despair I sunk. I had thought for a moment that perhaps I could have gotten Elizabeth back, that despite how rough this night had started it would get better, but The Starlight Mauve had once again taken my love from me. Choking on my own exacerbated breath, I fell to the floor and finally let the tears take their toll. My face burned, scorned once again by love’s scalding flame, and my body ached with the pains of a thousand fresh wounds. 

The pain and shock of it all was too much to bear. In my head I recounted the events of the past few hours, wishing that at some point I decided to turn around and leave this ridiculous quest for closure behind. I resented the merry spirits that surrounded Elizabeth and I, and I felt the grasping vines of envy bind my ever hurting heart. I believed that I must be cursed, that this night of hope and disappointment must’ve been some predetermined punishment chosen by the fates for my hubris. 

However, as I laid there groveling in my own melancholic self-pity I began to think of Elizabeth herself. I thought about how vibrant she seemed, how I could feel her heart beat with love and see her eyes dilated with the light of an ethereal soul. Though she was as beautiful as I remembered her in life, when I saw her today she radiated a sense of joy that sunk down to your core, assuring you that everything would be alright. These reflections brought with them a new sense of understanding, one that helped me accept that perhaps this night wasn’t one to be remembered for its pain and disappointment but instead for the additional moments it gave me with the love of my life. Her life seemed better now and maybe that meant I could finally improve my own. 

Having lost Elizabeth once more but now having seen how happy she was in the worlds beyond, I brought myself to accept that this was truly the end of my journey. As I rose to my feet I took a final look around the interior of this wretch, taking in its isolation once more. There was nothing left for me here, I knew this more than I had ever known anything in my life. Solemnly, I began to make my way out of the Mauve, feeling the great effervescent ballroom revert back into the sullen dereliction that I had found hours before. Each step towards the exit felt like a mile, but each breath felt freer as I approached the Mauve’s snow-clad threshold. Shades of purple and red called my spirit forth, promising me freedom from this hell. As I took my last step out of The Starlight Mauve, I felt the chains of its presence fall from my heavy limbs. 

Standing below the sign bearing its name, I saw The Starlight Mauve take its final breath. With neither dignity nor grace, the lights bearing the burlesque’s name flickered with a pitiful infrequency before going out entirely. It was dead, Elizabeth was dead, and even though I knew I’d never forget her, it was time to move on. Pulling the lantern from my pack, I struck a match and lit the gaslight. I could feel the flame’s burn passing through the glass, and as I stared into the fire I saw an image of The Starlight Mauve ablaze. I saw every soul that danced within its halls consumed by the eternal fire raging on, and I saw the very foundations of the club come crashing down forever. 

As morbid as it was, this vision brought me comfort, but as I readied my hand to toss the lantern, I found myself pulling back and instead dropping the torchlight to the ground. Despite how much pain it brought me, The Starlight Mauve had given me one last moment with Elizabeth. It allowed me to finally move on, and perhaps that meant it could still help others find their peace. Feeling a newfound sense of appreciation,  it dawned on me that even though I could no longer burden my heart with the longing for a miracle, I could still immortalize my love for Elizabeth. 

Raising my foot, I slammed my boot through the glass casing and smothered the flame beneath snow and leather. As I reached down to observe the mess I created I grasped at the largest shard I could find and began to study it. The snow sent shivers through my nerves, ending in my fingertips and dancing through my knuckles, while the burning glass painted its history upon my palm. Closing my fist, I walked to the nearest tree and went to work. 

The pain I felt was overwhelming, but still I carved at the bark with precision and care. Every slash produced a crunch of wood and glass dragging against one another, creating tectonic movements in my bones with its rugged pull. Once I was satisfied with my work, I took a step back and dropped the shard to the ground below me. The sun began its rise into the sky, gleaming down onto the snow around me and illuminating my opus. A bitter smile crossed my face as I saw the heart with Elizabeth’s name written across it and I sighed, looking out towards the horizon feeling as if I had finally achieved what I came here to do.

“Goodbye Elizabeth, and thank you.”

#fiction #short story #creative writing #my writing #poetry #love #writing #moulin rouge #english #writer stuff #writing community #author #romance #forgiveness #letting go #self care #self improvement #creativity #writers on tumblr #writers and poets #writers #writing advice

[katyspersonal]

Lrb I never saw that "antlers" that grow on Abhorrent Beast barely touch the head and instead mostly focus on the back area! And, interestingly, touch arms too.

(Ripped by @beesmygod ( x ))

At this point I wonder if they are supposed to be some form of wood 🪵 🌳🎋, rather than animal horns. Cleric Beasts are likewise described as abhorrent. Moreover, Bloodborne has reoccurring theme of plant-life reflecting growing from "filth" (of blood), imperfection and reaching up for salvation: Coldblood Flowers, Tomb Mold, plantlife on Rom's back (that does actually look like tree branches with glowing buds and not even flowers), Milkweed Rune effect and Fluorescent Flower.

Second type of "filth" is, of course, Vermin: itself and parasites found in Bloodletting Beast and Loran Silverbeasts (also sometimes roaming free, like in Cainhurst pit or secret Forbidden Woods cave). But... yeah, Cleric Beasts grow some wood resembling horns from their heads as this is what gets damaged by the holy blood the most. Abhorrent Beasts grow it mostly on their bodies as they preserve their intelligence (like Suspicious Beggar can still talk and think as a beast). Tea??

#bloodborne #bloodborne observation #bloodborne headcanons #abhorrent beast #cleric beast

[telnaga]

remembered this, like, lineup of pokemon-type Creature Elements based on a city environment i made (with some input from other ppl, for later ones, as far as i remembr)

plastic (includes styrofoam, acrylic)

meat

plush

waste (includes ectoplasm, decomposers, dust, radioactivity)

cardboard

concrete (rare)

noise

fluorescent (electric lights)

compound (chemicals, poison)

digital (polygons, pixels, vectors)

smoke (smog, air pollution)

scrap (metal, glass, rust)

vermin (rats, pigeons, bugs, raccoons)

echo (ghosts, ruins)

color (art, graffiti, street stickers)

its so fun. i dont know why concrete is rare though. oh wait maybe its like the fuckin dragon type lmao

#hey what if i made my own squisherZ

[frequencydave]

In My Body I Am Free

Snow blast for vermin, "Bend and spread for me." Fluorescent, cold, grey and expansively confined in a box past infinity. Days go on and on and they do not end. Trying to read books like a fucking chump. Everything makes me feel stupid in here. There is but one place past the bars and walls. There I am not lone, I am not me, nor am I guilty there. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5; Count the heartbeats that mean I am alive.

#poem #poetry #writing #prison #anxiety #regulation

[the32ndbeat]

𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐣.𝐲𝐧 - [ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟛 ]

pairing: stalker!jaehyun x fem!reader ( ft twice’s tzuyu, loona’s haseul )

word count: 2.4k

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, alcohol consumption, mentions of sexual harassment, mature themes, mentions of drugs, smoking, extreme views, misogyny, yandere themes

a/n: unedited! it’s been forever since I updated this but also considering if I should turn this into a tbz series at my tbz writing blog so we’ll see how this goes.

taglist: I don’t have one yet and I’m seeing how this does since I’m thinking whether I should convert it into a tbz series. Please do lemme know if you guys want to see this continued!

disclaimer: everything written here is FICTIONAL and I am in no way saying that the mentioned characters act like that irl!

masterlist  

(inspired by netflix’s you and the book of the same name by caroline kepnes)

The first thing that registers in my mind is how fucking loud this place is. Seriously, what is it with college parties and their inherent need to blast music loud enough to wake the entire neighbourhood within a five mile radius? Before I even step within the premises or even make it to the front yard, the whole fraternity house seemed to shake from the loudness of the bass-boosted music when viewed from a distance away. I even had to squint as I approach, the strings of fluorescent party lights draped all over the place glowing so brightly it almost hurt to look straight.

A few drunk college frat boys stumble past me, their hair sticky and messy with sweat and their breaths reeking of cheap alcohol. Their steps are wobbly and I can even see drool and remnants of vomit hanging at the corner of their mouths. My heart clenches with pure disgust and I grit my teeth as I watch them laugh out loud over nothing, their brains a pink, unintelligent mush in their skulls, probably rotted by endless drinking and fucking. All part of the college frat experience.

I wonder if they enjoy being a complete waste of space while wasting mummy and daddy’s money to put them through college.

I look away and ignore the growing irritation in me. This is the sort of party your friends wanted you to go with them to? I thought your friends were bad influences but scratch that, they’re fucking horrible. They taint you, taint your innocence and put you at risk around such dangerous men who do not deserve to be even a mile within your presence. As I walk closer, the house looks even more hideous up close.

It’s decorated in the worst way I’ve seen a house decorated. It’s as if someone threw a bunch of random fairy lights bought in the brightest, blinding neon colours that simply do not go together over a sloppy looking house and the front yard is littered with empty, red plastic cups and is that a discarded bra I see over there?

I tiptoe over the trash laying around on the grass and try to avoid the gyrating bodies of college students who clearly have no sense of rhythm. My skin feels grimy within just a few minutes of being here and I can’t wait to leave but there is no way I’m leaving when I know that you will be here. The thought of you being surrounded by such vermins makes me sick to the stomach and I want to get you out of here. The only place you should rightfully be, is at my place where there are no revolting men who only love to drink cheap alcohol, party till sunrise, get high off smoking a blunt, yell ‘turn up!’ every few minutes as if it’s muscle memory in their tiny, almost non-existent brains and do anything but be a productive member of society.

As I push through the double doors, the nauseating smell containing a mixture of intoxicating alcohol, smoke and cheap cologne almost knocks me backwards. My hand grips tighter to the wooden door and I force myself in. Inside, the house is dim but bright at the same time with disco and laser lights. A massive boombox and a pair of equally large loudspeakers sit at the corner of the room and some hip hop tune is being played while people dance and drink and smoke to their hearts’ delight. You’d never believe these kids were supposed to be the future.

Oh, how disappointed their parents must be.

A girl in skimpy shorts and a tube top looks at me with unadulterated want and beckoning in her eyes while staring at the varsity jacket I’m wearing, no doubt replaying fantasies of fucking a college athlete in her mind and trying to guess which sport I supposedly play. I gaze blankly at them before turning away and I can see her shift from the corner of my eye, obviously bothered by the lack of attention. It’s like I can almost see the gears whirring in her brain. Did she not show enough cleavage? Is more skin needed to get my attention? Sometimes people are so predictable and readable that it’s almost pathetic.

Other times, I might have lowered my standards and settled for a casual fuck with someone like that but not today. Today, I’m a man on a mission. A mission to look out for you.

My eyes scan the room but it’s too dim to see anything within four feet in any direction. The flashing lights threaten to overwhelm me along with the stink of the place and booming music and I can feel my annoyance evolving into anger. I repress the urge to slap the shit out of a guy in a red bandana who screams ‘turn up’ all of sudden, practically effectively bursting my eardrums.

I almost bump into a couple eating each other’s faces out when someone yells out at me.

“Hey, you!”

