#usually i can fight through it but oh its an awful gut wrenching feeling when your blood pressure starts to drop like thar

[borkthemork]

Drabble Request: Anne and Marcy after her rescue

You know what, Anon? You get a 2,600 word draft as a treat. Thank you for your patience!

-----

Anne had read books before.

She wasn't the kind of person to read long-winding literature like the typical bookworms back home, but she did read whatever interested her. From magazines to comics to zoo books about bird mating dances, Anne liked stuff that had meat to it.

Give her enemies to lovers, she'd cheer at the makeouts. Give her gut wrenching biographies about surviving the Himalayas, she'd bawl her eyes out. And if one gave her story about being one's true self under the guise and acceptance of a duck instructor then she'd quack it up and never be heard from again.

There needed to be meat, drama, scenes of people kissing in the rain. Stories were all about getting punched in the gut over some random guy, and that would always be the best part!

So she had no idea why Cynthia Coven never stood out to her.

It might be because of the choppy writing style or perhaps fantasy wasn't her thing, but that didn't make sense to her. After all, she'd read anything as long as it was interesting and somehow the Coven books just…didn't stick?

Sure, Cynthia had a pet squirrel. Anne could find a squirrel at the park anytime. Cynthia had spells, curses, people with talking body parts that shouldn't be talking at all. Okay, cool — ugh, why wasn't she interested? Everything about it seemed right up her alley!

She chalked it up to preferences and moved on. 

But somehow, after all these years, the same book fluttered between the pages in her hands. And she found herself narrating, speaking the paragraphs out loud under the green canvas of her tent. 

All because the bedridden girl beside her couldn't sleep. 

It had been forty-six hours since Anne and the girls united. It felt a lot longer than that, if she wanted to be honest, but all the footing, fighting, and planning they did to get out unharmed from Andrias's castle had taken a toll on them. And for Mar-mar even more so, what with the amount of stuff that went down. A lot of explosions. Crying. Frog-on-frog violence.

So in this tent came privacy. Not enough privacy to basically stop Sprig or Sasha from barging in, but the makeshift walls were one of the most protected cliff faces inside the forests. So they were basically between a rock and a hard place.

And since Amphibia's nature became a hazard to not only the typical frog but aggro robot intruders, nothing got through as a threat in the end. Not even the huge mother frobo that she and Sash fought days prior.

Anne flipped a page.

The cold draft had slipped in and raised goosebumps on her umber skin. It almost seemed surreal that Summer started to transition out with the months passing, but the chirp of birds and the lack of cicada song had marked a new season, and now Anne shivered slightly with her narration.

Marcy's wounds needed to heal. From the remains of the stab wound to the headache to the numerous nicks upon her feet, if she didn't start sleeping then the medicine Maddie gave wouldn't come into effect anytime soon.

And if she didn't snore in the next ten minutes, Sash would have to knock her out with some sleepshroom grub saute and Anne wasn't going to let her get drugged anytime soon.

But from what was currently happening, Anne became unsure.

Marcy's eyes fluttered shut a few times. She would start drifting off at some random part in the story and then jolted back to listening intently as if nothing had happened. Nothing in the book could get her to sleep. Not Cynthia's introduction to werebeasts, her dramatic one-liners, or how she got knocked out for a minute straight from drinking a pint of Canadian beer.

Wait, could teens drink beer in Canada? Gah, that wasn't important!

What was important was that Marcy looked dead — terrifyingly dead — and no matter how much Anne tried to keep her eyes on the words, the fear clung to the recesses of her mind, asking if everything was going to be alright despite the girls' current luck streak.

That maybe this would be the last time she'd ever see Marcy alive. All because she fell asleep.

Anne leveled her voice when these thoughts struck her, and hoped Marcy didn't note the hitch in her throat or how she blinked faster to catch herself from crying.

Because Marcy was strong. She was stronger than people gave her credit for.

Anne peered down. Marcy's thumb had pressed to the side of Anne's fingers, their eyes meeting for a second; one harbored bags under her eyes, the other of worry.

"I promise I'll sleep." Her smile reached her gaze, the weariness plain on her worn out dimples and ashen cheeks. Anne might need a washcloth later. "It's been a long time since I've read the Cynthia Coven series, my brain can't help but pay attention."

"I know, Mar-mar." Anne closed her eyes for a second and let out a relaxed sigh. "Seven months can be pretty long."

"Tell me about it." Marcy's eyes lingered at the ceiling, licking her lips. "I've been so busy with everything that's been happening that I've barely caught up with the latest book."

"Yeah." Anne smiled. "You know they've got a new release out?"

She blinked. Almost as if Anne punched her in the face at that moment. "Are you serious? Aw man, I missed so much."

"Hey, it's alright. It'll be waiting for you when we get back." Besides, Anne already wrapped the edition in a lot of Christmas paper, might as well keep the surprise.

But Marcy still looked miserable. She pouted,  letting her sink more into the mattress almost comically, and Anne bit back a laugh when she groaned. "Oh man, I'm so excited, this sucks! At least tell me if Cynthia gets over the Bridge of Quintessence."

"I don't know what that means and besides, you're two books behind, why would you wanna spoil it!"

They shared a laugh and carried on. Anne missed this. She did. In between the page clips and the eagerness flowing in Marcy's voice, it almost seemed like they were back to what they once were: Two girls laughing and making fun of bad jokes, giggling at stuff that didn't make sense in the story. It almost made the worries over Andrias and her parents grow into background noise.

Almost.

Anne perked up. A question had flown past her, and now Marcy stared at her, inquiry clear in her eyes. "Oh, sorry, I zoned out a bit. What'd you say, Marbles?"

"I'm curious, Annarama."

"Curious about what?"

Marcy's eyes traveled over her shoulder for a second. Was it the fatigue? Judging from how she fiddled with her fingers, the question must've been something serious, maybe something about Andrias or what happened back in the castle.

Whatever it was, Anne readied herself as she waited.

And then:

"Is that mine?"

Anne blinked. She ogled her book, then at the bedside table with its medicinal herbs, then the Thai Go logo printed fresh on her shirt. "What's yours?"

She pointed to Anne's waist.

When Anne looked down, the realization struck her like a bat. Under the filtered sunlight, she almost forgot that the yellow jacket around her waist was there to begin with, snug and tight in that hard knot Anne tied everytime she stepped out of the house.

And somehow, it remained clean from countless dimensional hops and Super Saiyan power-ups. And now it was here. Being scrutinized by her and the girl opposite her.

With that, she started to sweat.

Right, that.

A nervous laugh burst out from her mouth, making Marcy stare at her more out of concern.

How was she going to explain that?

"Oh, yeah! I almost forgot!" She rubbed her neck, trying her best to pick out the right reasons in her mind, but nothing stuck out to her. "It's a funny story actually, so funny that you'll probably forget in the morning so why not another time?"

A smile formed. "I don't know, Anne." Her eyes scrunched up too in pleasure, pressing her thumb against Anne's knuckles. "I'm all for sleeping to a comedy. Remember when we watched Borat? I laughed so hard I passed out."

"Oh, Mar-mar, that's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?" She then pulled her hand away, frowning. "Unless I'm pushing you, then I'll just—"

"No, no. You're fine!" What wasn't fine was how her heart pounded against her chest. Or, that the more she tried to take a deep breath, Marcy's growing concern made her laughter sound more like an old man wheezing from an asthma attack.

Anne was about to make a dumbass out of herself and that was fine! As long as she stayed calm and explained then maybe she wouldn't feel nervous about this.

Wait, why was she nervous anyway? It was just a jacket!

Oh, she knew why.

"Okay." Anne placed the book down, trying to regain her breath. Might as well go for it. What was the worst that could happen? Don't answer that. "So you remember how I've been trying to find my way back after I got through the portal?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I didn't want to forget. Not like I would've but I thought you died and I knew taking down Andrias was the only way to avenge you and get Sasha back." Anne sharply inhaled — words speeding past her ears. "So I thought 'Hey, I'll carry your jacket so I don't forget' and I basically wore it around everyday until I finally found a way back. So…"

Marcy's stare didn't help her sweating as she spoke, giving jazz hands to finish it all off. "Here I am. Yeah."

Marcy continued to stare at her. She'd never seen her this gobsmacked before; usually she found a way to ask questions, to let her enthusiasm shine through with eager stride, but now she became a deer in the highlights. All agape. All wide-eyed.

Oh Frog, I broke her.

"Mar-mar, you okay?"

"So you wore my jacket as a reminder to stop Andrias," she asked slowly, "after months of finding a way back?"

Anne puffed out her cheeks. "Maybe?"

"Anne…"

"Okay, okay, yeah." She hung her head, defeat in her voice. "I did."

"Oh." Marcy's eyes widened to the size of saucers, a shaky exhale breaking through. "Oh."

Anne stood up. If she didn't get out in the next fifteen seconds, she was going to explode. "Okay, yep! That's it for the Cynthia Coven series! Goodnight, Mar-mar, I'll check up on you later—!"

"Wait, wait!"

Marcy latched onto her wrist. Her ears pounded on, hard to focus with her sweaty palms and the shallowness of her breath. Because this whole situation was awkward and weird and it made her feel funny things in her heart and darn it Anne should've handled this back on Earth — not while they were stuck in the middle of a Frog darn war!

"Anne, please look at me."

She did. 

When she turned, the sight surprised her. Marcy's cheeks had darkened considerably as they held each other's gazes, the hold on her arm still having them tethered to one another.

Then the touch loosened slightly. It didn't speak of fear nor did it speak of pain. It didn't speak of the desperation Marcy once had when she held her fists in the broken halls of the Newtopian castle. What Anne instead found was reassurance. A reassurance in their interlocked hands, at how they gazed intently under the tent canvas, a heat creeping well onto Anne's cheeks too.

"It's really sweet that you wore my jacket like that." Marcy then bore down at the bedding lines, almost squeaking her words. "And very clever! Yeah! Because a physical reminder is a great alternative to notebooks and to-do list, and since my jacket has emotional connotations to me, of course you'd wear it! It just makes sense."

Marcy coughed into her sleeve, words almost a whisper. "You've always been good at improvising, after all."

"Mar-mar..."

"And thank you."

Anne stopped. She could've honed in on the bustling Wartwoodians outside. Or the rustle of the forest trees. But she focused on the comforting tap of Marcy's fingers, and the gleam in the girl's eyes — almost as if Marcy was about to cry.

"You've always been kind," she murmured. Her fingers trailed circles on Anne's palms, leaving her to shudder slightly under the touch. Especially when Marcy's eyes grew half-lidded. Remorse on her lips. "And to know you worked so hard after everything I did to you and Sash, I don't how I'll ever make it up for it."

"You don't have to do that," she said. Her words drifted between them, remembering what Mrs. Wu said a few months ago: That Marcy was the best out of all of them. Because she always needed to be. "What Andrias did was not your fault, and I'll beat him again if he ever makes you think it is."

"Besides," she said, putting on a smile. "Having you beside me has always been enough. Honest."

But Marcy's grief remained on her face, unspoken as her fingers faltered their dragging on Anne's palms.

Because she wanted to hold her hand instead, both their fingers trembling from the bedridden girl's arm.

"Anne, I hurt you. I did. No matter how much I try to justify myself, I still omitted everything about what I knew." Her eyebrows furrowed, glaring more at their shaky hands. "I was selfish. I wasn't honest."

"Don't say that. You didn't know this would happen, I understand this now."

"But you're still angry." Marcy sighed. "I know you are."

The conifers rustled silently. The faraway bugs whistled, occupying each interval as they held hands, their gazes observing anything but the other. Until Anne couldn't think up a better excuse anymore.

As much as Anne tried to forgive, there was something frightening about the resentment in her skin, underneath all that warmth. It went against every lesson she learned. Every lesson of compassion. Or maybe she was just denying it for what it truly was — a tight angry wound that had reason to exist as much as their handlock. 

Her body sagged at the thought. She'd gotten so far, trying to deny anything about herself would reverse so much.

"Yeah," she said softly. "I'm still mad. I don't want to be, but I am. But that doesn't mean I was gonna leave you guys in the middle of a war." The next words were under her breath. "I never wanted you guys to get hurt in the first place."

Marcy brushed her knuckles. "Take as much time as you need."

"I think a few months is enough."

"Or a year."

A smile. "Maybe more."

And Anne held her hand until the silence heard their heartbeats. Until their smiles returned slowly, surely.

"I talked to Sasha before you came in," Marcy said.

"You did?"

She nodded. "Mhm. And I don't know if she told you this, but we both agreed to a concordance." Marcy faltered. "An agreement I mean."

Anne snorted. "You don't have to dumb yourself down around me."

"Heyy, I'm not, I just don't want this to sound...clinical."

"Right."

The younger girl shuffled closer to her, which was surprising enough with the limited room on the bed itself. But when Anne held her eyes, there came recognition of something new. Was it relief? Worry?

"What we agreed on is that you don't have to forgive us. Maybe you'll be mad at us for a long time—"

"Mar-mar, I'm not—"

"Let me finish," she said softly. Anne hesitated. She resolved to caress Marcy's knuckles instead, and, of course, she didn't seem to mind. "Whatever happens, whatever you decide, we're not going to abandon you. If you want us out of your life, we'll respect it. If you want us to stay, then we'll respect that too."

Marcy inhaled, slow and careful. 

"And when you're ready, I'll make sure to be close by."

There had been times where Anne couldn’t predict what her future held. There had been numerous moments where Anne wanted to quit, to get angry, to question how her life hit upon all these coincidences like pinball and found herself in the most surprising of situations.

But when Marcy finished, stared at her, waiting for her to let her statement sink in, everything seemed to click in place. For just a single moment.

Each word had come out resilient, well thought-out. Anne could imagine the planning so clearly: How Sasha and Marcy sat in the same positions as them, sat with their heads together as they discussed what to say. And the more Anne listened, she could only hope that Sasha was just around the corner, ready to say the same things in her own Sasha-like way.

But for now, they gripped each other's hands, squeezed their fingers until Anne could only think of the heat. The burn in her nose. Then the bit-back sob and her trembling lip as Marcy pressed a thumb carefully to Anne's cheek, rubbing the tear trail away.

Because out of everything Anne predicted to find at the other end of the portal, it wasn’t this. 

"You promise?"

Marcy smiled, the ends of her lips twitching weakly. "I promise this time." Her voice broke. "I do."

With it, came the waterworks.

#amphibia #marcanne #annarcy #asks #Anonymous #fanfic #this took weeks to write here ya go

[factual-fantasy]

I got 25 asks that took me WAY too long to reply to! :}

I have two top favorite episodes, the cone snail episode and the beluga whales episode.

When it comes to my favorite part of both episodes..?

..Not happy parts...

I have absolutely no idea what you just suggested.

(Referring to this post)

Thank you! That was the intention. :} I was worried that their faces all looked weird..

You want to learn more? Man.. maybe I should post that headcannon draft..

Yeah haha, this blog has taken quite the U-turn hasn’t it? I’m just glad everyone seems okay with it so far. <:} I’m excited for season 5 also! I hope it comes out soon! :D

THANK YOU, I WILL CHERISH THIS LOVE YOU HAVE GIVEN ME FOREVER

Yes and no.

Does he think of his crew as children? Absolutely not. They are all fully grown, intelligent and capable adults, and he darn well treats them like it.

But you bet that if one of them is in danger or is frightened, he’s dropping everything he’s doing and rushing to their aid as if they’re his cub that just wondered out onto the highway.

ME TOO! I always felt like he had this fatherly vibe to him with some professionalism sprinkled on top. Like he’s always looking out for his team because he cares for them and worries about them, but its kind of disguised as him just doing his job as the Captain.

I plan to draw more Protective Barnacles because its my jam, so don’t worry! That side of you will have some more fuel soon XD. And thank you for all the compliments! :}

Daww thank you, it twaz nothin. I’m just glad that people want to see my art.

Well, taking everyone into consideration, the tallest is Captain Barnacles, and the shortest is Tomminow. (This little guy 👇)

The Vegimals aside though? Peso is the shortest. 

(And thank you! I’m glad :})

Honestly? Awful. I feel like absolute garbage, I just hope this will all finally go away soon.

Not really no, and no thanks on the cookies, I shouldn’t eat anything until I get super hungry because everything gives me stomachaches.. But a hug would sure be nice right about now.

I can give you a link to their wiki pages if that’ll help, I’m not really good with my words and you can learn everything you need to know about them there. <:}

Captain Barnacles (The polar bear guy)

Kwazii (The orange pirate cat guy)

Peso (The bby Penguin doktor)

Shellington (Tall Otter boi)

Dashi (Doge girl with skirt)

Professor Inkling (Fancy squik)

Tweak (Green bunny country gal chick)

The Vegimals (Little veggie dudes)

All the Gups (Metal fishes)

The Octopod (Momma metal squik)

Whos the youngest Octonaut? Well, if we’re not including the Vegimals, I’d say its probably Peso. And the oldest is most likely Professor Inkling.

Does anyone have claustrophobia? Yes! Captain Barnacles canonically does. He got trapped in a deep hole in some icy caves as a cub, since then he’s been afraid of tight and closed in spaces. I have extended on that fact and thought of many different scenarios relating to the aftermath of the Octonauts movie, but you know.. still not confident in all this Octonauts stuff so I haven’t posted my headcannons yet. <:/

Novelas translated into English means Soap Opera.

You think so? I feel like that’s not Kwazii’s thing, he’d probably like horror movies and action filled movies. But Peso probably would like them not gonna lie, him and Dashi would probably watch them together.

Well, in my draft post I’ve got two headcannons for her so far.

Tweak likes sleeping in the launch bay for the #1 reason that she can hear the water sloshing around in the bay. Which mimics the sound the water in the swamp used to make when she lived there with her Dad.

Tweak gets bad migraines when she’s sick, so the other Octonauts have to do a lot to accommodate her. Because the beds in the med bay aren’t that soft, she prefers to sleep in her room when she’s sick. But then the usually comforting sounds of the water in the launch bay become pain inducing. So the launch bay is emptied of all its water, the lights are shut off and, unless its an emergency, no one is allowed in the launch bay until she recovers. 

I looked it up, and its true.

KWAZII WAS A GIRL IN THE BOOKS?? THEN WHY IS HE A BOY IN THE SHOW?? WHY DID THEY CHANGE THAT?? WH??? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like this Kwazii more than I would any other version of him, but still, WHY’D THEY CHANGE THAT?? IM GLAD THEY DID BUT WHY??

Hmm.. let me think...

Captain Barnacles most likely doesn’t ever have uninterrupted free time, and even when he does, he probably still prefers to be up in HQ where anyone can find him if they need him. But lets say for the sake of it that he has some free time and he takes it. He’d probably either want to play his accordion, or want to read a book.

I feel like there’s a lot of different things Kwazii likes to do in his spare time, but goofing around in the Gup-B is probably his favorite.

Peso probably likes to do puzzles and play his xylophone.

Dashi probably reads books while listening to music. How she does both of these things at the same time I have no idea.

Tweak probably plays video games.

Professor Inkling and Shellington both probably read books in their free time.

I’m not too sure what the Vegimals would do in their free time though..

Oh yes, indeed it does. 

Before becoming the Captain of the Octonauts, Barnacles had to ask himself,  “Am I really ready to be their leader?” Can he handle managing a team of that size? Can he react to situations fast enough and make the right choices? He thought it through and believed that yes. He was ready.

But he wasn’t. He wasn't prepared for that gut wrenching anxiety when one crew member goes missing. He wasn't prepared for the crippling heat that most everywhere else has compared to his home. He wasn't prepared to become so attached to his crew that the thought of something happening to them keeps him awake for nights in a row. He wasn’t prepared for that overwhelming nausea of missing home and his sister. 

There was a lot he didn’t know. They’d all turn to him when something went wrong and ask if everything's going to be okay. He’d say “don’t worry, its all going to be okay.” but he’s just as unsure as everyone else.

Now don't get me wrong, he’s not this completely hopeless and unexperienced Captain that bit off more than he could chew, no. There’s just somethings he didn’t think about before becoming Captain of the Octonauts.

Now usually he can really keep himself composed almost always. He’s very level headed and very good at thinking his way through things, But sometimes? He just.. needs a break. He usually cant get a break because he’s the Captain and always needs to be alert, so everyone else that sees it usually tries to help.

Some crew members, like the Vegimals and Kwazii, have a habit of following the Captain around when they see that he’s tired to keep an eye on him. Others like Shellington and Dashi tend to give him space and keep things quiet for him. Some crew members, like Peso and Tweak tend to clean up around the place to take some weight off the Captains shoulders, they all help him out in some way.

Professor Inkling will sometimes find an excuse to pull him aside to have some tea with him. They’ll sit and talk for a bit but then he’s back up on his feet and back to work. This poor bear..

..hold on.. was this a drawing suggestion?

Dashi and Tweak would probably hang out in Dashi’s room and goof around. Not sure what they’d do.. maybe read, talk, play games or.. idk pillow fights? I don’t know what girls do on a girls night.

As for everyone else? I also am not sure, I don’t know what all those characters with all their clashing personalities would do on a boys night. Maybe they would all watch a movie? All attempt bake something obnoxious together? They seem like the kind of characters that would do that.

I’ve never been to a girls night or a guys night, so I don't really have much of a base to go off of.. but both groups would probably get together and do something they’d all enjoy. Guys maybe a funny movie, and the girls just talking and reading books? <:D 

For real that’d be hilarious. Imagine if their voices were deep and gruff too but they just make them sound high pitched for fun?

Dude that’d be so funny. Like Kwazii’s up to his shenanigans again blabbering on about some sea monster or what have you, and Tunip out of nowhere just goes,

“Kwazii legit stop, we all know that you’re just talking about some ordinary sea creature that pirates interpreted as a sea monster.“

The whole crew gon be like

If this game existed in their world and they all played it.....

Captain Barnacles would make it through a pacifist run and would be satisfied. He’s some kind of weirdo who doesn’t think of characters as real people and doesn’t obsess over them and cry about them. Overall he thinks the game is pretty neat, but probably not his type of game.

Kwazii would want to test his skills by attempting a genocide, but his heart of gold would get in the way and he wouldn’t be able to complete it. He’d feel terrible for killing goat mom, reset and go hard pacifist next round. Overall he thinks the game is awesome.

Peso would want to talk to every character so they’d all be included in the story. He’d go full pacifist and cry over the story and its characters. Overall 10/10 for him.

Dashi would probably cry over the game a lot and would never attempt a genocide run because the characters are now her family.

Shellington would hate the fighting parts so would delay those bits by walking around and talking to characters over and over again.

Tweak would go through a neutral run because she sometimes accidently kills weaker monsters. Overall she loves the story and its characters, 10/10 would play again.

Professor Inkling would become invested in the story I bet. Complimenting the story arcs for the characters and its creative game play. But I feel like he’d only play it once and probably wouldn’t beat it, but would have fun with it none the less.

Thank you!!!♡♡♡ Man, I never expected such a positive response to switching to Octonauts, I cant believe everyone is so excited about it! I’m so glad you like my Octonauts art, that really makes me feel better and like what I’m drawing is worth while. ɷ◡ɷ

Aww I’m glad! And oh yeah, the animals at the end were always scary. Remember the Boo the spookfish?

Boo was a cute little googly eyed fishy boi who was just so sweet and somft until the creATURE REPORT AND I-

THAT’S MY QUE TO YEET THE COMPUTER

Dawww thank you!! I tried. <:}

#octonauts #my response #octonauts headcannons #octonauts spoilers

[free-pool-trash]

dangerous game - peter maximoff

okay! this is just pure angst. peter has big dumbass energy in this one and i wanted it to hurt so here we are, i haven’t read over it so it could be awful.

requested by anon:  So, I was thinking about this. Peter and the reader are best friends. both have a crush for each other but they are too awkward to do something(and the classical "I don't want to ruin our friendship").Peter in a weird attempt of trying to get over this way too big almost painful love(that he thinks is not mutual)decides to date someone else! Make sense? Would it work for a fic? I don't know, you are the master mind here love. Anyways, the end is up to you? If he ends up with the reader or not

word count: 3.8k

warning(s): lots of swearing, fighting, peter being a dick, platonic warren

masterlist

PART II & III ARE UP ON THE MASTERLIST

When you were younger you thought that having a ride or die best friend would be the greatest thing in the world. What you didn't know however was how agonizingly painful it would be when you developed feelings, and eventually, fell in love with that ride or die best friend.

Peter was, as you always described him to people, your ride or die. He was your favorite person on the face of the planet and your most trusted confidante. You say 'was' because lately you didn't know what he was to you.  

Things had changed so horribly fast, faster than he could even run, you thought. It changed so fast despite the fact that you felt it happen, watched it happen, over the most gut wrenching few weeks.

Everything had been perfectly normal between the pair of you, the day before it all started going so terribly wrong, you'd been laughing and cracking jokes together, you did what you always did and stole his silver jacket and he'd said what he always said, "looks better on you anyway." Common practice in your friendship. At least... it had been.

In all honesty, you felt so unbelievably fucking stupid, because for a fleeting moment you had yourself convinced that your best friend of almost three whole years actually had romantic feelings for you, idiotic thought apparently.

Because the very next day Peter began to withdraw himself from you, slowly but not at all subtly. It started with the distance he started putting between you physically, and then the emotional distancing kicked in a few days later and then before you could even comprehend why he was acting the way he was, he was pretending as if he'd never even met you and it hurt like all hell.

Not only did he pretend like he didn't know you, but he also acted like nothing was out of the ordinary when you confronted him about the whole situation.

"Peter! Hey wait up!" You'd called out to him, having to break into a jog to catch up to the mop of silver hair that seemed to quicken it's pace upon hearing your voice.

Once you caught up to him, you had to take a second to catch your breath before you spoke.