The music is so loud that I almost don’t hear it. I whip around and sure enough, it’s tube top girl making her way over to me. You have got to be fucking kidding me. Not only do I have to find and save you from this sleazy place and have to squeeze in with a crowd of sweaty, brainless college kids who know nothing but party in a tiny, dirty, smelly frat house but now I also have tube top girl hot on my heels?

The things I do for you, y/n and we haven’t even properly gotten to know each other yet.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Tube top girl smiles and up close, I can see that her mascara is smudged and her hair is slicked back with an unholy amount of gel into a tight little bun which only makes her face look wider and her forehead exposed with a sheen of sweat covering it. Her lipstick is reapplied and I know for a fact that she has done it to impress me. Her top is also inched a little lower, as if that makes her anymore appealing.

I smile in a dismissive way, in a way that showed that I cared, but not really.

“Hey,” I reply flippantly.

“Crazy party huh?” She grins, satisfied that she’s got my attention now. Women.

I let my eyes drift to her breasts and look back up at her expectant, puppy dog eyes that are so eager to please it’s actually embarrassing.

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name? I’m Meg.”

“I’m Jaehyun.”

“You part of any sports team in school?” And just like that I know that tube top girl must have had fantasies of fucking a college athlete.

So predictable.

“Yeah, I’m on the swim team.” I say and her smile widens, a playfulness in her eyes as she leans her chest in closer in what was meant to be a sexy gesture.

“Oh, is that so? I’ve never really talked to a competitive swimmer before,” she replies in a sultry voice and I smirk.

“Well, here I am. Am I every bit of the guy you imagined a college swimmer to be?” I whisper in an equally sultry voice. Let her think she has me wrapped around her finger. It’s easier that way. Better for her to think I’m enthralled with her and her breasts than let her cling onto me the entire night.

“Mhm,” she says, “of course.”

I’m about to reply when something catches my eye. From the window, I see you and your friends stumbling and swaying down the sidewalk, away from the party. Internally, I feel my rage simmering again but not at anyone. At myself.

How was I so late that I didn’t manage to stop this from happening? How are you already drunk? How did this happen?

A million questions are racing through my mind and my vision almost blurs with white hot anger as I imagine a slimy frat guy placing his greasy hands on you while you sit there, drunk and uninhibited in that dress that seemed to accentuate your every single curve. You look simply gorgeous in that dress and I fucking hate to think that other guys in this whole house may have made a pass at you. Why was I so late? Would I have been just a little bit earlier if tube top Meg didn’t stop me? I should have left the moment she decided to strike up conversation. This is my karma for letting other temptations get in the way. I vow to myself that this will never happen again as I extricate myself away from Meg’s clutches (“Hey! Where are you going?” She calls out and I ignore her).

I shove people out of the way and do not care for their protests and yelps. Fuck them and fuck this entire shithole of a house. I scramble through the door and maintain my distance as I follow you and your friends down the pavement and past the buildings within the campus. I watch and cringe as you seem to crumple under the weight of your friends’ arm and quickly realise that you aren’t drunk. Your friends are. Stupidly drunk.

I feel my heart relax and my stomach unclench. Of course, you wouldn’t be. You are good. And smart. Too smart to get drunk in a place like that. You know what are the risks and you are above such parties. Your friends though, I couldn’t say the same. Which brings me back to why you need better friends but that’s besides the point. I can see a few guys hanging at the other side of the street who leer at the group of you, clearly getting their dick hard at the thought of a group of vulnerable girls roaming these empty streets at night.

It’s dangerous. But that’s what I’m here for. They see me next and they look away.

I will do what I can to protect you, y/n. Even if that means protecting your good for nothing friends in the process.

All of a sudden, I see you trip and it’s like everything is in slow motion. You fall forward and I take long strides over, my legs stretching out and rushing to help you. Before your knees can hit the rough ground, I have you in my arms, encircled around your waist as I hold you up. I have your other friend, Haseul upright with my other hand tugging at the collar of her jacket. Your friend Tzuyu is not so fortunate and falls flat but she barely notices it, smiling tipsily to herself instead.

You glance up at me with those large eyes and I could get lost in them right there and then. But as quickly as we have our moment, you move away and I see a hint of suspicion in your eyes. We separate and the moment you extract yourself from my arms, I already want you back. Your touch feels addictive already. What have you done to me?

“Thanks.” You say curtly and I admire the fact that you have boundaries, not like Meg. You are hard to get and that’s what makes you so appealing. You are to be earned and respected.

You help Tzuyu to her feet and as you turn to leave with your friends, I call out, “is there any way I can help?”

You regard me with caution and open your mouth to reject me but then suddenly, the tenseness in your eyes relax.

“Do I know you?”

You remember me. Halle-fucking-lujah! I want to wrap you in my arms again but I play it cool.

“I… don’t…?”

Your eyes grow wide and the recognition seeps in.

“Wait! You’re from that hardware store right? Jaehyun?”

I pretend to be surprised when I’m actually fucking overjoyed.

“Yeah, wait… You’re that girl with the rope right?”

You laugh and it’s the most melodious thing I’ve ever heard in forever.

“Yup, that’s me. Kind of mortified that’s how you remember me but sure,” you say and your eyes twinkle but then you continue with a more subdued tone, “what are you doing here?”

I pat my chest good-naturedly.

“Friend of mine is a student here. I just came over to visit and he gave me his varsity jacket so I could try feeling like a college student for once. Never been to college so… yeah. I thought I’d like to try it out for fun.” I reply and shoot you an awkward smile, the kind you do when you try to get someone to favour you and think of you as ‘adorable’.

It works and you smile gently.

“That’s pretty cool, you’ve got a good friend.”

And you haven’t, I think but don’t say.

I gesture towards you and your friends.

“Need any help?”

You look at your drunken friends and back at me and I sense you thinking. Finally, you decide that you do need my help and chuckle, “We live right at that block over there and I think I might die halfway there. I’m not fit enough to hold 2 people.”

That’s so like you. So compassionate over friends who clearly didn’t give a shit that you didn’t want to go to some god forsaken party, so caring over friends who get drunk and don’t take responsibility, so helpful to take care of friends who literally do not give a fuck about you. You are not beautiful on the outside but on the inside too and as I loop Tzuyu’s arm over my neck and hold her, I wish I was holding you instead.

We amble over to the front of your block and we part, you thank me and we say our goodbyes and it’s all too soon. I want to be with you for longer, I want us to talk and I want you to invite me to your room but reality is often much less exciting and more boring.

“I’ll see you!” You call out, smiling as I walk away and I wave back, my heart soaring.

Today is a good day, I think and as I round the corner to the next street, I slip the keycard out of my pocket and feel the hard plastic under my finger.

Wasn’t difficult honestly. Your friends should really learn to keep their valuables in safe places, not the back pocket of their jeans.

#NCT-WRITERS #kpopscape #neowritingsnet #nct imagines #nct series #jung yoonoh #jung jaehyun #nct jaehyun #nct horror #nct 127 #nct #nct scenarios #nct 127 horror #nct fics #nct 127 imagines #yandere jaehyun #nct 127 jaehyun #nct jaehyun x reader #nct jaehyun imagines #nct jaehyun series #nct jaehyun scenarios #nct 127 scenarios #nct 127 series

[datawyrms]

Half a Decade Late

Valerie was finally promoted to the main headquarters of the Guys in White. There she finally comes face to face with Phantom, who disappeared five years ago, locked in a cell. For Phic Phight 2021, @lexosaurus' prompt!

Nothing proved ’harder workers get ahead’ was only a capitalist lie than the absolute hassle getting promotions within the GIW. Of course she’d gone right to them for employment, it was the only organization large enough to actually pay people that took her resume of ghost hunting seriously. She had experience, actual knowledge and even her own gear but had still spent years getting jerked around to various small operations, basically just using her to train all their useless recruits while still just considering her a ‘fellow’ field agent. It wasn’t like she had the option to quit in protest, no one else was in the market for ghost hunters. As far as most people knew ‘ghost intelligence’ was just a joke cover story that the agents were very attached to. They didn’t want any more Amity Parks, so if she wanted to live somewhere new and still do her job...these guys were it. She’d been very clear, she wanted to be in the main office, where everything happened. That didn’t stop them from constantly assigning her literally anywhere but the actual headquarters. Maybe they finally ran out of other places, she still half expected to get stopped at the door and be told about a new field mission they absolutely needed her on immediately. It didn’t happen. Valerie Grey finally got to clock in as an Ecto Containment Officer at the main branch. Where they kept the strongest creatures, developed the new anti-ghost equipment and did more than just splattering a ghost down to nothing. Sure, she liked a good ghost obliterating, but it got boring after a while. There were only so many ways a ghost could beg for it’s useless afterlife before it became white noise. It didn’t stop any new ones from showing up, or tell her anything new. Just got rid of one pest, permanently. That wouldn’t help explain some ghosts, the powerful ones that showed up again and again. It wouldn’t explain the one that stopped showing up either. There was no way that life ruining ghost just got ‘bored’ and vanished without notice. It was still out there, plotting something. She just knew it in her bones. She had to be ready for it. There were traces of that ghost, hints of his ectosignature that she came across in the field, he was still out there. The GIW was just a means to an end, she didn’t trust them to be ready alone.

Sterile corridors and simplistic signs were expected, but even the break area was doing its best impression of a frozen tundra. Fantastic for morale? Probably not. Made the coffee pot easy to spot, at least. Even if she preferred to avoid the stuff in uniform. It stained too easily, and just made her wish for her red battle suit. She took a cup to at least have an excuse for her scoping out the place, she could pass it off to someone once she got to the containment area. A quick double check that everything was in place at the mirror before heading right back out to the winding halls. She wasn’t going to be late, she didn’t have time for that. Maybe a red tie was against protocol, but no one had been stupid enough to bother her about it yet. Judging from the deferential nods from her latest coworkers, that wouldn’t be changing. No one who worked here couldn’t know who she was. The only Ghost Hunter who got out of Amity Park without getting corrupted by the ectoplasmic monsters. It was a shame, Jack and Maddie Fenton used to be a serious force for humanity. Five years ago they suddenly flipped the script, denouncing their work and calling for peace with unreasonable fiends. Their daughter Jazz likely had something to do with it, but Valerie had her own theories. Danny, her friend and once boyfriend had gone missing around that time. Leverage to ensure the Fenton’s ‘good behaviour?’ The whole thing reeked of ghosts. To think she might have gone the same way. Back then she was actually listening to the pest, starting to really consider them a ‘good’ ghost. Like that was actually possible, when he’d just been playing to emotion and her own desire to give up in fighting a dangerous foe over and over. So much for that. That monster showed it’s true colours, sure enough. Something the GIW never bothered to look into, even as she wrote report after report about the incident, how unlikely it was for the Fentons of all people to change that drastically without constant possession. Not worth the resources, even when it was easy to see what tech was built on the foundations the couple had laid. They were throwing away so much to focus on little outbreaks of ghosts instead of making more of a lasting change. Stupid. That was what the funding was ‘meant’ to go towards, as if helping the Fentons would be less productive than making a slightly different ectogun.