"You running away from me or something, Maximoff?" You asked, a joking tone in your voice that did very little to mask your confusion.

Peter laughed awkwardly and glanced around nervously, and if you didn't know any better you would have said that it was like he didn't want to be seen with you at all.

"Uh no, what makes you think that?" He questioned, clearing his throat and continuing to look around, seemingly on edge. About what you hadn't known.

"Well, the fact that you have barely spoken a word to me in last two we-" Before you could even finish your sentence, Peter's eyes moved to focus on something behind your head and he cut you off.

"I actually can't talk right now, but um we can definitely catch up later!" With that he pushed past you and walked toward what, or more accurately, who he'd been staring at.

You watched helplessly as he rushed happily towards Heather, one of the newer students at the academy. Your face dropped as you watched him throw an arm casually around her shoulder and you didn't even try to mask the hurt on your face while you watched them walk off together.

Oh. So he'd replaced you. Oh okay.

From there it went from having little to no contact to absolutely no contact whatsoever, despite your constant attempts to get his attention.

A few months passed you by while you tried to figure out what exactly you were feeling. You felt betrayed mainly, the sense of abandonment was strong too and of course the confusion you felt about the whole situation hung over you like a dark cloud.

What had you done to deserve that? You couldn't for the life of you figure it out and that's what hurt the most, he never even stopped to give you a reason.

Another emotion you'd settled on was anger. The color sliver now triggered your fight or flight response and oh how you were itching for a good fight.

Night after night the exact same questions bounced around your mind, never allowing you to sleep peacefully, not until you hushed them with a half assed conclusion you'd created yourself.

"How could he just leave me like that? After everything we've been through? Was I not a good enough friend? Did I do something to push him away?" You'd promised yourself that you'd never allow yourself to lose sleep over a boy, you couldn't stand that this is what you'd come to. 

You hated Peter for making you feel this way, you hated him for it, he was the one person that knew every single thing about you, he knew all of your biggest weaknesses and yet he didn't even think twice before exploiting them- like it meant nothing, like you meant nothing.

News of Peter and Heather becoming an official "couple" had spread throughout the Academy rather quickly. You pretended that you didn't care but fuck if you weren't crying on the inside.

You were fucking miserable and the people around you, the people who loved you and were concerned about you would've had to be blind not to notice.

Jean and Jubilee were constantly checking up with you, making sure you ate at least one meal a day since they noticed that you usually skipped out on meals and looked like you were always about to pass out after training. They didn't push you too hard however, they'd been in your shoes you all knew what heartbreak looked like, you all knew what it felt like and you all knew that it would pass in time, but it needed to run its course first.

The boys on the other hand were assigned to deal with the Peter side of things, they were not as gentle in dealing with the speedster as they were with dealing with you.

Warren had been straight up pissed off, Kurt's heart ached for you and Scott seemed to hold the same confusion as you did. They'd try their best to get answers out of Peter without stirring the pot between him and his new girl, but the two seemed to be attached at the hip and it was getting harder to catch the boy alone.

Eventually the three boys had enough of tiptoeing around the topic with Peter, he seemed to be thriving and you seemed to only be getting worse despite your efforts to hide it from the group. You were one of the best people each of them knew, they knew you and they knew all you'd need to be back to yourself was some closure, it didn't seem like so much to ask yet somehow it felt like obtaining it was an impossible task. 

So instead of their usual divide and conquer tactic the boys decided to simply corner the speedster and make him talk. It was pretty much a surprise intervention.

"What the hell?" Peter asked looking between the three boys who'd backed him into a literal corner.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Scott was the first to speak up, shaking his head at Peter disapprovingly.

"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you guys, why are you ambushing me?" Peter asked becoming nervous as Warren scoffed.

"Cut the shit, Maximoff. Why'd you screw (Y/n) like that?" Warren asked, no longer willing to beat around the bush.

The boys noticed how Peter tensed at the mention of your name, the boy under scrutiny cleared his throat and attempted to move past the boys, who successfully stopped him.

"Look I've got a date-" He started before Warren pushed him back.

"I couldn't care less, Maximoff. Answer the question." Warren demanded as Scott and Kurt became aware of the fact that Warren wasn't fucking around.

"Why do you even care what happens between (Y/n) and I?" Peter asked defensively, deflecting the question and regretting it as Warren stalked towards him.

"I care because she's one of my closest friends and you abandoned her without a second thought and started trapesing around with the new girl as if (Y/n) had meant nothing to you in the first place and now she's fucking miserable, so answer the fucking question." Warren growled out through gritted teeth, and the other boys nodded in agreement behind Warren.

"She's heartbroken, Peter." Scott added, as Kurt nodded in agreement before asking, "Haven't you noticed?"

Peter's brows furrowed as he looked at each of the boys before looking back at Warren, squaring up to him. He left you to protect the integrity of your friendship, to protect your feelings. But it wasn't your feelings he was protecting, no it was his own, he was selfish and stupid but he was too far gone to turn back now.

He missed you more than anything, he loved you for fuck sake but if hating him was what you needed to do to move on then he'd make you hate him, although he assumed he was doing a good job of that already.

Swallowing hard he looked Warren dead in the eyes and mentally prepared himself to get the everliving shit kicked out of him by the winged boy, with what he planned to say he definitely deserved it.

"She's not my problem. She got too attached, that's on her." Peter spat out in the most malicious voice he could manage, fuck he hated himself.

Warren’s fist moved to connect with Peter's jaw before Scott and Kurt held him back, the two boys were seething from what Peter said, and Scott knew him well enough to know that what he was saying was utter bullshit, but they knew if Warren got his hands on Peter the speedster would probably end up with a broken spine.

"I don't know who you're trying to fool Peter but get your shit together." Scott told him angrily before Kurt teleported the three of them away.

The boys ended up in your room where you were chatting with Jean and Jubilee who were already there. You all knew about the boys and their plan to confront Peter and judging by how angry they all looked, you guessed it didn't go as planned.

"No joy?" Jubilee asked sympathetically and Kurt shook his head sadly in response, to him Peter's words had been cruel and he couldn't wrap his head around how he could say that about someone that he cared for.

Scott flopped down on the edge of your bed, bedside Jean and groaned. "He was being an ass." He spoke, head in hands out of frustration.

Warren still looked like he was out for blood and you wondered what he could've done to get under his skin so much.

"What's up, birdy?" You asked, patting the free space beside you on the bed. The blond stomped over to you and sat down beside you grumpily.

Looking at you in contemplation and then shaking his head, he huffed before speaking out angrily, "I just don't understand how one guy could be such a fucking dumbass." He turned to look at Scott and Kurt, "You guys should've let me beat him up." He stated matter of factly causing your eyes to widened and the other girls shared your shocked expression.

"What did he say that was so bad you wanted to punch him?" You asked, voice filled with worry.

Scott sighed and looked at you sympathetically, "We asked him why he screwed you over and he basically told us that you weren't his problem."

You didn't get a chance to react before Jubilee jumped to her feet, pure rage radiating from her small body.

"You absolutely should've let Warren punch him! Fuck it, I'll electrocute him myself!" She exclaimed, not really serious about taking matters into her own hands but seriously angry with the way the usually dorky boy had been behaving recently. 

"Calm down, Jubes." Jean told her calmly as they watched your eyes narrow before you looked around at all of them, a spiteful smile on your face.

"You know what? Fuck him. I'm done crying about him. I'm over it." You stated, as you watched them glance at you skeptically, all except Warren who was glad of your change in attitude.

"I say we go out, have a good time and make him wish I was his fucking problem." You laughed out, clearly not even bothering to digest the new information you'd been given.

"I say we show him exactly what he's missing." Warren chimed in nonchalantly, to which you nodded enthusiastically and the others couldn't lie and say they weren't happy you were finally deciding to let it go.

"That settles it. We're going to the mall." Jean declared, happiness lacing her voice.

You'd finally smiled for the first time in an age and it was because you finally realized you had more than just Peter. You had five of the most incredible friends who looked out for you and didn't just up and leave as soon as things got tough.

You figured it couldn't hurt to follow Warren's advice, if Peter wanted to leave you with absolutely no explanation then you'd highlight everything that would make him wish he'd stayed.

You loved him and he'd left you and replaced you and refused to give you any fathomable reason as to why. You weren't an idiot, you knew the whole "not his problem" thing was bullshit. 

He was winning at a game that you didn't want to play, but you supposed if you had to you'd play to win.

You'd tried to be mature, but he wouldn't budge, he'd pretend he couldn't hear you or pretend he didn't know what you were talking about. If he wasn't willing to work things out like a big boy then you'd match his immaturity.

As the weeks went on Peter began to see you more and more, only now you pretended he was a stranger to you and he knew he was being a hypocrite but he hated how it felt to be ignored by you.

What really got under his skin though was how cozy Warren was getting with you. Despite the fact Peter had been dating Heather for nearly two months now he was still hopelessly in love with you and watching you prance around with Warren Worthington III, the guy that almost re-positioned Peter's face, made him realize how much he'd seriously fucked up.

Heather was great, she was pretty and sweet but she wasn't you, and Peter was pretty sure she wouldn't stay with him for much longer. They'd both grown bored of each other.

As if he'd manifested it into existence, a few days later Heather ended things with Peter. Now that she was gone the boy had nobody else left as the majority of his friends were also your friends and there was always an awkward tension whenever he tried to talk to them.

He knew he only had one option. He had to go and talk to you. He had to fix things.

After Heather broke things off Peter went to find you, he didn't know what he was going to do or say but he knew the results probably wouldn't be favorable.

Peter found you in your room, he sped in and hadn't bothered knocking, he never did.

You were shocked at his sudden appearance, to say the least, he stood nervously in your doorway and you didn't bother moving from where you sat in the middle of your bed, pursing your lips and crossing your arms.

"What do you want?" You spit out, hostility lacing the question.

"Me and Heather broke up." Peter found himself saying, not really having anything else to offer you in the moment.

You raised an eyebrow at him, "What's that got to do with me?"

"I-" He started but paused. 

You looked at him expectantly and waited, eyebrow still cocked.

"I'm sorry." He finally sighed out and you laughed at how weightless the words felt.

"And what is it exactly that you’re sorry for? Abandoning our entire friendship or pretending that I didn't exist?" You inquired as you watched him swallow the lump in his throat.

"All of that." He replied meekly.

"Why'd you do it?" Peter swallowed yet again before clearing his throat awkwardly, he had to tell you the truth and he could see your composure cracking.

"I didn't want to lose you." Scrunching your face up at his answer, you got off your bed to stand in front of him.

"That doesn't make any sense. If you didn't want to lose me then why did you just leave me?" You told him, anger rising in your voice.

Peter let out a heavy sigh, moving to place a hand on your arm but freezing when you took a step back.

"I didn't want to risk ruining our friendship." He told you vaguely, looking at you pleadingly.

"Oh so what? You thought you'd do a pre-emptive strike and just ruin it on the spot?" You scoffed out, if his reason for ruining the friendship was not wanting to ruin the friendship you'd have serious questions. 

"That's not what I meant to do!" He defended helplessly.

"Then what the fuck did you mean to do, Peter?" You shouted, voice cracking as you felt your uncaring facade slipping away.

Peter closed the distance between you both and placed his hands on your arms, you didn't step away that time but you did stare at his hands in bewilderment.

"I love you." He told you, brown eyes staring into yours that had began tearing up.

Angrily, you shoved him away.

"Seriously? You fucking threw me away and replaced me because you love me?" Peter's eyes widened at your tone, you were livid and he hadn't realized how badly he'd affected you. 

"(Y/n) please! Just let me explain." He begged.

Taking a deep breath you shook his hands off of you and took another step back.

"Then explain." 

"We're best friends-" He began but you cut him off without mercy, "We were best friends."

Peter looked at you like a kicked puppy and it hurt but you couldn't let him see you crack, he fucked you up and now he has to deal with it.

"I love you, I didn't want to tell you because if you didn't feel the same it would have ruined everything! And I just thought that if I started dating someone else that those feelings would go away." He explained, talking fast and nerves running through his entire body as he watched you chuckle lowly to yourself.

"You didn't just start dating someone though, Peter. You completely disregarded me for three fucking months without any explanation." You told him, breaking into a fit of laughter as he struggled to find a defense for his actions.

He realized he was fucked when he noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks despite your laughter.

"Do you know what's really funny?" You asked, stepping closer to him as he shook his head.

Poking your finger at his chest you emphasized every word you said with a jab, "I loved you too."

You watched as his face fell and you no longer tried to save face, you allowed your bottom lip to quiver and your voice to crack as you regained the distance between you.

"I was hurting and scared too. But I would have never done to you what you did to me. That's not love, Pete." You told him weakly, voice breaking down.

Peter's brows furrowed and his mouth fell open, "Why didn't you say anything?" He regretted asking as he caught the glare you sent in his direction.

"Because as soon as I thought that maybe you could like me too you fucked off to be with Heather and started pretending I didn't exist!" Your voice was loud and aggressive.

How could he even ask that question?