She almost hoped there would be a problem, just to prove this is where she should have always been.Even if it seemed distinctly unlikely. She had to swipe to get into the lab, then yet again to actually get to the cells. Or the ‘vault’, as if the higher ups wanted to pretend the creatures in there were inert materials instead of cunning and dangerous beings. Even though they had someone posted at each door, and someone on guard inside as well, herself today. To get acquainted with the place mostly, she had more than enough training on ‘proper handling’ procedures.

“Hey, you can swap with me today, if you want.”

Valerie blinked, eyebrow already raised at the posted guard’s suggestion. “I can handle watching caged ghosts.”

They had the sense to look embarrassed, taking their hand away from the oversized ectogun to loosen their tie- which was tied rather poorly now that she got a better look at it. “I’m sure you can, it’s just, well.” They wouldn’t stop fidgeting with their tie now, eyes checking that no one was really paying attention to the guards. “H0G02 is awake today. No one likes those days.”

“Then all the more reason to get used to it early.” She didn’t give them time to sputter another excuse, swiping her card and striding past without another look. As if people should be worried about a captive ghost being awake. Maybe some of the people here never got a spine before joining up.

It wasn’t as cold as she expected it to be. Or as dark. It was actually brighter, thanks to the extra row of fluorescent lights. On some level she expected the room to reflect the monsters kept here, a shadowy icebox of a space. Of course it wasn’t. These were defeated creatures under human control, of course their cages would be bright and clean, the air warmed for human comfort. The ghosts might not like it, but why care what they wanted? It wasn’t like there were many to begin with, mostly green oversized vermin with blank red eyes. Most had the sense to cower back as she walked past, but a fair few didn’t even twitch. Calling a ghost of all things lifeless was foolish, but it was the only word coming to mind...she had to focus. She didn’t pity these things. Why so many creatures though? The real dangerous ones, the most monstrous ones were the ones that could play human, the ones that had conniving minds that only worked to cause destruction and terror. These were just feral things, annoying but hardly more impressive than a coyote when you knew what to do. Half of them she’d barely rate above ‘feral cat’. A light near the back flickered. Strange. When it flickered a second time she was already releasing her helmet to pull it on. Not nearly as easy as just willing it on, but at least she could carry it in a pocket without needing to rely on some ghost’s power. Three steps and her gun was ready, not that she expected to need it. Really, she worked on autopilot, legs still moving as she stared at the largest glass cage at the back of the room. Or more accurately, at what was in it.

“Oh, newbie. ‘Sup.” The ghost rasped out, blank green eyes watching the ghost hunter. A teenaged boy with a shock of white hair, a black jumpsuit, but the voice of a seventy year old chain smoker. Just sitting in a painfully bright cell, watching. Not exactly as she remembered him, but close enough.

“You.” The disgust was easy to voice, even as her brain struggled to catch up. He was here? Looking practically exactly as he had when she was still a soft hearted freelancer?

He only gave a sputtering laugh at the aggression. “Me? You’re not that mad about the light, are you? I’m bored, Tie.”

“What are you doing here?” That wasn’t the important question really, she should be more concerned that he apparently was able to manipulate light fixtures from his cell...but she’d been hunting after this ghost for five years. Protocol could go shove itself up the director’s ass.

“Same thing I do every day Tie, being some government property!” His laugh was wrong, not from amusement like she remembered. A desperate cackle that didn’t fool anyone. “You new enough to still have your soul in there?”

“Answer the question, Phantom.”

The smirk slid off the ghost’s face. “Wh’ad you call me? Like I’m only calling you Tie cus the red sticks out, I can call you Shooty if you don’t like it, newbie.”

The response made her insides run cold. It had to be Phantom, and the terrible sense of humour was just like him- but the ghost wasn’t quite right. What was this? It couldn’t be some copy of the ghost kid, could it? “I called you by your name, ghost.”

“Never heard of em.” The ghost crossed his legs and looked away, apparently bored of the person holding a weapon. “What day is it?”

Surely he was playing around. “What do you think your name is, then?”

He didn’t take his attention off the ceiling, looking more bored than anything.“Day first, Tie. Gotta know how much of a head start I’ve got.”

“Like you’re in any position to bargain.”

“Hm? Whatcha gonna do Tie? Let me be unconscious for a few hours? Scary. Day first.”

There was the Phantom she knew, snide and sarcastic when he really had no business being so. “I could do worse than that.”

“Doubt it. You gun grunts gotta listen to the freaks out there, remember?” His shoulders shook with a silent laughter, but it looked more like spasms. “No more mishandling the goods, yeah? Day Tie, comeonnnnnn”

Since when was he so interested in the calendar? Not to mention how weird it was how he kept referring to himself...and pretending he didn’t know his name. “It’s Monday.”

That got his attention, the casual rocking halting as he looked at her again, disturbingly still. “Monday, really?”

“Lying is your thing, not mine.”

He grinned. “I like you Tie, so you’ll probably be fired in like a week. Maybe it’s the red.” The tension left the ghost completely, she hadn’t even noticed how stiffly he’d been sitting until his spine relaxed as his elbows rested on his legs. “Pretty sure I’m H0G02. Least that’s what all your creeps call me.”

There was no way Phantom of all ghosts would call himself ‘H0G02’. He had to be a mimic of some sort, a ghost that modelled himself on the once well known Amity Park menace. “You like me because I told you it was Monday? Seriously?”

“I like the Mondays more than you, if that helps.”

“Not particularly.”

“Sounds like a you problem.” He was watching her again, more curious than anything. She shouldn’t be glad to see a spark of something in those eyes, but he was far less creepy this way.

“What’s so great about Monday? You’re a ghost.” She didn’t really care. She should be asking important questions. She was just...playing along to see if it really was Phantom. That didn’t stop her for being grateful for the helmet.

“Monday is the farthest day away from Friday.”

“Wouldn’t that be Saturday?”

“It hasn’t been Saturday or Sunday for...like four years? Those days don’t exist, I think you humans made ‘em up to prank me.” Phantom shrugged, sounding completely serious. Not even a hint of amusement or a grin. “Pretty good one, all you new guys keep it up.”

He was going to be completely useless if he kept saying nonsense. How could he be useful in finding out what happened to the Fenton’s son if he couldn’t even talk about the days of the week sensibly? “Fine, what’s so bad about Friday then.”

“Ohhhhh, you’re really new, Tie.” the ghost flopped onto his side, bored of sitting up apparently. “You know, the day they keep me around for? That day.” He wasn’t quite still, his right shoulder moving very, very carefully. Hiding something.

She didn’t have the patience for this.“What are you hiding there.”

“Tie has good eyes. Gotta remember that.” Phantom muttered, getting onto his back, a blue shard of ice melting off his arm.

“You don’t really think that some ice would help you out of there?”

“Out?” He looked mystified by the suggestion, but that could more be seeing his face upside down. “That glass doesn’t break for anything, I should know.”

Which didn’t explain why he’d been trying to hide the fact he’d made ice at all. He knew it too, but apparently playing stupid was still one of his favourite tactics. “Knock it off and just answer me.”

Phantom’s frown didn’t change, green eyes staring intently at her helmet as if hoping to see through it. “I could show you why?”

It didn’t sound like a threat. “Sure, why not. It’s gonna be a long day.” If it was? Then she’d show him that she wasn’t someone he could mess with.

Ice wrapped itself around the ghost’s lower arm alarmingly quick, a wickedly sharp blade of ice with serrated teeth jutting from the scrawny arm at an awkward angle. It was practised, something this ghost must have done often in all the time he’d been gone from her life. Yet it was so different from how Phantom usually chose to fight. That was a weapon to tear and maim, not to shock, stun or bruise. It looked wrong on him. The idea that this ghost wasn’t Phantom at all only grew more credible with that thing on his arm, even if ice powers were to be expected. His eyes flicked back to green, still fixated on her as he lifted the arm and stabbed down hard. Right into his other arm. Didn’t even blink.

“What are you doing!” She couldn’t remember the last time Phantom had ever been frightening on some primal level. This- with the disturbing snap of bone as the edges of the blade caught and tore made her hair stand on end. “Stop that, Phantom. What’s wrong with you!?”

“Cancelling Friday.” Phantom was laughing as the blade melted away into the pool of green rapidly spreading from his self inflicted wound. “I said you’d probably get fired Tie.”

“Forget Friday you idiot, cover the wound so you stop splattering everywhere!” He was just a ghost-a ghost messing with her. A ghost she’d fought with and had heard scream in pain. This...thing wasn’t him. Her heart didn’t care what her mind thought, insisting he needed help.

The ghost sat up, his left arm holding on by a shred of his suit before splattering into the puddle, but the left behind stump stopped dripping almost as quickly as he’d lost the limb. “Aw. Maybe Tie does have some soul left. You actually sound worried.”

“Of course I am! You slashed your arm off!”

“So?”

He didn’t seem to be in pain. If it wasn’t for the mess of green and the lack of a limb, she’d almost say she imagined it. Why did she care? “You wouldn’t do this sort of thing.”

“Uh. Yes I would? You just saw me do it. I’m down for an encore.”

The idea just made her feel ill. “Don’t.” Did she want this to be Phantom or not? “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Well I’m down an arm. So the coats are going to be very whiny about how much ectoplasm they can get out of me.”

“You must have felt that.”

“Sure. Isn’t nearly as bad as when they start ripping as much ectoplasm as they can out of you. Every single Friday.” He actually rolled his eyes, like she should just know this.

Why did they bother keeping Phantom around if they just wanted ectoplasm? He might be strong, but no ghost had limitless amounts. They’d just fall apart and stop existing. That’s why the weakest ones never even left the Ghost Zone, they couldn’t survive without constantly being around the stuff! “What makes you so special then? Not your attitude.”

“I’m just lucky enough to make my own ectoplasm. Who knew food was easier to get then high grade ectoplasm? Not me.” His remaining arm pointed to her weapon, his smile stretching. “Bet ya your weapon’s fully powered from Fridays. Yours and every other thing they use in this hellhole.”

“Ghosts can’t do that.” The lie was absurd. It went against everything they knew about ghosts, even before food entered the equation.

“Y’know, Tie. I think I knew a ghost hunter that wore red once.” the ghost’s eyes went unfocused, unmoving as he looked listlessly into space. “It’s a good colour.”

“You knew me. Quit fooling around with this not remembering crap.” Valerie threw her helmet aside, no longer caring. She had to know who this ghost really was. She had to know if everything he was blathering about was a lie. So what if it wasn’t ‘safe’.

His eyes didn’t change. “Y’know how hard it is to remake a brain? Cut me some slack Tie…”

“I mean it. Look at me Phantom. If you’re the ghost I know, you can stop pretending to be something else.”

“You lose the details. Arms and legs are easy. The brain though? Way too hard.” He kept rambling to himself, not reacting even as she put a hand to the glass to get his attention. “Y’know how many times they’ve cut it open? I don’t. I lose track after like. Eleven. Maybe. Pointy Shoe said my best was fifteen but I sure don’t remember that.”

She wanted him to just stop talking. She wanted this ghost to be some strange creature she didn’t know. To not have the only possible link to someone long lost a shattered husk. “Phantom. Do you remember the hunter in red’s name?”

He finally blinked. “I’m not this Phantom guy, Tie.”

“Okay, whatever, forget that part. The ghost hunter in red, what do you remember?” She insisted, knocking again in hopes it would keep the ghost’s focus.

“Wish I’d told em something.” he held up his gloved hand as she opened her mouth to speak. “Don’t remember what that something was, don’t ask.”

So he was Phantom? He couldn’t be. That was so non-specific it could be anything. “You never explained how you’re the only ghost that can make their own ectoplasm.”

“It’s in my name Tie! Come on. Thought you guys were smart or whatever.” He did a very awkward one armed attempt at crossing it, eyebrow raised. “The H? The feeding a ghost food thing?”

She didn’t really get the whole naming scheme they used here. The fact it mattered wasn’t making her gut unclench either. “What about the H?

“Hybrid? Might have been Human. That might have been a joke.”

Valarie’s mouth was drier than any desert when he said it that easily, that casualty while kicking his own arm aside. “You’re saying you aren’t all ghost.”

“Yup. Not yet! Trust me, I’ve tried,” the bubbly high pitched laugher clawed out of the ghost at that. “I tried so much. Guess it’s another thing I’m a failure at, eh Tie?”

Something told her not to ask. She had to know. Five years she waited, five years apparently knocked Phantom clear from reality.“Does Danny Fenton mean anything to you?”

He just laughed harder at the question. “Really Tie?”

“Yes, really.”

“That’s the name I scream at em. Don’t know why. Feels good though.”

“Is it your name?” Had he had contact with Danny? Been part of whatever made him go missing from everyone’s lives? He couldn’t be, there was no way.

“They get reallllll angry when I say it is.”

There was no way the GIW had a human captive for five years. There was no way Phantom could be the Danny she knew. The ghost was just lying. He had to be, she desperately needed him to be. “Were you fused with a human or something? Got stuck when possessing someone?”

“Nah. Been like this before I got here, pretty sure. You can check your fancy gear though. There’s some non-ghost DNA in it. Lucky lucky me,” he lay back down in the mess of ectoplasm, ignoring how it clung to his hair. “Thanks for the Friday off! I hate those.”

There was no reason to need air. Talking to a ghost she didn’t even like shouldn’t make her feel like she was being crushed under a boulder. Panting for air, outside the room would make her look pathetic and weak, but she needed the space, needed to be away from that...mockery of a ghost.

“He does that to everyone. He’ll repeat the whole thing in a week or so, but he’s a really good copy the first time you see it.” The guard gave a comforting word, apparently unsurprised by her sudden unscheduled departure.

Oh, there would be no ‘next time.’ Not if he was right about her weapon. But she nodded instead, letting her ‘coworker’ think she was just overwhelmed. Even if all she could think of was how many ways this place would burn if that ghost- that thing had been a human once. She was good at telling when ghosts lied. Phantom didn’t sound like he had. No matter how much she tried to convince herself he did.

#Danny Phantom #phic phight #phic fight 2021 #valerie gray #how obvious is the angst #100% #but maybe in a different way then usual? #the comfort is only the FLAMES OF POSSIBLE REVENGE

[13atoms]

Close Protection (Davos x F!Reader)

Chapter 1: An Introduction

Bodyguard AU, post-S2. Davos finds his way out of prison, and straight into trouble. Fortunately he meets a woman who's in even more trouble.

___________________________________________________

The rain hammered down on New York, making the scent of garbage and concrete and people stew in the air, a cocktail of misery which made Davos’ chest ache for the open air and biting cold of K’un-Lun. Life in the mountains had been difficult, survival more challenging at altitude, at the whims of the climate, but at least it had been fucking simple.

Behind him yet another Kung Fu kwoon had slammed their doors closed at the sight of him. He could teach their students discipline, mastery of the craft he had dedicated his entire life to, and instead he had been shunned. Turned away. Davos had expected to shed a few surly words, perhaps give a mild demonstration of the martial arts he had learned as a child, and an easy ticket to his own kung fu studio would be available shortly thereafter.

In the half-dozen establishments he had visited, none of these weak imitations of Shifus had given him a chance to speak.

This watered down version of his entire livelihood, taught to children after school and bored, middle-aged office managers, was an insult. More insulting, he was not even deemed worthy to teach it.

Davos growled with irritation at himself as the rain made him shiver, his body betraying him in its coldness. His hair had grown out in prison, for the months he had been left to rot before his charges were abruptly dropped, and beads of the grimy American rain clung to his dark hair. He ran his hands over his face, wincing at their softness after months without even a spar, ruffling the shaggy mess which had taken root on top of his head.

The beard, too, was irritating. He hadn’t had the chance to shave. A shaggy moustache brushed his top lip and nose, making him look as bedraggled as Danny as he wandered the streets aimlessly.

His cheap rubber shoes slapped against the sidewalk, making smashed glass skid and trash crinkle with each step. Car headlights cast unnatural white-light, skimming across the puddles of the road, their drivers taking it in turns to cut one another off and create meaningless traffic as Davos trudged past them.

He scowled at a taxi driver, the irate man yelling at someone in a black car who had blocked an intersection, spitting with anger as his words were lost to the chaos of the city before they reached their intended recipient. Was this all these people did? All that was beyond K’un-Lun?

In cities across the world, was this man’s meaningless argument being replicated and replayed, night after night? It was enough to make a man give up.

He stared down at the cracked screen of his smartphone, barely functional with a soaked screen, trying to find the next dojo he was looking for. Perhaps they might offer him lodgings, if not work. Surely someonepracticing Kung Fu in this city had a sense of honour.

As he approached the cheaply printed banner outside the building he saw the lights switch off, the heavy doors already firmly closed. Bastards.

Davos stood for a moment, silent, trying to listen for voices inside. Another taxi driver was screaming at a drunken boy for throwing up in his car. A rat skittered across the pavement, searching for its next bin to scavenge through. There was no activity in the dojo.

With a groan of frustration, a kick at the door just substantial enough to bask in the pain of the collision, Davos turned back to the unforgiving city.

New York’s skyline was not high-rises here, none of the grandeur of the city centre which Joy had so nonchalantly enjoyed. This version of the city consisted of three-story buildings and fluorescent signs, shabby facades to concrete buildings which hid a multitude of sins.

A multitude so great that Davos had decided he no longer cared. He slumped on to the curb, his soaked feet perched at the edge of a river of disgusting water which rushed down the tarmac. It was unhygienic, it was uncomfortable, and Davos no longer cared. The slab of cast-concrete curb he sat on was loose, one more piece of this hodgepodge city which was falling into disrepair, wobbling as he shifted his weight on it.

Overhead a helicopter was circling. It seemed to happen endlessly, in this city, always one chase afoot. A huge rat run, filled with eyes and yet powerless to stop the proliferation of vermin throughout the streets.

A stray cat roamed past him, fur plastered to itself and revealing a bony skinniness after years of struggling to survive, a dead rodent in its mouth. The feral creature looked up at Davos lazily, unfearingly.

It walked right past him, on its merry way. He wasn’t even a threat.

*

The crack of your knees against the cheap plywood floor was barely more than a whisper, but you winced at the noise, hoping the honks of irritated taxi drivers and the shouts of pedestrians outside would conceal the indiscretion of your body. You contorted your torso down, out of sight, feet braced and ready to run if you had to.

You cursed yourself for being barefoot. For being unarmed. For choosing such an obvious place to hide. Scrambling out of bed in the wee hours of the morning had left you a little disoriented, and you forced yourself to blink sleep away, tensing your body against the threat in your house.

A heavy footstep crossed the threshold, distinct and deliberate as the hunter got closer and closer to your hiding spot. The living room was a small space, the kitchenette an even smaller corner of it, and the man coming after you looked big. His shadow was fuzzy from the low lighting as he took another taunting step, daring you to move. You stayed as still as you could manage, fingers reaching for the lip beneath your cabinets. Crouching behind the counter, reaching blindly, you muffled a breath of satisfaction as you found a knife concealed beneath the kitchen island.

The handle of it was dismally small, the blade barely any bigger and not even fixed, but it was something. With the steel in your hands, you felt a little bit stronger.

The intruder was rounding the counter deliberately. You felt sure he knew you were there, with nowhere else to hide in this damn place. You had the same training, and you knew he was toying with you. Trying to flush you out.

You unflipped the blade, and waited.

“If you come out now, we can get takeout on the way to prison,” he sing-songed, and you forced yourself not to laugh at the taunt.

You had always liked Agent Byrne, all things considered. He was a little heavy-handed, but he got the job done. But you would certainly never see a prison, if he was the one sent to capture you. You could picture the butt of handgun cradled in his non-shooting hand now, dwarfed by the giant of a man, as he braced to get a clear shot of you.

It was his distinctive move. He liked to fire a single bullet. Usually through the forehead.

It was merciful, in his strange way. He had always liked to take the shot himself, overruling his partner, and for good reason. He was one of the finest assassins the Firm had. Regardless, it would almost be embarrassing, to be taken out on the floor of your own kitchen, armed with only a knife.

An assassin of that skill deserved a much better fight.

As the scuffed nose of his sneaker edged around the kitchen island, you knew you had to give him a hard time. Clutching the knife in one fist, you drove it clean through his foot, leaving the blade there was Bryce screamed in pain and anger. You were out the door before he had time to draw his weapon, ducking as a bullet perforated the drywall above your head.

“Sorry!” you called behind you, another bullet rocketing dangerously close to your arm as you grabbed your go-bag from beside the front door.

Then you paused, hearing your name bellowed by the man as his limping footsteps approached the front door. You felt a little bad for him, wincing at the memory of your own injuries.

Still, it was part of the job. And one of the reasons you had been so desperate to leave.

He screamed your name again, colourful threats and curses spewed after you. You winced at the harsh insults, taking a second to cut the building’s intercom wires and close the door for good measure. Another bullet punctured the door as your keys left the lock, and you bolted.

Without an elevator, the fastest way to street level was the stairs.

You thundered down them, uncaring if your neighbours were woken up at this ridiculously early hour. The city itself could be louder, and the gunshots would have tipped them off that something was wrong. It didn’t matter if you were heard, you had to leave. Fast.

You heard the slam of a door upstairs, one heavy footfall followed by a lighter one, screams of your name. Your heart pounded, grab-bag thumping against your back, as you took the steps faster still. Agent Bryce was limping as he followed you, but he was certainly giving chase. Your gaze was fixed on the ground, one hand ghosting the railings, as you descended stairwell after stairwell, sticking to the outer perimeter where Byrne couldn’t get a clear shot at you.

He was following, slowed down the by agonising wound to his foot, and raging with anger at the escape of a bounty.

Perhaps he had thought you would go down easily, that you wouldn’t be waiting for him. No one left the Agency. You knew it. You had sprung out of your bed when he had snuck into your apartment with a gun in his hand, perhaps hoping if he creeped enough you wouldn’t hear him.

No. You had heard him coming, sensors on the stairs tripping and the man’s heavy tread unable to be disguised even by tiptoeing.

His feet were louder now, slapping against the stairwell, echoing alongside his roars. The whole damn place stank of piss as you inhaled raggedly, lungs heaving as you reached the final stairwell and took it two stairs at a time.