Peter scoffed at you, "Seems like you were pretty happy with Worthington keeping you company."

Your eyes widened, "You're fucking kidding, right?" Peter only shrugged, an angry look on his face.

"That's why you came back isn't it? Because you're jealous of Warren?" Peter said nothing, only looked to the floor nervously.

Laughing again, you wiped the tears off your face aggressively, "God, here I was thinking that maybe you were actually sorry."

"I am sorry!" Peter exclaimed.

"Are you though? Because it seems like your girlfriend broke up with you and now you have no other options." You stated matter of factly.

Anger erupted in Peter, he didn't come here to fight with you but if you didn't want to have a level headed conversation then neither did he.

"I'm trying to make it right! I fucked up okay I get it but the way you're acting is immature." He shouted, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Immature?" You challenged, raising your eyebrows at him, stepping closer.

"Yeah, immature." He confirmed, standing his ground.

Again you let out a laugh, crossing your arms tightly across your chest, "No Peter, what's immature is leaving your best friend of three years and then pretending she doesn't exist like a fucking child all because you're scared." 

"Pft right. You moved on pretty quick anyways." He muttered causing your jaw to fall slack.

"Peter you literally stopped talking to me then started dating someone the next day!" You yelled out, your voice raising in pitch with the more worked up you became.

"That's different!" He shouted through gritted teeth.

"How?!" You demanded, your own teeth clenching at the conversation that was beginning to stress you out.

"Because I didn't replace you as a friend!" He reasoned, weakly.

"And what? I did?" You inquired, genuinely confused with what the fuck he was insinuating.

"Like I said. You seem pretty happy with Worthington." He spat out and you let out a humourless laugh.

"You know what, Peter? When you decided to start treating me like a ghost and making me feel like shit, Warren was there for me. Just like Jean, Jubilee, Scott and Kurt were there for me." You told him, tiring of the argument.

He'd fucked you over, flaunted his new relationship, now he's single and suddenly you're the bad guy for seeking comfort in one of your closest friends.

"Look Peter. I forgive you for whatever it is that you think you're apologizing for, but I'm not gonna forget about it. You really broke my trust and I won't apologise for getting closer to one of my friends just because you're jealous. You made your bed so lie in it." You told him, firmly, brushing past him and walking to your door before turning to look over your shoulder at him, "Go ahead and let yourself out."

And with that you left him alone in your room as you walked away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from breaking down in the middle of the hallway.

#peter maximoff #peter parker x reader #evan peters #evan peters x reader #warren worthington iii #warren worthington x reader #x-men days of future past #x-men x reader #mcu x reader

[tenmillionwhumperflies]

Cloudwalker Series Part 19

This is fine, I didn’t need my heart anyway. Hope you like this one. It’s funny that I got an ask about the cloudwalker venom, because this one will sorta explain why Dyan’s venom didn’t show itself easily. That little ask is here. I’ll explain properly at the bottom of this post.

Warnings: Contains blood, treating injuries, mention of threats of disfigurement and teeth whump. There’s also a lot of emotional numbness and mention of child (very young cloudwalker) whump.

Master-list Here

Word Count: 2200

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi

Dyan sat on the edge of the bed in a perfect haze, completely stunned by everything that had happened in the course of ten minutes. He’d barely acknowledged that Blue had fallen asleep on his shoulder. Orrien’s panic wasn’t quite registering even though a small voice inside was screaming at him to react, to do something.

But there was just… nothing, no strength in him, no breeze to fly on, no emotions left to pour. He was dried up, stale, empty… He was too caught up in the wave of fear that was only now catching up to him. There was the gut-wrenching realisation that he’d gotten into a fight with that cloudwalker. He had bitten. So many awful things were bound to happen because of that. He’d be punished, everyone would be so mad. He was violent, he’d snapped, and now he was dangerous. That only meant bad things. That was the threat that had lingered over him if he’d ever bitten or fought anyone or anything.

Now there was no going back. Even if it had been a short fight, it had been terrifying and violent, and Dyan hadn’t had a clue what to do. His instincts were gagged, smothered from always living with humans. He didn't know how to fight. All he knew was that he had to protect Blue with everything he had. He just couldn't let Blue suffer. He slowly looked down at himself, seeing the wounds that had been left behind, feeling the pain of each and every one of them. He looked and Blue and whined, lowering his wings. This wasn’t fair, then again, they were cloudwalkers. Nothing was fair.

Dyan dragged his gaze away slowly when he heard someone coming up the stairs, it was Avizon, with Ihuka following, ready to catch him. Avizon froze at the sight of him, staring at his wounds. Ihuka sat down in the corner out of the way, watching them all with concern. Dyan gulped and bowed his head, not entirely sure what to expect.

“Dyan… What in all the realms happened?!” he exclaimed, limping forward and kneeling in front of him. He cupped his cheek and brushed the hair out of his face. Dyan couldn't help but flinch, even if it was a delayed response. Everything was so sluggish, muffled, foggy. He didn't know how to snap out of it, if he could, but he didn't want to. The distance was better than feeling the fear…

“They were attacked by a wild cloudwalker. I think it thought Blue was a human, so tried to save them. Dyan got into a fight to protect him. They’re both startled and in a bad way,” Orrien explained. Dyan appreciated the help. “Bad...“ Dyan mumbled. “Dyan?” Avizon frowned, “Little bird, talk to me...”

But Dyan was lost in his mind, he needed a few moments to piece together exactly what had happened.

Avizon tried to get Dyan to look at him, but there was a distant fog in his eyes, he wasn’t completely there. For a moment he looked through Avizon rather than at him. Avizon gave up with a soft sigh and stroked Dyan’s hair.

Dyan looked down at his bloody hands and stared. “I was… really bad, master,” he whispered. “I bit again...” Avizon’s gaze went up to Dyan’s horn, the area where it had been sawed off because he’d bitten a man.

Avizon held his hands out and Dyan inched closer until he was in Avizon’s arms, leaning forward so much he slipped off the bed and sat on the floor in front of him. Avizon kept him close, but Dyan didn’t cry, he didn’t sob and beg as he usually might. He just sat, staring at his hands. Avizon gently rubbed his back and wings.

“Why do you think that you’ve been bad?” Avizon asked quietly.

“B.because… I got into a fight… fighting bad. Trainer always told me...” “Trainer?” Avizon asked, confused until a thought hit him “Oh, the people from the ‘zoo’?” Dyan nodded slowly. “Biting bad… fighting bad… Not being good gets you sent away. G.gets your nails burned and your teeth blunted a.and you go in the box a.and...” Dyan’s lip started to wobble, and that was the most emotion he’d shown ever since he’d gotten here. His hand went up to his head but then dropped back down.

“Deep breaths. Remember, you’re not there anymore. It’s alright. You were protecting Blue. I admit, I didn’t think you had it in you, but I’m glad you did. You’re a good bird... Talk to me, let this all out, don’t keep things bottled up. You need to process this.”

Dyan wiped his bloody mouth on his arm before he dared bury his face in his master’s chest, but he didn’t hold him. He didn’t want to get him covered in his blood when he didn’t really have any other clothes. He just sat stiffly, and the emotion soon faded away again.

“Ihuka, a cloth. Cloth?” Avizon tried to instruct.

“C.cloff...” Ihuka thought hard, trying to figure it out but he didn’t know that word, so Dyan mumbled a translation. Ihuka rushed off and sure enough, returned with a cloth and a bowl. Avizon praised him tenderly.

Dyan was quiet again as Avizon gently cleaned all the blood away from his hands, face and arms. He still bled, but Dyan hadn’t been paying attention to that blood. Avizon carefully pulled him close, but it didn’t feel possessive. “What happened, Dyan?”

“We were playing,” he mumbled. “‘t was fun, I got to feel water for the first time," a shadow of a smile appeared on his lips but then it was gone again. "A.and we got back onto the shore and got dressed and then this cloudwalker was just… there. He attacked Blue. Ihuka tried to help, but he got pushed away. I don’t remember jumping or flying, but I must have… I.I just had to get Blue away from him. I had to help him… but it hurt… h.he was so mad and he… it just hurt."

“He was able to get its attention off of Blue and onto him,” Orrien added. “As you can see, it was a hell of a scrap. I had to catch him and Blue both before they both dropped out of the sky.”

Avizon stared at him in surprise. “So the canary does have some falcon in him...” “‘M sorry,” Dyan whispered. “You… you probably don’t want me anymore… no one wants a bad bird...” Avizon hugged him a little tighter. “I’m proud of you, Dyan. You faced your fears to save Blue.”

Dyan shook his head. “Bad… always bad… I.I don’t want to go in the box... O.or lose my horn...” “You’re not going anywhere. Shhhhhhh, I’ve got you, you’re safe. Focus, Dyan. It’s all okay.”

Orrien eased Blue onto the bed to sleep. He took a moment to stroke the hair out of his face. Then he got up, approaching Dyan.

“Will you let me fix these?” he asked gently. Dyan hesitated, “But I...” “You don’t deserve to hurt,” Avizon said before he could even get his sentence out. Dyan flinched under his challenge. “You don’t. You are a good bird- the best. We can stay a little while until Blue wakes up and calms down tomorrow. I’ll go back to the castle alone for a day or two if I have to.”

Orrien started to clean the wound but it intensified his already stinging pain until it made Dyan cry and cling to Avizon. It was just too much for him. He was scared and tired and sore but still he had to suffer more and more. He forgot about the blood, he didn’t care. He just wanted comfort which Avizon was willing to give. He clung to him as best he could. “I’m right here, you’re safe… Shhhh, I know, I know."

Avizon held him patiently until Orrien had healed or bandaged all his wounds. Dyan had gotten sleepy during that time, hiding deeper and deeper in his own mind. He’d learned with Erix how to escape from his body for a little while and he couldn’t help but do that again. He was running out of strength and all he wanted to do was curl up and sleep to disappear from it all for a while. But he wasn't allowed to want anything, but despite telling himself that so many times all he yearned for was to hide in a soft blanket and be held by someone who cared about him- to be held by Blue so they could protect each other.

"M.May I sleep on the bed with Blue?" he mumbled softly, barely even realising he'd said it out loud. Avizon stroked his hair, "Of course you can. I'm going to pick you up, brace yourself."

Dyan let out a little whimper as Avizon scooped him in his arms with a grunt and lifted him up and onto the bed.

"Your leg," he murmured. No, no, no, he couldn’t be the reason his master got even more hurt. Everything he ever did was bad, why did master, keep him? Why did he insist that he was good? Despite his fear and frustration, he was too drained to panic.

"I can take it,” Avizon ground out as he eased Dyan on the bed beside Blue.

Avizon helped him onto his side and guided his arms around Blue so he could hold him. Dyan adjusted himself so he could cover Blue with his wing. Avizon gently ran his hand down the wing. “You’re a good bird, but now you need to rest. Sleep, Dyan.”

Avizon turned to Ihuka, checking him over for wounds but Dyan wasn't looking. He was staring at the awful scars on Blue's back. So violent, and jagged. They'd healed badly and Dyan could almost feel the pain he'd endured. He groaned and buried his face into Blue's back. Seeking comfort. He cuddled in close.

"D.Dyan?" Blue suddenly murmured. Dyan whimpered as Blue managed to slowly turn to face him. Dyan lowered his gaze. 

Blue didn't say another word. He just reached an arm over and hugged him close. Dyan released a breath he hadn't realised he's been holding and snuggled against him again. Everything faded away except for Blue holding him. He felt warm, welcome. It was different than when his master held him. Dyan covered him with his wing again and didn't realise until it was already done that their legs had tangled together slightly.

Despite how numb he felt, Blue's comfort was enough to make him fall asleep and escape for a little while.

_____

"They've grown very close over the last few days," Orrien observed. He gestured for Ihuka to go to bed but he shook his head. Orrien tilted his head to show his confusion at the little bird. He patted the bottom of the bed to see if he just didn't want to interrupt Blue and Dyan but still he shook his head.

"Keeping watch, are you?" Orrien mumbled. "Alright, but here."

Orrien grabbed some spare pillows and blankets and put them on the floor next to Ihuka, who promptly began to make a nest to get comfortable on, but he didn't lie down to sleep. His nose twitched.

Avizon sighed, making Orrien look up. "Nocturnal… he probably can't sleep, not after that." "Then we'll leave him to it. They've all had a difficult time."

"Dyan looked so lost…" Avizon mumbled, making Orrien's heart sink. "So confused and distant." "I know," Orrien said gently. He too had noticed. "I've seen that look on you plenty. He left the present, faded off into his own mind. I'm hoping a good sleep will be enough to entice him out of it."

"He did perk up with Blue at least," Avizon said, he looked down at his hands and frowned. "I wish he could have done the same for me…"

"In his mind, you're his master, he was bad and you deal out punishment- even if you wouldn't. He was clearly thinking back to old memories, he wasn't able to realise that you only wanted to help him. He still took comfort out of holding you, I could tell."

Avizon nodded slowly, but he looked defeated. But it was good to see he actually wanted to help. 