You had no idea what you would do once you were at street level. You couldn’t go to the police. You certainly couldn’t go to your new employer, not at this hour, and not with an assassin on your tail.

When you burst out onto the open street you cursed at the heavy rain, instantly drenching you, ruining your visibility as you looked around wildly for somewhere, anywhere to hide.

Unarmed and unskilled in fighting, you knew you couldn’t take on Bryce. The man was a mountain of muscle, wielding a pistol with enough bullets left to take you out half-a-dozen different ways, faster and stronger than you.

Though perhaps not smarter.

A taxi driver was idling outside the building, and you moved to wrench the back door open, ignoring the driver’s shouts of irritation through a puff of cigarette smoke. You threw yourself into seats, ducking down to hide, ignoring the irritated glare the driver gave you.

“Please, drive. Get me away from here,” you panted, glancing back nervously at the building. The man scoffed, glaring at you in the rearview mirror.

“I’m waiting on a job, lady. Get out.”

“No! Please, it’s dangerous, you don’t understand,” you begged, but you could already see the driver’s uncaring stare, rejection in the premature wrinkles lining his face.

“Out.”

When you ducked down, staring once again at the doors of your apartment building, he sighed. Climbing bodily out the car, leaving his lit cigarette smouldering on the dashboard’s ashtray, the driver opened the taxi door. He attempted to haul you out of the vehicle, and even in your terrified state you were forced to comply. What else could you do?

Out on the cold road again, you stared wide-eyed as the taxi driver slammed his door shut, moving the car up the block and away from you.

As you stood in the middle of the street, dismay sinking agonisingly into your stomach, you found your feet frozen to the ground. The front doors of the building finally slammed open, a sickening grimace spreading across Bryce’s face.

His roars of anger had been terrifying, but that silent smile sent a chill through you like nothing else.

“You’ll pay for this, you bitch.”

He lifted his injured foot, blood seeping through his sneaker and glinting in the streetlight as it mixed with the oily water on the road’s surface. Then, he lifted his gun. Sirens were blaring in the distance, but you knew the cops would be too late. You would be bleeding out on the road, your blood joining the city’s bilge, and Bryce would get a pat on the back for a termination well done.

You hated your voice, your shaking, as you started to beg.

“Please! I’m sorry! I did nothing wrong I… if you knew what they were doing. All the fucked up shit I saw in those files, they’re not the good guys! The Firm… they’re –”

At the mention of your ex-employer’s name, a gunshot ricochet through the night, skidding off the road.

It was a warning shot. Agent Bryce would never miss otherwise.

Your head ached, pre-emptively, at the thought of the bullet which would smash through your skull and separate the tissue in your frontal lobe as soon as the assassin stopped having his fun.

“Shut up, you traitor bitch,” he growled, and it gave you some measure of satisfaction to see the pumice red crawling up his face, the shaking and the frustration building in him “I know what you did!”

He spat as he yelled, his voice echoing around the streets even louder than the pounding of the rain and the whine of distant cars. You noticed the taxi which had kicked you out creep around the corner, and tried to push down a sense of irritation at the man’s cowardice.

You turned back to Bryce, wondering how to stall for time. And if stalling for time would even help. The sirens seemed to have gotten further away – maybe your neighbours hadn’t even bothered to call the cops.

“I did what was right!”

Your voice shook, body trembling in the rain, grab-bag limp on your back as the barrel of the Agent’s handgun stared you down from the sidewalk. You tried not to jolt at the whisper of movement behind you, unable to break Bryce’s stare. To give him the window of non-judgement he could use to kill you.

This was good. You knew that Agents should never get personally involved. Should never let emotion cloud their operations. Clearly, he felt very emotional about this particular job.

“You have no idea what’s right, you disloyal –”

Your jaw dropped, the gun clattered to the ground, and Bryce crumpled.

Behind him stood a soaked man, significantly smaller than Bryce, a concrete slab in his hands. You stared wide-eyed at the attacker, watching as he crouched smoothly to inspect his victim, sprawled unnaturally on the ground. The gunman’s head was split open, and you didn’t need to get any closer to realise that he was dead.

“You…” your voice came out strained as you looked at the man who had saved you, the piece of concrete curb he had wielded smashing as it dropped to the ground.

Both of you seemed as surprised as each other, your jaw hanging open while the stranger’s was clenched painfully tight.

“You needed help,” he offered, stunned.

You nodded.

“Thank you.”

The pair of you startled, your standoff interrupted, as wailing sirens seemed to get closer.

“We should go,” you declared, watching as the stranger nodded his head firmly, glancing at the entrance to the street.

You took off, bare feet protesting against roughness of the ground, surprised to hear the slap of rubber on tarmac as the stranger followed you.

“Where to?” he asked, wide-eyed as he took one last glance as Bryce, bleeding out in the taxi lane.

“Not sure,” you admitted, “away from here.”

In truth, you hadn’t expected your sudden accomplice to stick around. He kept up, following you as you avoided glass and obstacles on the ground, mere inches from your side.

“That works for me.”

__________________________________________-

A/N: This is due to be chapter 1 of 8. The fic is still being written, so let me know what you think! I'm hoping to get a chapter out every few days, as I write them.

This one requires a little cheesy-trope-tolerance, but it'll be worth it.

#davos x reader #iron fist #fic #close protection #that name is a WIP let me know if you think of any other ideas #13atoms

[blairvdm]

        one , two , three .. she counts under her breath . sweat visible along her hairline as blair spins her body in a pirouette once then twice and with a shaky breath , she jumps off her starter leg in a front aerial but right before she could continue , her exhausted body , from the hours spent in the studio , falls on it’s knees and blair lets out a loud groan . ignoring the burning pain in her joints , she falls to her back , long legs lifted up so she can kick the air in pure frustration . “ idiot ! “ she screams to herself , not even noticing the intruder in the room , the music from the speakers helping with the illusion she was alone in the room . with everything going on , it was only dancing that could get her mind off the turmoil in her body , but coming back to the place she called home for many years only seemed to prove her she was a failure . with fury in her system and drive in her veins she jumps on her feet even faster than she fell down , soaring her body on a one-hand front aerial before handsrping-ing to the other end of the room , making it look it’s as easy as breathing . and to an extended and to blair , it was -- it’s what she knew her whole life . gymnastics then dancing , it was like a second nature to the blonde . however , the abuse over her body finally takes hold and hands fall to grab her own knees , slouching and panting she couldn’t catch her breath . the months away from the craft did not affect her skills but it definitely took a toll on her stamina . though , despite the screaming pain in her muscles and joints , a broken grin appears on her face . she proves herself she still got it , despite failing and falling -- she still did it . and maybe , just maybe she could still have a chance when it came to feelings .. when it came to julian .. and julliard . the remembering of the email she got that morning made her once again shaking legs loose the balance they so gracefully gathered and let her body fall on it’s back . not even recognizing the pain anymore , she only closes her eyes , arm moves to shield her face from the fluorescent lights beaming over her from the ceiling . “ teach those vermins hip-hop blair , the choreo will look good in the club . come on , why practice acro when you get paid for modern ? stupid , stupid , stupid ! “ keeps murmuring to herself . 

#˒ ℬ. ❛ 𝒊'𝒎 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 » prose . #did i watch dance moms while figuring out blair ? probably ..

[fluorescentvermin]

I spent way too long making a render of a background character because I made her in the sims initially and thought her design was really cool. Anyway, this is Anoxia Scales. She's a Vulture. @gutterbonestm is my art account, check it out if you wanna see other stuff!

#fluorescent vermin #anoxia scales #anoxia #original character #krita

[thecatduet422]

Chapter Three: Distractions Unwanted

Fandoms: Batman (Arkhamverse), Jessica Jones (TV)

Pairing: Jessica Jones/Jason Todd

Rating: Mature (for language, depictions of violence, and adult themes)

Tags: Slow Burn, Angst, Crossover, Alternate Universe- Canon Divergence, PTSD, Shared Trauma, No Beta

Summary: After escaping Kilgrave, Jessica moves to Gotham and starts her new life as a PI, even starting her own agency- Alias Investigations.

Yeah, criminals keep trying to hire her, and some bat-fetished vigilante keeps sending his kid over to “check-in” on her, but for the most part, Jessica’s life is pretty stable.

Until some guy in a hood wants her to follow Bruce Wayne.

Chapters: 8/? (42,524 words)

One Two Four

AO3 Link

Chapter Three: Distractions Unwanted (2.2k words)

He walked through the base, the sound of his boots echoing down the hall.

The armor he wore was heavy, weighing his body down. He could hear Bruce scolding him in the back of his mind. Keep the suit light. Think about your mobility.

But the suit didn't slow him down, not at all. It simply grounded him, giving him security. Giving him a sense of purpose.

And so he walked as if he had one.

Men passing by immediately stopped and held up their rifles. The ones that didn't simply saluted. Their backs were straight, their shoulders strong. Perfect forms, one after another. It was a proper show of respect for their leader.

A feeling of pride flowed through him at the sight. Bruce always looked down on him in training, never showed him respect, always told him he wasn't good enough.

Little did Wayne know, he was more than enough. He was better.

The armor along with the commanding presence filled this new persona. The broken remains of Jason Todd vanished from the back corners of his mind. He wasn't him anymore.

He was the Arkham Knight.

He continued his walk, twisting around corners, traveling through the maze of hallways with ease. He kept his gaze forward the entire time.

All the hallways had the same crappy fluorescent lighting lining up the ceiling, while broken tile decorated the floor. Cobwebs dusted the creases where the walls met the ground, moving with the breeze his pace made. Occasionally, vermin would crawl out through the cracks, only to quickly scurry away when his motion didn’t slow.

He could’ve sworn the closer he got to Crane’s location, the more insects he saw, crawling around in the corners of his vision. In a past life, he would’ve cringed at the sight, twitch at the idea of insects on his skin.

Now he just walked unphased, always looking forward.

When he finally reached the door, the lights flickered slightly, and for a split second, he thought he heard a laugh. A quiet chuckle echoing through the walls with the intensity of nails on a chalkboard.

Wakey, wakey...

He quickly opened the door, and pushed through, slamming it with a little more force than necessary.

"Ahhh…" the slow, sinister voice of Scarecrow filled the space. "The Arkham Knight returns. Welcome back."

"Crane," he greeted curtly, the mechanic voice of the helmet replacing his own.

As he moved to sit down, Crane spoke with mild curiosity, “I take it your trip to Metropolis went well?”

Jason’s mind flashed to an apartment building in East End, to a woman with raven hair and dark eyes.

“Yeah,” he lied easily as he sat down. “We won’t have any problems.”

“Good...” Crane rumbled. “The last thing we need are any distractions.”

“And there won’t,” he confirmed.

Sure, Jason was supposed to handle the neighboring cities personally, make sure Batman couldn’t call for any, uh- backup, but he ended up passing it to Slade, seeing how Deathstroke was already in the area.