"I can't help but wonder if there's more to them than friendship," Orrien admitted. “It’s very possible,” Orrien said, “But there’s no way to be sure. We’ll just have to keep an eye on the situation.”

Avizon pursed his lips, “if that is the case, I won’t stop them. But I am worried. What if that bird that attacked them, perhaps they are part of that resistance we were talking about?”

Avizon looked down at Blue and Dyan fast asleep in bed, holding each other close. Ihuka was comfortable in his corner, but he looked tired and somewhat miserable. Avizon stroked his hair gently, “I wish I could speak your language so I could help you...” Avizon sat down beside him, but he was surprised to find that Ihuka leaned his head against him. Perhaps he also wanted comfort and company.

Avizon looked down at him with curious concern. “Good bird… get some sleep. You don’t have to protect them, that’s my job. Sleep...” Avizon gently put his hand on Ihuka’s forehead, encouraging him to sleep rather than forcing him. Ihuka soon faded off into sleep.

Then there was quiet, as everyone was left to recover from their terrifying ordeal.

So yeah, real quick, the reason Dyan wasn’t producing venom was literally because he has never bitten and never used the venom (which cloudwalkers are meant to use like every other day to hunt), so his body was just kinda shutting down his venom glands. That ask isn’t cannon, but it does mean that Dyan’s body doesn’t really produce venom like Ihuka can.

#Cloudwalker series #whump #my writing #Dyan #Avizon #Blue #Orrien #Ihuka #whump writing #whump series #I want to hug Dyan so bad my poor little baby #poor avizon too he just want to help Dyan feel better but he couldn't

[mattzerella-sticks]

Self Insert, s15 coda, M, 3.8k

(TW: overdosing - no deaths, but a lot of pills are taken at once)

Ever since finding out that Chuck has been writing their lives, the Winchesters are going off script more than usual. And each act of free will spits on all of Chuck's work and muddles his sharp, writer's mind. It's bad enough he has to babysit a powerful demon he brought back from the Empty, but now he can't write the ending the Winchesters deserve. How can he create an epic, gut-wrenching ending when he's being given domesticity, wallowing, and a badass Castiel to work with. All of it useless to him.

There's nothing anchoring his work. No puppeteer to pull the strings. But somehow Lilith proves her worth and finds the silver lining in the stormy skies.

Chuck raids Becky’s bathroom cabinet, mirrored door swinging wildly on its hinges while he searches for aspirin. Another migraine rips across his temple, flaring as powerful as a dying star. He curses, tossing lotions and bottles randomly until he finds the economy sized tub. “Thank me,” he sighs, grabbing it and twisting the cap off. One pill wouldn’t cut it, so Chuck poured the bottle down his throat until his cheeks puffed. Then he races to the kitchen for a pitcher of water to wash it down with.

Lilith watches on, unamused by the laughable scene of God overpowered by a simple headache. “Really?” she starts, waiting until Chuck leans against the counter with an empty pitcher in hand, “You couldn’t snap your fingers and make it go away?”

He shoots her a glare but she doesn’t wilt. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“But swallowing enough pills that could take down all of Jonestown helps?”

“Maybe?” Chuck shrugs, “Power of suggestion?” As he says that, another beat of pain flares up. Dropping the pitcher, he rubs at his forehead. It shatters against the tiles. Chuck walks away, muttering, “Clean that up.”

“Oh, that’s all I am now?” Lilith snarls, defiant, “Your maid ? Not even good enough to be a plot device anymore?”

Another headache wiggles at the base of his skull, where a set of fiery white eyes burn into him. “You weren’t even that good of one to begin with.”

“Excuse me!”

Chuck scrubs his hands over his face, frozen, waiting for the avalanche he knocked over to bury him. Lilith stomps towards him, each blow to the floor adding to his already drumming head. She claws at his arm and forces him to look at her. “ What ?”

“You know what,” she says, squinting up at him, “You wake me up, bring me here, give me one night of freedom and then…? Nothing ! There’s only so much you can do in a damn house. Especially one that doesn’t have any cable !”

Chuck copies her disdainful expression. “There’s wi-fi.”

“That doesn’t help me when you have the only laptop!” Lilith yells at him, “Give me something to do, dammit. Otherwise just send me back to the Empty!”

“I gave you something to do,” he lobs back at her, “And you did it poorly .”

“I got you the Equalizer!”

“You got rid of the Equalizer!”

“Which I still haven’t been thanked for,” she says, hands flying above her, “I know you’re the Almighty Father but would it kill you to express the smallest amount of gratitude? I mean, no wonder Lucifer fell like he did…”

Chuck feels anger bubbling up inside him. Instead of wrecking his current base of operations he directs the maelstrom towards a distant galaxy light years away. Decimates three planets and freezes the core of their sun so the rest of that solar system dies slowly. “I wanted it.”

“For what reason?” she asks,”What reason would possibly warrant you keeping a weapon that can kill you around? It makes no sense.”

“It doesn’t have to make sense!” Chuck tells her, voice loud and enriched with power, “Out of the two of us here there’s only one God and it’s me… I don’t have to tell you anything . I don’t have to keep you here .”

“But you do,” Lilith says, “Not out torturing the Winchesters or their friends. Not back in the Empty sleeping for the rest of eternity. No, I’m here because you need me. Need me to sit around and read through every different ending you’ve written, being slowly driven mad because I’m the one forced to entertain your mediocre bullshit - nggh!”

Lilith hovers inches off the ground. She claws at her neck, where an invisible force applies excess amounts of pressure. Breathing doesn’t matter, but with her windpipe crushed she can’t speak. The pain comes when Chuck’s eyes glow a blinding blue and parts of her essence shrivel from the exposure.

In a blink the light show ends and she falls. Chuck steps to her, glaring at her crumpled form. “You want to know the real reason why you’re not back in the game?” he scoffs, “The Equalizer was only number one on the list of things you seriously screwed up. Because of you, the Winchesters know I’m working behind the scenes! You took my hand and laid every card I had on the table. Your whole chapter went nothing like I wrote !”

“That wasn’t my fault,” she coughs, wiping at her mouth, “You stuck me with lumps and expected statues . Of course nothing was going to plan.”

“Maybe if you tried harder the Winchesters would have responded better -”

“Winchesters?” Lilith laughs, a rough, hollow melody that grates on his nerves. “Kind of a roundabout way of saying Dean , don’t you think?”

Like being shot by Sam again, Chuck recoils from the strike. He considers flexing his power, destroying her and bringing her back again, only to settle after deeming it a waste. “No, it’s not… you failed with both of them -”

“So I was supposed to seduce both of them?” Lilith says, “Because I read your flimsy excuse of a first draft and that part with Sam wasn’t included. In fact, Sam was hardly mentioned in it at all. You still nursing a… wound ?”

Chuck brushes the joke off, shoulder tensing under his jacket. Tendrils of pain squeezing the muscles where the bullet rests. “Sam wasn’t that important then… it was you and Dean  -”

“And the knock-off erotica you wrote in which I, trapped playing a barely legal philosophy major, seduce Big Brother Winchester and we have crazy sex where I’m moaning and screaming ‘That’s it! Slam into my tight, little, virginal ass, Dean’!” She writhes on the floor, giving a Meg Ryan-worthy performance. Lilith stops with one hand tangled in her hair while the other supports her arched back. Bedroom eyes replaced with a harsh gaze. “Sorry I didn’t become the little porn star you wanted daddy. ”

He grabs her arm and drags Lilith to her feet. “I didn’t realize you treated that scene like a joke.”

“I could have,” she tells him, “Really play up the innocent school girl routine, but whatever I would’ve sold Dean wouldn’t have bought.”

“Of course he would have,” Chuck says, defensive, “This is Dean we’re talking about. He should’ve been all over you in that motel room.”

“Well he wasn’t.”

“Because you weren’t playing up your character’s sexuality enough,” he argues, “I made it really easy for you, too, what with all the aphrodisiacs I wrote in. Do you know how hard it is to insert ideas into someone’s head that they should change the layout of their motel rooms so they had mood lighting and antlers everywhere? In such a short time? No!” His finger jabs at her, close enough he nearly pokes her eye. “Since I’m ninety-nine-point-nine-nine infallible than the problem was definitely you .”

Lilith scowls at him, sharp teeth poking between her lips. “Like I keep telling you, it wasn’t me - and it also wasn’t you. It was Dean, he wasn’t interested .”

“Because you weren’t -”

“No!” she shouts over him, “Because he’s not the Dean you knew! Because he realized how creepy it is hooking up with a girl who’s almost half his age ! Who only seconds before was crying about how awful her life was because she felt like she had no purpose. I bet that at no moment of knowing ‘Ashley’ did he think her purpose was to happily take his wrinkled dick and fondle some saggy balls for fifteen seconds until he came and fell asleep without even attempting to return the favor! I’m tired of saying this but he is not the man you know anymore!” Lilith’s chest heaves with the force of her words, a few of the figurines in the room tipping over from how wild her power shot during her tirade. Like whips of electric energy she tore through the room, shattering picture frames and upending Becky’s model Roadhouse.

Chuck watches her through slitted eyes. He snaps his fingers and the room repairs itself. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chuck says, “Of course I know him - I know all of them. They’re my creations. Nothing’s changed about them, not at all.”

“So you’re completely ignoring what showed up today?”

A shadow passes over his face at the question. Another tidal wave of pain roars through his mind, every nerve in his body swept in its destructive path. “It’s nothing.”

“Sure it isn’t,” Lilith says, backing away, “That’s why you spent all that time ripping it to shreds only for it to reappear on your desk like it never happened -”

“Lilith.”

“I took a peak, of course,” she admits, “I found it… I didn’t immediately hand it over. Like I said, I’m bored . It was interesting… very different than a lot of other things I’d been forced to read.”

“Stop it, I mean it -”

“Dean Winchester, our charming man of action, holed up in his room eating his feelings and nursing some heartbreak,” Lilith mocks, tone heavy with cruel delight. “Sam, the boy afraid of his own powers, taking ownership of his affluence and ability with magic. And Castiel the - actually, I don’t really know how to describe him. The angel never really comes up in your writings. I don’t know why seeing how hot that action scene was. If you wanted me to seduce him, I wouldn’t really mind… if Meg could do it then so can I -”

“ Enough .” Chuck snarls, windows shattering all around the house. Pain from the migraine becomes too much to deal with so he sinks to his knees, unable to use his powers and fix the broken glass. All he can do is focus all his energy on his breathing while he fights the chaos of free will tearing up his future.

When he feels more in control again Chuck opens his eyes and chances a look at Lilith. The angry expression on her face melted into a more unusual one. Curiosity easily shines in her eyes at his pathetic display, outlined with an odd hue of fear. Returning to full height, both school their expressions into masked indifference.

“Those pages were garbage ,” he tells Lilith, “they were… fanfiction . It’s not how it’s supposed to go. Sam’s happiness… Castiel’s confidence and Dean…” Chuck can’t bear to utter the next few words. “Whoever wrote those doesn’t know all the work I put into creating these characters. All the specifics of their characteristics that makes them who they are. That makes them butt heads and become their own worst enemies! I’m the author! Whatever I write is canon! And I do not like being mocked .”

“But you were, Chuck,” Lilith says, a softer approach, “Today you wrote the fanfiction… the story where Dean leaves Sam behind to drown in booze and women didn’t happen. Sam choosing to sacrifice the body of the woman he loves to destroy Rowena’s magic didn’t happen. Castiel being too late to save that mother and kid because he was paralyzed by his depression… that didn’t happen . None of what you’re writing will happen if you sit behind a desk and pray for it to work. Sometimes you need to put the effort in and bend the rules to fit your game.”

Chuck arches a brow in her direction. “Deus ex machina?” he frowns, “I kinda prefer keeping my arrival until the very end… I am God after all. If I show up too early then where’s the plot gonna go?”

“And yet the story of the Winchesters keeps going even though you're a recurring character,” she shakes her head. Lilith inches closer to him, smirking. “This isn’t the time to be holding back. Grand finales mean bringing in your heavy hitters, like yours truly . Who cares if you show up early? Every moment from beginning to end should be filled with adrenaline and action and not this… domestic crap.”

It’s a convincing argument, Lilith presenting her case with honeyed words fashioned to sweeten his ears. Except he doesn’t trust her enough to suspect that her goals are far less charitable than helping him with his runaway characters. In a room full of quickly-closing corners, however, he will take the first exit presented.

“That’s not a terrible idea,” he says, walking towards the study. Lilith follows. “Since Belphegor’s arc wrapped up way too early for him to be the Big Bad… there has been something missing in my work. No wonder Dean and Sam have been circling the drain!”

“It helps they’re already gunning for you,” Lilith adds, sitting in a nearby chair, “Good luck taking you off the board though seeing you’re God .”

Chuck relaxes behind his desk, staring at an open Word document. “But they’re putting up a united front. Kind of makes it hard to have one kill the other when there’s nothing driving them apart.”

“You could have Sam find out what Dean said to -”

“There’s nothing driving them apart.”