That gave Jason time to scope out Gotham on his own, to see what changed. He wasn’t surprised to see it was the same shithole as before. Yeah, some buildings were renovated, some businesses replaced with the next shiny, new thing- but the people. Oh, the people were exactly the same. Just the same scum running free, hurting the same people, until they fell through the cracks and continued the cycle. Scum hurting scum hurting scum... Speaking of which-

"Did you meet with the others?" he asked.

"Yes," Crane hissed, the sound of gas escaping. "They are all in."

A small pang of satisfaction struck through him. “Good.”

If they were going to pull this off, they needed everyone on board, all of Batman’s adversaries; Penguin, Harley, Dent, Ivy. Anyone with money and a grudge against the Dark Knight. Jason didn’t like it. These were the same assholes that beat the shit out of him in Arkham, but they needed the numbers. Besides, if it meant Batman will die, Jason was willing to forgive them… for the time being.

Crane grabbed a small remote from the table, the needles from his syringes scraping the surface as he did so. When he clicked it, a hologram sprung to life from the center, illuminating the whole room with a blue hue. An image of a machine appeared, monstrous and complex in technical design.

Crane's eyes shone through the dark, black holes of his filthy burlap sack, reflecting the glow of the light as if it resurrected him. He leaned forward and stood up slowly, possessed by the image.

"This, my dear Knight," Crane held up his arms in presentation, "is the Cloudburst."

Holy shit.

Jason remained silent, speechless. He knew Crane was working on something big with Stagg, a device for releasing Scarecrow's toxin. But from what he heard, Stagg wasn't able to come up with a proper design yet.

That's obviously not the case anymore.

"Simon Stagg sent me the blueprint this morning," Crane explained while waltzing around the table, never taking his eyes off the hologram. "It is capable of distributing any gas matter across the entire city suddenly, similar to the natural phenomenon it's named after."

Jason could picture it. Fear toxin coating Gotham's air, exterminating it's pest problem once and for all.

He nodded at the sight. "Will it be ready by Halloween?"

Crane stopped by his side, lacing his fingers together menacingly, the syringes morphing into spider legs.

"Dr. Stagg had some doubts," he admitted. "But I quickly persuaded him that there was no need for such," he waved his fingers, the spider flexing, "insecurities."

Jason snorted, imagining the pathetic look on Stagg's face when Scarecrow threatened him with fear toxin. Knowing people like Stagg, he folded easily.

Jason stood up from his seat, folding his arms as he continued to read the blueprint. "Well, looks like you got your wish, Crane. With this chunk of metal, Gotham's yours."

The Scarecrow turned to face him, a whiff of fear toxin hitting the nearby air, sour and putrid, even through Jason's helmet.

Jason suddenly remembered being in Arkham, hidden in its depths in the dark, constantly in and out of consciousness, feeling nothing but pain and the cold air prickling his skin with fear. The Joker liked to keep him drugged. With what, Jason didn't know. But he suspected it was fear toxin, mixed in with whatever else Joker labeled as 'fun'.

"Don't be barbaric, Knight," Crane spoke, his eyes still shining from the light. "This technology is highly advanced, and it can distribute my toxin faster than you can even think to hold your breath, not that that will do you any good either, I assure you."

He supposed Crane was trying to be intimidating right now, but Jason couldn't find it in himself to care. After all he went through, the only thing that scared Jason was himself, his own mind.

"Of course," he played along, wanting to avoid an argument, "and now with more funding, we can build up on the weaponry. Gotham will be absolutely covered. There's nowhere Batman can hide."

"Yes," Crane chuckled, his face twisting into what Jason thought was a smile.

A regular dynamic duo...

Jason winced before he could stop himself.

"Now," Crane rumbled. "Let's talk about Barbara Gordon."

*****

After the meeting, he twisted around the hallways once more, this time running into no one. It was late, all training done for the day. Everyone else would be in for the night.

The lights flickered slightly once more, and then again, more abrupt.

… thrown you away, like an unwanted puppy…

He picked up the pace.

… Just make sure people know he’s yours...

The air in his helmet was getting too hot, too thick. It was causing him to breathe heavier, only making it more uncomfortable. His left cheek itched like crazy, his shoulders stiff, taut with rope. He wanted to scratch, to claw, to scrape the scar off until it wasn’t there anymore.

Wouldn’t want him to end up here again...

Finally, he got to his room. As soon as the door shut, Jason took his helmet off and threw it on the ground.

Fresh air cooled his face, tingling his scar. He put his fingers over the damaged skin, ensuring it wasn’t on fire, even though it burned.

He took a moment and just breathed, allowing the air to fill his lungs. All while reminding himself that he wasn’t there anymore and the Joker was dead.

But he could still hear the clown’s laugh echoing in the back of his head, pounding and pounding and pounding...

He needed a distraction.

Jason walked over to his computer. He pulled up his files, opened the one he recently created.

Jessica Jones, it read.

Born and raised in Blüdhaven. At the age of fourteen, her family was killed in a car crash, leaving Jones the sole survivor.

Another fellow orphan. Hurrah, hurrah.

Privately, he was surprised she was from Blüdhaven. The way she carried herself in the bar, it was like she grew up there, molded by the district. He thought she would've been a true Gothamite.

Adopted by Dorothy Walker, mother of Patricia Walker.

A celebrity sister. His data showed that Trish Walker never mentioned a sister on her little talk show. As far as Jason knew, they weren't close.

Moved to Gotham six months ago. Created Alias Investigations, a PI agency in East End.

Why the move? Needed a change of scenery?

Recurring clients: Jeri Hogarth, partner for Hogarth, Chao, & Benowitz law firm, former intern for the legal department of Wayne Enterprises.

He thought he heard Lucius Fox mention Hogarth once. By the looks of it, she doesn't work for Wayne anymore, working full time in her own firm now. From what he gathered, she was a true shark, known for being one of the most ruthless lawyers in Gotham. If Hogarth wanted to keep that title, she would find use in someone like Jones. A private investigator off the books, not tied to certain rules or procedures.

That brought him ease. Jones wouldn't be official. There wouldn't be any paperwork on her.

After that, Jones' profile was empty. He didn't have a good photo of her. The only ones he was able to find were old school photos. There were none with her family. None with Patsy Walker. She wasn't on social media. She didn't even have a driver's license.

Just her business, occasionally advertised in the corner of a newspaper.

He wondered, what was she hiding?

Gotham has the highest crime rate in the nation. People don't just simply move there. Not unless they got a really good job offer, or they're trying to hide something. And based on Jones' living situation, it was the latter.

So, what is she hiding from? Or who?

Jason tried to tell himself it didn't matter. He couldn't give two shits about her past. All that mattered to him was that she did her fucking job and kept an eye on Bruce.

Yet if there's one thing that's certain in this world, it's that the past will come back to bite you in the ass. Jason was living proof of this. And if Jone's past chose to bite right when she was tailing Wayne…

It would all be over. Everything. All of his work, his time. Done before it even started.

But seeing how she kept her head down, played it smart- it gave him faith. After all, it's not like it's impossible to trick Batman. Jason was living proof of that, too. No, Bruce only saw what he wanted to see. As long as Jessica Jones remained uninteresting, she'd be fine.

His mind flashed to her face, the look she gave him at the apartment, when she said she wouldn't give him up.

"I won't. Really."

He couldn't read her expression back then, couldn't guess what she was thinking. What was in that look she gave him? Pity? She wasn't exactly the type of person to be filled with empathy. Neither was he.

But it hit him, the look in her eyes. He didn't know what it was, but it was like she saw him, in that instant. And in that moment, he believed her when she said she wouldn't tell. He trusted her word.

Jason, who spent his whole life not trusting anyone. Not until Bruce.

And look where that got him.

He didn't like it. Jessica Jones was able to get under his skin so easily, while he wasn't able to read her at all. Yet here he was, trusting her not to mention his name.

His paranoia itched at him to figure it out. To figure her out. She was just so fucking familiar, but he couldn’t place how or when or where .

Stupid. This was stupid.

Here he was with the perfect informant, and all he could do was think about her fucking stare. All he wanted was for someone to watch Bruce, to make sure he wasn't catching on.

Jason groaned in frustration.

He didn't have time for this, not with him being so close. So close.

Jason unlatched his armor, the weight of it falling off his body. He felt lighter, able to breathe a little bit more. And then the exhaustion hit him, settling into his bones, his muscles, his head.

He had to sleep. He had a long day tomorrow.

Jason got ready to bed. When he laid down on his cot for the night, gun hidden underneath his pillow, he reminded himself to tell the electricians to fix the fucking lights.

#catduet writes #ITS DONE #This chapter was difficult #aka knight #fanfic #jessica jones #jason todd #batman

[icastfist]

Dominion

Wanted to try a more experimental style after reading Max Gladstone’s Empress of Forever and some other poetic/lyrical-style prose. Contains a lesbian witch polycule, gentrifying vampires, magic, and fury.

-

The Three walk in expertly flawed tandem. Each’s tempo is close enough to the others’ for an observer to assign them a uniform time signature, which every dragging heel or rushed misstep shatters in subconsciously infuriating fashion. Their faces are similar works of artisanal imperfection; subtly lined and worn to provoke a sliver of pity, though not enough to give away their intentions, and adorned with an overabundance of makeup to suggest desperate clinging to long-lost primes.

The Game, they’ve found in their enthrallingly long lives, is one of inches.

They click-click-clackclick their way into the office’s barren expanse. Islands of functional furniture dot the gray tile tundra; in the center sit their hosts, crisply starched faces in crisply starched suits. The Executives, two men and one woman, directing a swarm of uniformed assistants bearing drinks, tablets, or clipboards. The Three’s arrival bounces off of their overlapping conversations, leaving nary a dent.

Thoughtful Meredith frowns, though the physical act is filtered out long before it reaches her lips. She thinks back to the lavish spreads on tables of long-extinct wood, the serving-thralls whose bloodshot eyes were the only signs of life in their sallow frames, the castles choked with artifacts whose stories demanded telling no matter how pressing the business. As one of the men, a square-jawed hulk whose bald pate reveals blackened veins in the fluorescent light, acknowledges his guests and sends much of his throng away with a snap, she is struck by how lifeless this all is.

Headstrong Millicent feels the sentiment through their shared connection and the sheer lack of humor in it chills her. Studious Mirabelle has to nudge them towards the proffered seats opposite their hosts.

Three hangers-on remain. One, a stiff-backed woman whom the Three have yet to see blink, writes on a fresh sheet of lined paper; the minute-taker, presumably. The two others, both men and both on the shorter side, carry trays full of what look to be champagne glasses. The Three each accept one and take identically dainty pulls.

In the twining of mind and soul where they embrace, jointly piloting their physical forms, Millicent asks Mirabelle what to expect. It has been many decades since they dealt with this sort, and Millicent was not confident in her ability to negotiate by the time of their last encounter. Mirabelle shares her thoughts, guides Millicent through them without reproach. Their hosts are new to the Three’s territory; there will be posturing, of course, but whatever pomp they muster serves only to hide the fact that they must ask for the witches’ dispensation to operate. It is, like everything else in the Game, a show.

The woman across from Meredith says, without flourish or innuendo, that they do not intend to abide by the Laws of Dominion. The Company is willing to offer a regular stipend as a gesture of appreciation for the Three’s noninterference, but otherwise cannot guarantee their safety.