“Then be what drives them apart.”

“ How ?”

“I thought you were the writer here?” she scoffs, swinging her legs up over the armrest.

He rolls his eyes. “You said you wanted something to do, right? Help me come up with a wedge.”

“Kind of a waste of my skills…”

“You’d rather I send you into some other girl,” Chuck asks, “have you try and seduce Dean all over again?”

Lilith scowls. “Why don’t you try and seduce him.”

“What?”

“You seduce Dean,” she repeats, “You’re so obsessed with who he sleeps with, clearly you’re sporting a chub for the guy. Every scene you write with him in it makes it obvious, even the ones where he dies at Sam’s hands. No one needs to know how handsome a guy is moments away from death.”

Chuck shrugs, nervously fiddling with his glasses. “Debatable…”

“So why don’t you hop on his dick and get off mine.” She reaches behind her for one of the figures on display, snatching a Dean with opposable joints. Swinging his arm, Lilith takes the knife in its hand and has the miniature Winchester stab himself over and over again.

He pays her no mind, mulling over Lilith’s sarcastic suggestion. “Y’know…” Chuck mumbles, putting on his glasses, “that could work…” Chuck’s fingers begin typing. The story unfolds easily now that the missing element - himself - was added to the page. A wicked smile unfurls the more he types.

Hours pass, and Chuck has a working idea of how the Winchesters’ world will end.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Sam carries a few books through the Bunker’s main room when he hears the door open from above. Glancing up he finds Dean casually strolling down the steps. A swagger in his posture that hadn’t been present in a long while. So taken aback he nearly let his brother walk away without the stern interrogation he planned.

“Dean,” he starts, “where were you?”

Dean pauses under the archway, facing away from Sam. His hand pressed against the wall. “Out.”

“Out?” Sam scoffs, “That’s it?”

“Yeah. I was out.”

“Without leaving a note or answering mine or Cas’s calls and texts?” Sam stomps over, scowling, “You complain all this time about him ignoring us. And the moment he gets here you turn tail and leave? What’s the matter with you?”

Dean shrugs, showing a sliver of his handsome profile to Sam. “Had better things to do then waste hours running in circles with you and a fallen angel.”

Sam’s expression hardens. “Out, huh?” he asks, “Did you go to the jerk store?”

“No,” Dean says, “now are we done? Can you go back to your bitch party?”

“Dammit, Dean!” He grabs his brother’s shoulder and spins him around, stomach clenching at the disinterested stare that greets him. “I thought we were done with this, man! If we’re gonna have any chance to take down Chuck than I need you here, with us. Knowing he’s still playing with our lives it’s… I know it’s hard. But none of us will make it out alive if we’re keeping each other at a distance.”

Dean pouts throughout Sam’s speech, but a spark flickers in his eyes. His tight shoulders droop under an invisible weight, and the indifferent mask breaks. “Sorry,” he says, “I… I know. I get it. But I didn’t want to sit and read and… I found this case in Texas. Thought Chuck was tied to it. Figured you and Cas were okay to sit tight and handle the research while I hit the field.”

Sam sighs, the knot in his chest unwinding. “That’s… okay. Wish you still told us but… did it pan out?”

“What do you think?” Dean shrugs. He scrubs a tired hand over his perfect jaw, plush lips stretching under his touch. “It… it didn’t turn out so well. Wasn’t so much Chuck as it was a djinn. Handled it anyway.”

“That’s… that’s good,” Sam says, attempting a smile, “You feel any better killing it?”

He shakes his head. “Not exactly what I wanted to kill at the time.”

Seeing his brother crack open his hard shell eases some of the tension between them. Sam inches closer, bringing his brother into a hug. Going slow to give Dean enough time to escape. When he doesn’t, Sam wraps his arms around his brother. “We’ll find a way to get Chuck,” Sam tells him, “and the second we get him you’ll have first dibs.”

Dean shifts in his hold. “Funny thing, Sam,” Dean mumbles, “I’m not in the mood to kill Chuck, either.”

“What -”?

Snkkt

A burning pain rips through his chest from where the blade sunk in. Blood rushes up his throat and bubbles in his mouth, Sam spluttering while it leaks from his parted lips. The books in his hand crash to the floor and he stumbles backwards in shock.

Dean watches him with a soft glee highlighting the crinkles near his gorgeous eyes. Sam darts his gaze from his brother’s face to the red-stained knife in his hands. His hands rush to cover the wound, but the blood continues gushing. “W-what…?”

“Enchanted,” Dean tells him, wiggling the weapon like a toy, “got it from a special friend.”

“You…” Sam’s legs give out and he crumbles to the floor, “How…”

A slow clap echoes in the room, drawing Sam’s attention. He uses all the strength left in him to crane his neck to where the sound originates.

Chuck, in a burgundy blazer and pressed black slacks, stands over them. Sam’s eyes widen as he descends the stairs. “Y-you,” Sam mutters, on his hands at this point, “How… why…”

“It’s easy,” Chuck says, passing him on his way to Dean. His brother welcomes him gladly, adoration shining. Darkness edges his vision, but Sam can still see how Dean nuzzles Chuck’s hand when it rubs his cheek. Accepts a kiss as he bleeds out in front of him. “Dean finally understands his place in the story…”

“Your word is law, baby,” Dean says, “Whatever you want, I’ll do.”

“You know what I’d really love…?”

In his final moments Sam becomes a third party to the scene about to play out. Chuck whispers to him, mouth hidden. Dean nods and drops to his knees. His last breath intermingles with the jingle of Dean removing Chuck’s belt. Chuck’s zipper being undone one of the last thing he hears. Sam’s life eeks out of him, and he dies knowing his brother has and will continue to service the very being that controlled their lives from the beginning.

“If only you knew, Sam,” Chuck says, “the glory that comes from giving your life to God…”

-------------------------------------------

Chuck waits for Lilith to finish, leaning on his desk while she reads the printed pages. It’s been very silent, a worrisome song for writers when faced with readers. But given the variety of faces she shuffled through Chuck feels his nerves untangling.

“I have to say,” she says, “I’ve said this before and I didn’t really mean it all those other times. But when I say this is great… I actually mean it.”

“Really?”

“Well?” Lilith shrugs her shoulders, “it’s better than anything else you’ve done. It’s fresh, you’re not rehashing any of the old plot points that’ve come and gone. There’s a strong point of view here… Really appreciated you using Sam’s blood as lube -”

“I knew you would.”

“And that part where Cas walked in on you fingering Dean,” she continues, slapping the papers, “I cackled! Forcing him to stay until you finished and then making Dean kill him was brilliant.”

Chuck blushes under the praise, waving her off. “It just grew organically from where the story was going.”

“And then some…” Lilith lies his work flat on her lap and stares at him. “Now the only question I have is… will this ending actually happen ?”

“Oh… I think we’re winding closer to the end than anyone realizes…” Chuck turns the laptop around and shows Lilith the news article he found celebrating a local celebrity named Leo Webb. “And to thank you for the inspiration… I have another job for you.”

Lilith sinks to her seat. “I’m interested.”

Chuck explains the scene he has waiting, the unfinished threads he will quilt together later on. The more he talks about it the better the finished product becomes in his mind. An excitement that hadn’t existed inside for a long time squeezes his heart. He looks forward to leaving Becky’s house and getting his hands dirty. A joy he thought only came from creating worlds resurfacing in the opening act of destroying one.

Writing about Dean and Sam for so long made him forget who the real star of their story was. And it’s high time he reminds them.

----------------------------------------------------

Sam shuffles into the kitchen, rewinding through the horrible dream he experienced. One of the worst since he shot Chuck with the Equalizer. Thinking about it sends shivers racing up and down his spine like it’s NASCAR. The cars on the makeshift track speed faster when he finds Dean stuffing cereal into his face.

“Morning Sam,” he says, waving with his spoon, “Wanna pull up a seat?”

He doesn’t answer. Sam books it towards the coffee pot and debates pouring the drink over his eyes. Instead he grabs a mug from the cabinet above and fills it. Quickly, uncaring to how a few drops splash onto the counter. The faster he makes his coffee the sooner he can hide in his room until he wipes his memory of the horrible nightmare.

Dean won’t let him. When Sam turns to leave, he’s blocking his escape with a stern frown. “Sam?”

“...Yeah?”

“What’s wrong?”

Sam shuffles his feet, unable to meet Dean’s questioning stare. His brother asks again. “I can’t, Dean.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because if I say it, out loud it’s…” Sam sighs, “it’s real.”

Dean nods, leaning against the island. “Another vision?”

“Yeah…”

“How bad was it?”

“So bad.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Dean asks, “Y’know… maybe if you let me know I can -”

“No.”

“No?”

Sam shakes his head. “No. Trust me Dean, this… you don’t want to know…

#Supernatural #Spn #Spn15 #15x05 #15x06 #Proverbs 17:3 #15x06 golden time #Supernatural fanfiction #Spn fanfic #Spn meta fanfic #Chuck Shurley #Lilith #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Castiel #Destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #light mentions of deancas no outright mention but its heavily implied and there #Chuck/Dean #Chean or Duck

[applsauss]

Mors Ab Alto [3/8] - Act 1

Description: Tieria’s arm twitches, and he frowns, then looks away, testing his fingers by curling them into his palm. After moment’s hesitation he raises a gloved hand to the glass, pressing his palm lightly against the window, low, by his waist. He meets your gaze, and it’s a concession, you realize. He doesn’t smile; neither do you, but you press your palm against glass of your own, mirroring his, and his shoulders slack enough for you to notice.

Fandom: 
Gundam 00

Pairing: 
Tieria Erde/Reader

Word Count: 4.1k+


Warning(s): Talk of Cancer. Death Caused by Cancer.

One year before the armed interventions. Lagrange Three, The Ptolemaios (Krung Threp).

     The news anchor’s voice is pitchless as she speaks into the camera, face pretty, dark eyes steady. With her back to the gathering crowd of protestors, she enunciates her words clearly, the familiar english rolling off her tongue without effort, like it belongs in her mouth. The microphone slips a millimeter through her gloves, she gestures widely to the scene behind her, and your chest begins to feel tight, hot with an emotion you’ve yet been unable to smooth a label over. 

The crowd of veterans and supporters jeers, then swells. You breathe out harshly through your nose, and pull yourself forward towards the screen, then push yourself back; one foot hooked under the handrailing, another flat on top. On screen, the wind picks up, and you pull your sweater tighter over your middle. Earth is frigid, the Ptolemaios is frigid.

Docked in Krung Thep, and still not the full-time residence of its future crew, the environmental controls haven’t been optimized. You’d do it yourself, here and now, but you’re off-duty, and the twilit corridors are inhospitable--abandoned, except for the strange shadows cast around corners.

It’s the graveyard shift, most normal operations have halted and non-essential personnel have retreated to their quarters for rest, but you’re too amped up on what’s happening down on Earth to sleep--too amped up on the promise of the armed interventions, not even a year away. You’ve got a buzz in your limbs and a stutter in your chest that won’t leave you alone. 

The projection of protestors is wide across the screen, the scene a familiar city, but not your home. Shots of the Washington Monument turn into pans over the Reflecting Pool as the crowd only expands and intensifies; Bulky jackets and brightly colored hats filling the broad avenues of the Union’s capital city. 

The lag between the commentator’s question and the anchor’s response is long enough for the shouting of the crowd to be heard, but there’s no unifying chant, it’s just angry noise. Above their heads, they’re waving scraps of cardboard and picketed signs scrawled with slogans: ‘Veterans! Unite and fight back,’ ‘medals for jobs,’ ‘what happened to social SECURITY?’ and, ‘we fought for you. Now you fight for us.”

The civil unrest settles at the bottom of your stomach until memories rise like bile. You should be down there, with a catchphrase of your own, but instead you’re on a space colony, watching the Earth churn far, too far, down below; and your mom should be there, marching for her life, but instead her ashes were taken by the wind and dumped into the rolling waters of the Pacific. Her life her own until it wasn’t, after the Union refused to give it back.

You can still feel the warmth of the sun, her hands, the ghost of her voice--but soldiers are soldiers until they’re useless, and though she still had arms for hugging and a voice full of reason, she couldn’t march or use a wrench and so they let her die, hollowed out and bedridden.

The protestors are flanked by riot police, they’ve got the streets intersecting the path of the march taped off and manned. With machined guns strapped to their fronts, and the snow feathering the ground, they paint a distinctly dystopian picture: Grey slosh falling around black helmets strapped under white faces, but it doesn’t look like it’ll get ugly. There’s no telling for sure, the anger at injustice is potent in the air, but this is a crowd filled with tired soldiers done with fighting wars.

The door to your left hisses open, and you tear yourself away from the railing, curling in slightly as you look towards the entrance way.

Tieria’s suspicious look melts into indifference at the sight of you, and after some deliberation, he pulls himself into the room. The news anchor picks up her commentary, bullet-pointing the protesters’ demands, and his eyes drift towards the screen.

“Too excited for tomorrow to sleep?” you ask in an attempt to draw his attention away from the broadcast, the display too close to home to share. 

He stares critically at the feed for a lingering moment, then seemingly writes it off as unimportant. He pulls himself farther into the room, catching himself on the railing closest to the door, and gives you a look that tells you he’s not going to dignify your flippant comment with a response.

“What are you doing up this late?” you rephrase when some more movement on the screen catches his attention. The protesters are testing the boundaries of the police tape, and beginning to throw taunts over the riot shields. Maybe you were wrong about tired soldiers and wars.

Tieria blinks as you switch channels. Quickly, the screen is filled with images of smoke rising off the shell of a town, mobile suits flying overhead. After a few seconds of the anchor reviewing the carnage in french, you cut the feed entirely. No such thing as a tired soldier.

Tieria looks at you, then huffs. “I was performing a systems check on Veda’s terminal aboard the Ptolemaios.” 

You shift uncomfortably. “Why?”

“You can never be too careful.”

You nod, then for lack of a better response, shrug his empty answer off. “You’re not tired though?”

“Are you?”

You don’t expect the laugh that his quick reply pulls from you, and neither does he. His eyes widen fractionally and his face loses its serious grimace. Huffing, you bend your knees, pulling yourself towards the handrail you’ve been anchored to, and grasp it, twisting your body around to mimic sitting on it. He’s quiet as you do this, his glasses picking up glare from the ring of lights embedded on the floor, lining the walls. You notice he’s wearing something that would more resemble sleep-wear than casual clothing: A plain shirt, his sweater hung open at the front, and loose fitting leggings, though he’s still wearing work boots, like he’s caught between worlds, unable to ever fully relax. 

The clothes don’t fit right, not without gravity to pull them down, and so the normally appropriately buttoned sweater billows around his waist and rounds off his shoulders. You remember his question. “I guess I am,” you say, covering an ill-timed yawn. “Don’t rat me out?”

Tieria scoffs. “As long as it doesn’t affect your work.” And maybe it’s the late hour, or the hazy, violet light that’s swathed the briefing room, but you think his words come out kinder than they usually do. He’s off-kilter, his tone is smooth, borderline soft, and he seems to realize this, if his sudden frown is anything to go by. He doesn’t meet your eyes, and you wring your hands around the railing.

The briefing room smells like formaldehyde, there’s an open panel of exposed wires in the corner, and there’s this buzzing in your head, like an early-warning system that’s perpetually being tripped. You’re reminded of why you’re here, and what you’re meant to do, the crescendo this is all building towards. Your stomach flips.

“Are you…” You suck in a breath like it’d clear your head of the fog. Cold, uncomfortable air fills your lungs instead “...Do you think you’re ready for the interventions?”

The corners of his mouth twitch downwards. “Of course I am.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He folds his arms in front of his chest, and lets himself float away from the bar towards the wall. “Of course not.”

You exhale, long and slow, and scrub your face with cold hands. The skin around your eyes feels tight, and this upset growing in your gut is so volatile you can’t rest--not with the protests, not with the armed interventions, and not with Tieria, as fragile as he is. Every conversation you have with him leaves you floundering to make him stay, and you don’t have the time to think about why--you don’t want to think about why.

“Sorry, I’ve just been out of it lately.” 

It’s an off-hand confession, unthought-out and rough ‘round the edges, and you’re prepared to face the detached silence that’ll surely follow when he asks, “Does this have anything to do with what you were watching when I entered?”

You pull your face out of your hands with mild urgency, but before you can figure out how to respond, he wrinkles his nose, and looks towards the dark screen once more. In a flatter tone he says, “I am eager to have our operations underway.” 

“...What?”

“The armed interventions,” he clarifies. His arms are still crossed, and he doesn’t meet your eyes. He stays where he is, displaced against the stark white of the wall behind him. 

“Oh…” You swallow thickly. “Me, too.” 

He kicks off the wall towards the exit, pauses briefly in front of the door, then retreats back to Krung Threp proper. When you hear the distant clang of Ptolemy’s airlock, signaling you’re once again alone on the ship, you turn the projector back on, but the protesters are gone and replaced by a daytime talk show.

***

Present day. Lagrange One, The Ptolemaios.

      Ptolemy lurches and groans under the unnaturally tight turns Lichty forces the ship to follow through with. It’s awful, the stench of your own breath and fear as you fumble with Dynames, the dome of your helmet colliding with the scraped metal as you rush through repairs. 

You never meant to work on weapons of war, despised them for all your life, and yet here you are, elbow deep in a mobile suit responsible for nothing but war, trying to bring it back online. On the good days, you can convince yourself that you’re okay with giving up what makes you human so long as you can be a shepherd ushering in change. 

Today is not a good day. 

A violent shutter moves through Ptolemy’s bones, and Dynames is jostled in its supposedly shock-absorbant restraints. The adrenaline makes you hyper aware, but your fingers are clumsy, and you have no idea what’s happening outside the hangar, whether you’re winning or losing, suffering through the beginning, middle, or end of a battle. 

The hangar is your world, and it is even larger without the other Gundams occupying the space, and it is even lonelier while The Ptolemaios is in battle mode, with the lights dimmed and flashing. The utter silence is only broken by the aftereffects of explosions. 

One of Dynames’s restraints comes loose and you see it as Ptolemy’s momentum sends it towards you. You feel the impact, but don’t remember anything after that. 

When you wake up, Dynames is gone, the hangar is even more empty, and Haro is in your cracked helmet chanting Lockon’s name over and over again. You can’t help but feel like you’re fast approaching the end of everything you’ve fought for.

***

Present day. Lagrange One, The Ptolemaios.

      The background hum of the GN drives surges in the overbearing silence while you wait for the doctor’s final verdict. Dull pain and disbelief numb your thought process, sift everything out except for the singular longing for a universal pause button. 

Tieria didn’t even look at you when you tried to pull him off Setsuna, just stopped his clenched, white fist from flying into your face, and then Miss Sumeragi issued her orders with a tone so stern and warm that it made you want to throw up--because she’s a military woman born from everything you despise and no matter how far anyone walks, they can never quite shake their past. 

“Nine to ten hours.” Doctor Moreno pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and you frown. “The damage is extensive, it would never heal right without the regeneration pod.”

You’re sitting sideways on the examination table, cradling your right arm in your lap. The heavy leaded vest you wore during your x-ray is tangled with your feet. Your hospital slippers are weightless, and slowly slipping towards the center of the room. The walls are a mocking beige, their voices are cold, and the hallway is quiet as death.

You look away towards the door as Doctor Moreno and Miss Sumeragi begin discussing your treatment between themselves, trading words back and forth; the doctor in his chair, Miss Sumeragi with an errant arm keeping her anchored to the desk. Her joints are locked; her hair swims around her. 

You dig your nails into the synthetic leather of the bench and hold your tongue. You can’t help but feel distinctly betrayed by the garden of conspiracy they’re taking turns watering. 

“You’re undergoing the treatment,” Miss Sumeragi finally addresses you after a moment of intense thought, and behind her, you spy the regeneration pods. They seem to loom over her shoulder, distorted through the glass separating this room from the one beyond. You see Lockon’s ghost in one of them. You see your ghost in the other. Your stomach sinks. 

“It’s just a fracture,” you say, eyes fixed on your fate behind her, fingers moving to pick the velcro on your wrist guard. “And besides, you need me right now. I’ve still got a good hand-”

“You’re undergoing the treatment.”

“I’m fine-”

“You’ve got three broken fingers and a fractured wrist!” her voice wavers, loud. Your mouth snaps shut, and she at least does you the service of looking apologetic before continuing, this time more reasonably, “You’re not fine. We can’t risk this again. I won’t make the same mistake twice. Lockon...he…” She wipes her hands on her pants. “It would be a disservice.”

“This is...” You suck in a breath as your right hand twitches in pain. “...Different.”

“It’s not.”

“It is!”

“No.” Miss Sumeragi pulls herself closer to the desk with a resolute grimace. “It’s not.” She turns to look at the regeneration pods in the room behind her, then says, “It’s just nine hours--no time at all.” The words are quiet and insecure and convince no one. 

You look at your feet as Miss Sumeragi’s grip on the desk tightens, shoulders knotting, and then she lets out a breath and returns to herself. “Make the preparations.” She nods to Doctor Moreno, and then she pushes off the desk and towards the door. It slides open, you see purple lingering in the hallway, and Miss Sumeragi begins speaking. It shuts before you hear what she has to say.

And you seethe.

A couple minutes later, the door opens again. 

Tieria doesn’t say anything as he enters, barely acknowledges you. He’s got a far off look in his eyes, and you can’t tell if it’s the guilt or the grief that’s eating him, probably both. Doctor Moreno wisely excuses himself, holding his data pad to his chest as he disappears into the next room. The air grows heavier once the door shuts behind him. 

Tieria’s got his uniform on, but he’s gone and switched out his contacts for his glasses--he’s this odd mismatched version of dressed and undressed, one foot in the battle field, the other in his grave.

You can’t bounce your knee in zero gravity, so you settle for agitatedly tapping your thumb against your thigh, though it’s clumsy with your off hand; You can’t keep a steady rhythm.

Tieria crosses his arms in front of his chest, and the silence begins to make you itch.

“Are you okay?” The question burns your tongue before you manage to spit it out. 

He’s quiet for a beat too long, and then opens with, “I agree with Miss Sumeragi--”

“I know!” you grit out. He drags you right back into the pit of overwhelming indignation Miss Sumeragi tossed you down. “I’m doing it. Just stop talking about it.”

You can never guess his mood or what he’ll say next and it drives you up the wall when you’re in a bad mood. You can never tell what you are to him, he’ll act like he cares one day and then ignore you the next and it makes old insecurities surface no matter how hard you try and hold your head up high.

You both watch Doctor Moreno through the glass as he tucks his sunglasses into his breast pocket and begins fiddling with a regeneration pod. You feel the familiar unease begin to crawl under your skin. 

“Are you alright?” is the only thing you can ask, and it’s stupid, the way you’re just repeating yourself. You kick the leaded vest away from your feet, and watch it meet your slippers, then make them spin out in the center of the room. Tieria’s eyes follow the movement. 

He unfolds his arms, then folds them again. He doesn’t answer. Through the window, you accidently meet Doctor Moreno’s eyes, and quickly pretend to be interested only in your purple fingers. 

“Why’d you even come here if all you’re going to do is avoid talking to me?”

“I wasn’t aware I was required to answer questions by virtue of you asking them.”

“Tieria-”

“I’m fine.”

Your skin prickles, and you can feel it in your chest, the familiar need to be comforted. It makes your limbs buzz. You miss being held, you want him to hold you, but he...he just doesn’t understand, and you can’t find the means or resolve to explain. 

Your hands tighten around the edge of the bed, nails digging into faux leather. You don’t want to go in. You don’t want to be afraid. Your chest tightens. Your hands are cold. You bite your cheek and keep your gaze steady, expression neutral. 

You are afraid of missing something while you’re in there. You’re afraid of ending up like Lockon. You’re afraid of ending up like your Mother. 

Doctor Moreno approaches the door. You see him through the glass. Resigned, you curl forward, careful of your arm, then push off the bed with both feet. He holds the door open for you, but you’re clumsy and have trouble making it through the doorway. He helps you through.

“You’ll be out before you know what hit you,” Doctor Moreno jokes as he pulls the sling over your head and undoes your wrist guard. “Won’t feel like a minute’s passed.” When he moves onto your splinted fingers, he tugs just on the wrong side of too much, making you wince. 

He offers you an apologetic smile, but doesn’t stop.

Careful to keep your hand still, the doctor helps you into the regeneration pod. You lay down as he walks away, look to your left, and see Tieria waiting on the other side of the glass, watching you with eyes unfocused. The doctor joins him, and turns his attention down to the control panel at his fingers.

You’re surprised by the glass cover when it slips into place above you. The lid seals, then pressurizes slowly. “See?” Doctor Moreno’s voice comes on, rough, over the speakers. “Easy.” You watch Tieria and the doctor through the window. “Almost done,” he continues as the hissing dies down.

Tieria’s arm twitches, and he frowns, then looks away, testing his fingers by curling them into his palm. After moment’s hesitation he raises a gloved hand to the glass, pressing his palm lightly against the window, low, by his waist. He meets your gaze, and it’s a concession, you realize. He doesn’t smile; neither do you, but you press your palm against glass of your own, mirroring his, and his shoulders slack enough for you to notice. 

“Can you count down from ten for me, please?”

You nod your head, and begin: “Ten.” The air suddenly tastes too sweet, it makes your teeth ache and your toes curl. 

“Nine.” Your vision grows fuzzy, and your breathing picks up, which only makes you fall under faster. 

“Eight.” Your hands are freezing, but your chest is warm -– like black fabric in the sun. 

There’s no more sound. There’s no resolution. You don’t make it to seven.

***

One Year before the armed interventions. Lagrange Three, Krung Thep.