Pen scratches fitfully on paper as the Three finish their drinks, the moment stretching towards the border of rudeness. A silent debate rages at the speed of thought until, finally, they rise in unison. Speaking in sequence, they inform the Company that they will take their offer under consideration. Out they walk, their steps echoing rather more than their stride would suggest.

-

Home is a curio shop in the center of town, nestled by an intersection 20 minutes from everything. At the front window sits a carefully constructed tableau of merchandise, enough eye-catching nonsense to charm weekend warlocks and enough genuine articles to attract true masters of the craft. The little silver bell dings as they walk through the door, Millicent pausing to straighten their “No Love Potions” sign.

Mirabelle pulls aside the rug, sending up a cloud of fine hair from the delightful black cat Mrs. Berchelt’s little girl brought by during lunchtime. They interlock their hands, awash in one another’s warmth, and say a word in no tongue known to man. Humming a song that got stuck in Meredith’s head last week and, as a result, in the others’, they descend the now-visible trapdoor into their home.

One or another of them floats some grand renovation plan every few years, but the cozy kitchen, cramped living room, and overlarge bedroom that is their one allowed excess remain almost exactly as they were when the Three carved them from the earth more than a century ago. Dinner is leftovers; the all agree that there is no point in preparing some gourmet delight when they are too preoccupied to properly appreciate it.

When the cleaning is done and Meredith has refilled the oversized bird feeder that keeps the Three in the local murder’s good graces, they lay entwined on their overstuffed beast of a bed. Their chimera of thoughts dances fitfully around the matter at hand, soaking in the familiarity of old, meaningless arguments and well-pickled nostalgia.

Distraction is a drug they know better than to abuse. Soon enough, shooting stars shine beneath their eyelids as ideas streak back and forth. When they were young and furious and the appellation “Kindly Ones” had yet to lose its sarcastic venom, they had buried their roots in the earth, called upon the soul of the land over which they claimed dominion, and crushed unwelcome guests into powder too fine for the sieve of history to catch beneath the wooden heels of a floral colossus.

Millicent suggests a repeat performance, though more as an expression of her frustration than as a legitimate plan of action. Mirabelle acknowledges the sentiment, dipping a spiritual toe into her physical body to give her lover a peck on the forehead, and floats their tried-and-true methods of skullduggery. Freak infrastructure collapse, inexplicable vehicle disappearances, untraceable outbreaks that wrested control of one’s bowels away and whatnot. The Three are excellent hosts, of course, but oh dear, they are terribly sorry, some things are just out of their control.

Meredith nods, burying her head further into the others’ arms, and reminds Mirabelle that there is only so much one can do with dead bowels. Still, they’ve played this Game long enough to know how to improvise. Ephemeral lips curl into smiles as their flesh-and-blood facsimiles lock together, as three souls flow over and into one another in dancing ribbons until they are a single multihued braid connecting the real to the unreal.

-

Morning sees them taking inventory, ensuring their forbidden tomes are properly alphabetized, reapplying what wards and seals are starting to get a tad musty. Electronic light-up wands are carefully separated from the ones carved out of dead giants’ blackened bones, “magic” 8-balls from obsidian spheres that tell their owners the exact dates and times of their deaths. The orange glow of morning teasing its way through their blinds, Millicent flips their sign as Mirabelle moisturizes the tanned-flesh scrolls carrying the gibbering wisdom of mad prophets.

No matter the time of year, they open at sunrise and close at sundown, an extra dash of charm in a town that lives and breathes it.

It has always found a way to stay afloat; when the fur trade’s supply ran low and the demand even lower, pork dragged it back from the brink. When swineflesh faltered, it roared into the age of automobiles. Now it feeds on itself, a concrete ouroboros of ever-swelling strangeness featured without fail in tourism guides’ “charming local attractions” section.

The Three have their own place in that history, of course, apocryphal figures who built or bedeviled the town depending on the telling. The charming storeowners are their chroniclers or their admirers or their “oh, not by blood, of course”-es as whimsy demands.

Two souls in three bodies guide the flow of customers through aisles as the third dives deep through floor, foundation, and soil. Meredith runs an invisible hand along the land’s heart, a remora latching onto a leviathan; it is an old thing, long calcified and beating with only the faintest echo of its former thunder. It does not think, per se, but it can listen, and she asks that it befoul the Company’s plans for the sake of its children. A rheumy rumble runs through the trees and birds and vines and vermin, the Three’s long ban on havoc lifted in one particular direction.

She offers thanks and a kiss, and she tells it that she loves it. She swims back to her body, listening through three pairs of ears, and continues the sales pitch on sphinx feathers that Mirabelle had started while wearing Meredith’s face. The comfort of familiarity smothers yesterday’s stress; anecdotes on the feathers’ potency flow freely from her lips and she haggles with a smile on her face that soon infects the customer. Millicent runs fingers through her hair as she passes, Meredith’s shiver adding the slightest vibrato to her take-it-or-leave-it offer.

The land shall seize its toll and the Three shall sweep away the memories.

-

They feel the buildings die first.

A land is more than just what grows or crawls or walks upon it; that which is built by its children is as grandchildren and so shares a piece of its soul. When the homely stores are hollowed out and their corpses parasitized by “upper-class boutiques,” the tenements hand-crafted of brick and compassion demolished for “luxury suites,” restaurants which pass centuries-old recipes unto eager new generations repurposed into “artisan eateries,” the Three tremble along with the heart. They feel ghostly scalpels in bloodless, blood-starved hands carving away bits of their skin and transplanting virulent new flesh.

The flora and fauna tasked with enforcing their will fall next. Company representatives, all lineless faces and hollow smiles, proudly tout their “beautification initiatives” on networks that once spoke with the people’s tongues. View-obstructing forests are clear-cut, native wildlife figuratively and literally trampled under golf courses and business centers. When their troops do succeed, when branches flatten a car or tiny jaws shear through a wiring network’s major artery, only the laborers suffer, are held liable for costs and then replaced by more-desperate locals whose livelihoods have already been subsumed.

New curio stores emerge, offering crystals and spiritual energy and other far more respectable things than superstitious nonsense like reverence for nature. Millicent visits the nearest one wearing a concealing suit and the face of a man who’d long ago traded it to the Three in return for a boon; Mirabelle had offered to go in her place, having been saddled with such a face from her birth until her rebirth, but Millicent insisted. She asks the over-decorated women behind the counter how much their remedies cost, then how much they are paid, and is then forced to leave before she can ask why they flinch when the slick-haired man with a “Manager” nametag steps in to check on them.

The shop, their shop, is lonelier these days. Their antique of a website, which Mirabelle built for them a decade ago after being told how important it was to have one, is shunted further and further into search engines’ depths, suffocated by explosively breeding Company URLs. They have never played a Game like this, one so painfully impersonal.

Mrs. Berchelt visits them on a Saturday evening, not long before closing. Most of their regulars stop by once or twice a month to chat, to check up on them, to apologize that they can no longer afford to shop there the way they used to. She tells them that her father passed away the week before; when the Company bought his shop and restructured him out of it, he’d refused to let his family bankrupt themselves for the medicine he could no longer afford. She’d been trying to convince him to visit the Three when he went to sleep for the last time.

They cut through the night on bats’ wings that evening, too restless for sleep. Through their cries they see their town, or at least the tumorous expanse growing in its place. On a short hill far past the western outskirts squats a new mansion whose only architectural theme seems to be feature density. The Three know the Executives are there, felt them carve cellars and sub-basements into the soil.

As their three furry bodies bank back towards home, Mirabelle’s soul detaches, diving for the earth. There is little of the land’s soul to which to anchor herself, carved away with dispassionate inefficiency in the place’s construction, but the ornamental garden contains just enough native species among the invasive night-bloomers that she can settle in.

She expects to witness self-indulgent gloating, grandiose plans, blood-feasts that push debauchery to its absolute limits when the Executives emerge. Instead, there is only business. They chatter on hands-free headsets for hours at a time, barely acknowledge the uniformed employee they use as a keg until the anemia starts compromising his footing, He is informed that he can enjoy an extra hour of leave for the month, plus another if he returns tomorrow when the entire Board of Directors is present, and as he leaves the Executives’ sight all traces of his presence vanish from their conversations.

When morning comes and the man staggers out towards his car, Mirabelle slips into him, no more than an unseen passenger. She tags along until he reaches his barren apartment before returning to her body, which the others had been using to cook their breakfast. The day slips by in a mutual fugue; this Game has too many dimensions, too massive a web for them to disentangle, and opponents who desire nothing aside from what they’re already getting. There has not been a higher authority to appeal to in these matters since the Game’s arbiters became players themselves.

So, they decide, they will not play.

-

Twilight, chosen as a compromise between discretion and keeping their nocturnal foes at a disadvantage, sees them sitting equidistant in a triangle, overlapping sigils and long-forgotten runes carved into the earthen floor below. It is more ceremony than anything; the demons and fae and unknowable creatures they call to have long since faded into the ether. But it is what they did their very first night, when they had left bondage and found one another and demanded the land help them pay back their suffering with interest.

They reach out and take one another’s hands, the sensations of touch doubling back on themselves through their bond. Together they murmur, not in demons’ dirges or spirits’ screams but in the songs they’ve shared, the words they’ve whispered into each other’s ears, the decades of bull-headed assurances that they could hold fast against the world.

The distinctions between them waver until there is only the Three-in-One, and down she plummets towards the land’s arrhythmic heart. It is flaking away, only Meredith’s kiss holding the wasting tissue together. The Three-in-One could demand, could invoke her Right of Dominion, but instead she strokes the heart, eases its pain, asks it to remember the day it helped her craft a titan of splintering wood and devouring vines. Asks it if it can do so again.

A tremor runs from its flesh to her fingers, a negative.

The majority of magic practitioners would describe power as a fluid, a singular thing that simply takes the shape of its container. The Three know that the container can shape the nature of the power just as easily. The land cannot form such an avatar because its soul has not been nature unchecked in over a century.

Its soul, unknowingly molded by the hands of its children through decades of adaptation, is hunger and metal and strangeness. The Three-in-One sinks into the heart, feels the discarded pieces stir beneath the earth, forms them into something immense and terrible.

-

She likes to imagine that they feel the tremors first, that they rattle their ways out of their miniature crypt and demand to know what’s happening in broken harmony. The last vestiges of sunlight are just enough to frame the thing as its footfalls shake the world. Shaped like a man, almost; beyond its great height, its arms are too long, and it swaps between bipedal and quadrupedal locomotion with equal ease. Boiling diesel runs through metal veins, a jaw of grinding gears feeding a furnace of a belly that rumbles with porcine hunger.

All that the Company would smother, come to devour it in turn.

Streaking shapes only slightly darker than the growing gloom explode from the mansion’s windows, paper-thin semblances of humanity discarded. Unnatural strength drives claws into a half-foot-thick shoulder joint and stay embedded even as the top half of their owner is ground into nothing by a bite swifter than the thing’s bulk should allow. A concentrated effort blows out a knee, only for god’s handful of hurled earth and stone to clobber the strikers from the sky.

Up the hill it lurches, monstrous fingers dragging it closer and closer to its target as an avalanche of tooth and claw looks to rip out its internal-combustion heart. Legs dragging more than pushing, high-octane blood choking the earth, the thing raises a fist skyward, the Three-in-One’s gavel ready to pronounce judgment.

The hill breaks beneath the blow, glass and stone and the finest imported building material driven inextricably into the earth. The great fist breaks free from the impact and the fire in the thing’s eyes gutter; it is unrecognizable at this point, a flayed scrapyard with only the vaguest hint of a shape. The whole flock has descended upon it, drenched in oil and fuel and gouging away until the thing’s amalgamated beast of an engine is finally ripped free from its housing.

It coughs once, twice, then detonates.

As the Three-in-One follows her tether back to her bodies, she gives the Executives credit for keeping their property well-watered. For all the smoke it’s belching, the inferno should not spread. But it will, she thinks, keep them from pulling themselves back together before sunrise.

-

The Company will be “redirecting its efforts” and “offering generous severance packages," the news tells them the following day once it runs out of grainy user-submitted cellphone video; with the sole road connecting the hill to the city rendered unusable by mysterious, gigantic footprints, none of the footage is clear enough to display anything more than indecipherable light and noise.

“The Scrapsquatch” soon has every conspiracy-adjacent community fit to combust in similar fashion. Tourists flood the streets, patronizing reborn shops and hangouts. There is still so, so much to be done, of course, but the Three allow themselves little smiles. A customer, for whom Meredith is ringing up a slightly used brass cauldron, asks what’s on her mind.

She laughs and tells him it’s just a bit of civic pride.

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[highwaytosickfics]

X-Men Evolution sickfic 2

I started making this at midnight yesterday...I’m not sure how qualified it is to be a sickfic, but I know there’s a sick lance in it, so that’s something. It’s from the caretaker’s (aka Todd’s) perspective. It’s kind of a grocery store trip fic with Lance being sick in the background, but I think there’s still something to enjoy there.

=============================================================

He was standing in the medicine aisle of the local grocery store, calculations going through his mind to figure out how to input this temporary expense. The fluorescent lights above buzz in his ears, along with the sounds of other people chatting in the aisles, cart wheels rattling, and the vague lyrics of an old pop song playing quietly over the speakers. Several rows of colorful boxes are organized in front of him, detailing cures for various symptoms. Todd was concentrating on the migraine medication, mentally listing them by cost and effectiveness. Amazing what a tiny bottle of pills could cost, especially given the Brotherhood’s limited budget.

Almost everyone in the Brotherhood had some form of role in terms of household chores; Lance was the one with the highest success rate of holding down a job, so he was the main breadwinner of the house (one of the many reasons why he was the de facto leader).

Fred also contributed to their legal funds, getting freelance construction jobs from time to time that were really helpful in keeping them out of the red. Fred’s main task in the house, however, was cooking meals, something he unsurprisingly excelled in.

Pietro wasn’t exactly the best at finding work, and his taste in food left something to be desired, so he was in charge of cleaning. It didn’t need to be spotless, none of them were really comfortable with a sterile environment, so there wasn’t really much pressure on the silver speedster; just make sure it wasn’t vermin-friendly and keep stock of cleaning supplies. Pietro got enough pressure from his douche of a dad, so they didn’t feel the need to put much more on his shoulders.

Girls in the Brotherhood...really didn’t do anything. Rogue was long gone before they implemented the house rules, which were put in place following Mystique’s disappearance. Tabby’s powers were more suited for entertainment than anything else, and her impulsiveness made it difficult for them to figure out what she’d be best suited for. Wanda, meanwhile, wasn’t exactly the type to take orders from anyone. She had more pressure on her than Pietro did, so the Brotherhood mainly just let her focus on figuring herself out. There were times when it seemed like she felt isolated from them because of the way they handled her, but some mild teasing usually shook off that temporary insecurity.

Finally, Todd was in charge of finances. While it wasn’t something he talked about, Todd was actually pretty smart. Thanks to a mild learning disability and his desire not to academically stand out amongst the Brotherhood, his test scores were usually rather low. Still, he did well in crunching the numbers, forming budget plans, and keeping them relatively steady. He was the least likely to waste money on something unimportant, so it didn’t take much prodding to hand him control. He went for groceries once every two weeks, maybe twice if there were uninvited guests or something ran low unexpectedly. While Todd occasionally hopped there on his own, Lance usually drove him so that they could get goods back more easily.

Todd’s mind briefly drifted to Lance, remembering he’d shuffled the older teen into the bathroom for safekeeping until they got everything paid for and loaded in the car. Lance “I’m Fine” Alvers was, thanks to his powers and general stress, a frequent migraine sufferer. Everyone had noticed this ages ago, but their leader wasn’t exactly the type to admit when he was feeling under the weather. His normal route was just to pretend everything was fine and go about his day as usual, despite looking like he was about to collapse.

Sometimes, when the headaches were too severe, he’d hide out in his room with the lights turned off and his favored rock music notably silenced. The rest of the Brotherhood didn’t badger him about it, knowing it would just make the situation worse. Help for their sick idiot leader was intentionally subtle; They were quieter, less mischief, and kept the house dark and cool. If one of them were feeling generous, they’d leave some water and saltines on Lance’s nightstand.

Today it started off light, a minor headache from last night’s brawl with the X-dorks. At least, that’s how Lance tried to make it appear. There were some tells, letting them know he was worse off then he claimed to be; he was sweating, his movements were shaky, and a brief glance at breakfast made him noticeably pale. But unfortunately, Todd knew from their morning meal of last night’s leftovers that they needed desperately groceries. Since Lance was the only one allowed to drive his car, he wasn’t going to be able to ride out the waves of pain on his own just yet. Thankfully the others chose to tag along today, and they were rustling through the other aisles with Todd’s very precise list on hand. No doubt they’d add unnecessary items to the cart, but today he was feeling slightly lenient on their spending habits. Normally on the rare occasion that they shopped altogether, Lance would keep them in line, but he was a bit indisposed at the moment; Driving had taken a lot out of him so by the time they got to the store, he looked like he was gonna hurl. Thus him being moved to the bathroom stall; The lights in there were far too bright for his liking, but it was private.

Throughout all of his migraines, Lance never really asked for anything to dull the pain. He was stubborn enough to want to grit his teeth through it, and they usually didn’t have the money for it anyway. But this month, with Fred finishing off another freelance job, Todd scoring big on some side pickpocketing, and no one almost going to jail, they had a little extra in their pockets. Hopefully enough to legally grab the much needed meds.

Some mild commotion was going on in another part of the store, and Todd picked up on a few familiar voices but otherwise didn’t dwell much on it.

“Mr. Tolensky, interesting to see you here.” Huh, apparently the X-geeks shopped here too, go figure.

“Yeah man, it’s grocery day.” Todd mumbled briefly to Xavier, focusing back onto his task. He could tell the older man was trying to pick at his brain, but he had other things to be concerned for. Like figuring out which of the cheapest meds was the most effective at handling migraines.

“Professor! the Brotherhood are here. I think they’re gonna try to start something-” Scott’s words are paused by the sight of Todd, his stance shifting to a fighting position. “What are you guys here for, Toad?”

“Easy Scott.” Xavier chided, causing Scott to awkwardly relax. “They’re not interested in causing any trouble today.”

The look of disbelief on the laser teen’s face was almost comical “Professor, it’s the Brotherhood! When aren’t they causing trouble?!”

Xavier ignored the comment, instead wheeling himself closer to where Todd was still furiously wracking his brain over the seemingly random words assaulting his vision. The written word wasn’t exactly his strong suit, especially when it was words he couldn’t properly pronounce. A hand stretched past him, and Todd unconsciously shifted to not get in the old man’s way. Then a box was pushed in his direction, and he looked to find Xavier handing him one of the medications he’d been pondering about.

“This may be a good option for you.” He suggests, allowing Todd to swipe the box from him. “We have it stocked in the mansion in case Jean or I overdo it.”

“...Thanks.” His voice is a mix of gratitude and distrust. On one hand, the medicine is probably the right choice in terms of Lance’s symptoms; the professor wouldn’t exactly lie about something like this. On the other hand, it’s advice from an adult, an X-dweeb no less, so it takes him a second to swallow his pride and accept it.

“Of course.” Xavier gives a light smile, which only adds to Todd’s discomfort but he doesn’t address it. “If anything gets to be...too much, be sure to visit. We still have plenty of rooms left in the manor.”

Todd doesn’t shoot down the olive branch, nor does he immediately take it. He nods quietly, not looking at the unusually quiet Scott as he brushes past him. Todd meets up with the Brotherhood, sans Lance, and quickly returns a majority of the unneeded items (mostly candy, courtesy of Pietro) before leading them to the checkout. He doles out the exact amount needed, including tax, and throws in an extra couple dollars in case another candy bar mysteriously makes its way onto the conveyor before returning to the bathroom.

Todd knocks twice before slipping under the stall door, finding his leader thankfully a little better than when he was left there. While the bowl was currently clean, the smell of recent vomit was still lightly wafting through the air. Lance’s still pale and sweating, and he appears to be clammy from what’s probably an oncoming fever. Todd doesn’t think he should be driving them back, and he might get his way if he can pass the meds onto Lance in the car, but for now his main concern is getting him there at all.

“Yo Lance, I’mma have to pick you up so...don’t hurl on me or nuthin’.”

Lance responds with a muffled groan, the closest that Todd’s going to get to an affirmation. He crouches down, draping the older teen’s arm over his shoulder before hefting him upwards. They swayed immediately, with Lance’s skin nearly matching Todd’s, before they had to crouch back down again. The gags from the leader’s throat made the frog boy wince with sympathy, though thankfully it seemed to be nothing but dry heaves. Still, it took a couple minutes for everything to settle before they tried standing again, much more carefully this time.

The chill in the morning air had caused Lance to put on a hoodie jacket before they left, and Todd decided to pull the hood over the other boy’s head before they tried leaving the stall. Movements were slow and steady to prevent any unnecessary collapse. Lance was leaning the majority of his weight on Todd, who didn’t bother commenting on it despite the strain. By the time they’d gotten to the car, everyone else was already buckled in. Fred had squeezed into shotgun, barely managing to fit, and Wanda was in the driver’s seat. Pietro, as well as the groceries, were nowhere to be seen, so he’d most likely taken them home on his own. The back was conveniently empty, with an unused plastic sitting helpfully in one of the seat pockets. Todd dug into Lance’s pocket and, once he found the keys, tossed them over to the scarlet witch. Wanda had gotten her license sometime after she’d joined them, but due to Lance’s stubbornness on always being the one to drive, she’d never gotten a chance to use it after her exam.

Lance made a groan of protest at being shoved into the back, but Todd ignored him as he buckled the two of them in. Safety first.

“Better hold this, dude.” Todd says, handing Lance the plastic bag as the engine starts rumbling. “Things are gonna get a little rocky.”

From the front, they hear Wanda and Fred groan at the rock pun, but Lance, with a slight smile, seems to appreciate it all the same.

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