      Gundam Dynames is forest green, and it matches Lockon’s flight suit, though Dynames, nor his pilot, have been at the forefront of your mind as of late.Your thoughts keep returning to the image of dim corridor lights on rich purple and pale pink, eyes that you sometimes think glow. You’d bumbled along diligently through the start of your shift, turning over last night’s encounter in your head until Lockon made an appearance to check up on Dynames and you enthusiastically welcomed the distraction, the chance to tease and air some grievances. He has a habit of yanking too hard on the controls in the cockpit.

You reach up and pull the targeting apparatus down into place, then push it up, and pull it down again to make a point. “See?” you ask, continuing to mess with the attachment, your arms hanging above your head. “So smooth. No need to yank this baby off its hinges. It’s even got a lil’ bit of --” You let go with some flare, and watch as it floats back into its proper stowed position above you--“hydraulic magic.”

“I know how it works,” Lockon grumbles from outside the cockpit. He’s got Haro tucked under his arm, and his vest is open and breezy.

“He knows! He knows!” Haro chants, and you pull yourself out of the seat, then float up next to the pair with a playfully terse grin.

“If ‘you know, you know,’ then why do I have to keep fixing it?” You catch yourself on the ridge of Dynames’ chest plate, then stall to push your sleeves up your forearms, the grip of your gloves rough on your skin.

Lockon opens his mouth to retort, stares at you for a moment, and shuffles Haro under his other arm. “Right.” He wrinkles his nose and offers you a sheepish smile. “I’ll remember that for...next time.”

“Next time! Next time!”

“Mmhm.” You cross your arms, then uncross them and pull your sleeves down to your wrists when the cold makes the hairs on your arms stand up. You’ll never get used to how freezing the Ptolemaios is.

The door to the hangar opens, and you both watch as Tieria enters. He lets himself drift towards the railing, scanning the large room until his eyes find yours. You raise a hand in greeting, offer a smile, and then his eyes flick to Lockon. He turns suddenly and begins inspecting a terminal on the wall.

Lockon laughs and you look back to him.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “He’s jealous.”

You snort. “Yea...maybe.” Your tone is just shy of disbelieving, and you roll your eyes because the conversation is familiar and worn to dirt, but you can’t help but wonder sometimes. You’re not completely oblivious to your own feelings, to the strange tug in your chest when Tieria’s around, and you know that he at least likes you more than most, that he unconsciously seeks your company after a hard day, after a good day, after a normal day. 

You both push off Dynames and the cockpit closes behind you, “Y’know,” you address Lockon again. “Be more gentle and Dynames might not take it’s revenge next time.” You nod up to the dark bruise on his forehead, and he laughs good-naturedly.

“Alright, alright. You got me there.”

The muted tap of foreign boots on metal is the only warning you get before Tieria appears beside you. “You should be more concerned with the damage he’s done to Gundam Dynames rather than himself.”

Lockon sighs. “Gee, Tieria, nice to know you care.”

“I don’t.”

“Mmhm.” Lockon gives Tieria a reproachful look, then mock shrugs his shoulders in agreement. “Well, I guess you’re right. We don’t matter very much, do we? We’re replaceable, cogs in a machine and all that...” A rhetorical question.

His tone is too light to properly support the harsh reality he’s reintroduced into the forefront of your thoughts--and you don’t really want to think about your personal worth judged comparatively to Celestial Being’s ultimate goal right now, especially since Lockon seems intent on getting an answer he won’t find in Tieria.

Nobody says anything, Lockon’s stubbornly waiting for a response, Tieria’s narrowing his eyes like he’s been challenged, and you’re left floating between the two, floundering in the sudden and unpleasant turn the conversation took. Even Haro seems unusually subdued, and so you force yourself to scoff nervously and say, “Speak for yourself.” You try and break the clouds with some humor. “I’m indispensable!” 

It works. Tieria looks annoyed again, and Lockon laughs, then takes the dip in the conversation as his chance to slip away. “Yea, yea, whatever you say,” he says, his body already facing away so you can’t see his face, but his voice still carries an airy tone.

Haro flaps happily, still under Lockon’s arm. “Whatever you say! Whatever you say!”

Both you and Tieria watch as Lockon leaves, Tieria more tense, intense than you, and then you turn to him with a smile. “How are you today?” you ask like you hadn’t met him in the middle of the night barely ten hours ago.

He looks startled by your sudden question, then settles back into his usual self. “Fine. How are you?”

You melt a little at his tone. “Good. Did you need something?”

A/N: Tsunami, Told Slant.

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#tieria erde #tieria erde x reader #gundam 00 #gundam 00 x reader #mors ab alto

[dememarquette]

Office Raid

I heard a knock on the door, flaring my temper. I'm not usually this impatient, it's just that time of the year. Tax Season. My primary line of work is in Greed. Meaning, I pitch businesses, get them started, and hand over the keys. I do accounting in the background, ensuring my clients maintain their wealth so they can enjoy it. That, unfortunately, includes managing their accounts. I know every tax break in the book. It's all a matter of playing Tetris with finances to keep them happy- for, say...hundreds of people. If not thousands. Because of this, everything between January to April is a nightmare. I have hateful quotas, and my free time is sank into inane questions like 'How can I claim my employees as dependents?' The batshit accounting of my multi-million dollar clients doesn't happen overnight. My schedule is clean of new patronage until April 12th, but lot of good it does when they still arrive at my door. I wanted to put up a sign, 'Come back in May.' "Come on in." I say instead. Julia would kill me if I turned down anyone, regardless if I was up to my eyeballs in W-2's and Form SS-4's. "But make it snappy." I said snappy- I know I did- but I think he heard 'blast my goddamn door open.' The seven foot panel blew off its hinges, sailing across the room at an flawless horizontal angle. I stared as it smacked against the wall, cracking the already-unstable structure. I gave the curious incident the benefit of doubt. This is Hell, after all. I couldn't jump to conclusions to accuse my guest- But the moment one armored boot stepped into the room, it became a safe assumption. The forth circle isn't known for its sturdy craftsmanship but he was still pleased with himself. He sauntered in like he'd receive an ovation. I did stand, but it was scantly out of reverence. "Hello." I said, at a loss. "Why don't you make yourself at home?" "Demetrius Marquette," He announced, standing grandiose just inside the entry way. Decked out in red and gold, the familiar uniform took such majestic inspiration from the Romans that it'd be impressive if it wasn’t set off by a swampy water cooler in the background. "I am Arodeus, and I have orders bestowed upon me by the 6th Choir to terminate you immediately." I don't know how one is normally supposed to oppose a declaration like that, so I did my best. "...Not guilty," I reasoned. "Of which part, exactly?" "...All of it." His head canted. One arm eminently held a thick document to his chest like he was here to strongarm a petition on climate change. "The dozens of counts of violating your celibacy vows? Sacrilege? Fraud? The hundreds of documented instances of simony during your time as a member of the clergy? And all of the Hellish transactions that succeeded it?" He posed. "All of that?" I considered carefully. Yeah. Checks out. "Hey, uh- listen. It sounds awful when you word it like that, but my application was fifty pages for a reason. By the way, who let you in-?" "Consider it rejected." With practiced dispassion, his wrist flicked. The ream of pages scattered across my office floor in a manner about half as cool as he pictured it. I recognized my giant letterhead anywhere. Alone, it presented a very large problem but in the category of 'will kill me now' versus 'will get me killed later,' the angel was in the former. "You know what?" I took a generous step backward. "Totally understood. Thanks for stopping by." "Not that easy." His wings snapped, and he shot across the floor. I had a split second's notice to move. That manifested as a genius two foot teleport to the side. His reflexes were faster. My tail was yanked a sharp pull to the left. All 200lbs of my weight was shifted off center, rocking my balance. I fell forward straight into his fist as he lobbed an uppercut at my ribs, working with gravity to double-team me. 'Fuck-' I folded as the air was forcibly vented from my lungs. Retaliating in that instant, I wrenched my elbow to his gut, but he was prepared. Agile, he suspended himself to take the force out of the blow. My hit simply guided him in the air of where he'd float next. I stumbled with his weight gone suddenly, while he touched ground for a graceful landing. "Did you even read it?!" "Oh I read it. We all did." "It wasn't your mail!" "No-" He pondered. "No it wasn't. Not until your name was flagged as a repeat offender. At which point, yeah. It was ours. Good read though." "Thanks?" I combusted to appear at his side. I learned that the hard way what his answer to that was. My hand connected, and if I had taken Tak's punching class I was sure it would have cracked. The moment he lost sight of me for the barest of seconds he threw up a shield. My knuckles skinned where it graze off the surface. I had no time to re-evaluate before the wall disappeared, priming him to deliver another kick. This one rocketed me into my bookshelves. They tipped, threatening to crush me with the likes of the Intradimensional Exchange Rates and the Necroeconomicon, but held steady. Arodeus was already closing in for a second round, but I could already feel the air tense for a second shield. Knowing better than to go on the offense close range, I lifted my hand to fake out a hook. It worked, long enough for him to to summon a defense just for me to spark a fire inside it. It flared bright, a globe of flames that ignited him like a goddamn lava lamp. He howled out a sharp note of agony before it popped. The blaze released, and the forcefield burst in a wave of Holy heat. His wings flared wide, putting out the unassuming fires in one pump of his wings. His feathers were left dusted with ash, frayed so thin it looked like he hadn't used conditioner in two years. Still, even if he looked like a BP oil spill duckling, he was more humored by my counter than threatened. As someone who was actually proud of that maneuver, that was actually very concerning. I threw my hands up, making it clear I never intended to cause the damage I didn't actually reap. "Listen guy, I don't want to fight!" "Ah, great! You don't have to!" He grabbed my client chair. I reared back into the wall behind my desk. A moment too late I realized that it happened to be against the most priceless fixture of my office. I couldn't tell if it was out of spite or sudden inspiration, but he held the chair over his head. My eyes widened- "NO! No! N-NOT-" And hurled it into the glass. "-the fish tank!" I cried. "You ASShole!" A torrent jetted from the top, breaching my office with an aggravated geyser of mineral treated water and glass. Katy perry's Last Friday Night sputtered into distorted gargling as the damage claimed everything. The atmosphere of Hell turned my desk into a grill; my gobies and angelfish fried instantly. The rest erupted into a veil of steam, obscuring me long enough to crawl under my desk. I yanked open the drawer, hand blindingly reaching for anything of use. Scissors, letter opener- I'll take a Montblanc if it meant not being defenseless. The angel rounded the corner, tearing shit up as he passed. He couldn't see clearly so anything vaguely smart and stylish was destroyed in his warpath. My lamp shattered against the wall, and my accent table overturned, with my artisanly selected selfies lost to the destruction. I very much doubt his memo for my extermination today included office renovation. He was being a dick, and my neighbors on either side were complacent jackasses too. They throw a fit if Lady Gaga was belting it too hard but you bet my asskicking was music to their ears. And because my intuition stops short of fisticuffs, he found me too soon. Cornered, I blasted him in the face. The inferno lasted all of two seconds as the shower behind him put it out and doused me in turn. He reeled back, leaving my hand to fizzle out in a thin line of smoke. "Shit-!" Arodeus drew a reedy breath through his teeth. He cradled his face, one palm to a shiny, fleshy cheek. It healed in a glow of white, alighting the skin until there was no trace of trauma at all. His grimace of pain turned into a cheerful 'ta-da,' showmanship for my benefit. I hadn't ruined even one of his perfect eyebrows. On my very short list of lines of defense, that was it. "Oh come on!" I angled to take a shot at his kneecaps but he got me first. One kick to the spine of my seat, and he tipped it on its wheels. It bashed into me one, two, three times in rapid succession. Defending myself meant getting a hand caught in the metal bars and slammed ­­­­into my face. The collateral damage from my elbows alone drew blood. I was crushed up against the wall of my desk like a 1980's nuculear drill. An attempt for freedom put me in the perfect spot for a forth blow knocked my knee into my jaw. I slid to the ground, favoring my side. My world blurred- a smear of reds and oranges- as he snagged my collar, and fished me out to the open to be salt-waterboarded. "You do realize I'm just an accountant right?" I croaked. A stream was still cascading over the jagged glass, spilling directly onto my face and the nape of his neck. His charred wings were being weighed down, but he made up for it in the delighted posture of a man about to finish the job. Borrowing his words, it would not be that easy. "389 hostage souls say differently." "What? Hostage-?!" I squinted through the burn. "They're not hostages. They're legally attained!" "Gee, I hope you kept the receipts." (For the record: I did, but he wasn't here for semantics.) The heat of a holy fist charging up was unmistakable. My vision was still flickering through static but his power presented itself as a flare of white in my retinas that'd be debilitating had I not had protection. Just before the hit would land, I was reminded of a prior engagement. My office phone beeped- the antiquated hunk of plastic, too ancient and powerful to be bothered by the sizzling fish carcasses and water damage. "Mr.Marquette, your 2PM?" "Yeah!" My head lolled. "Send them in!" My attacker snapped toward the door, and I disappeared under his weight. - - - Cross-planar, and thousands of miles away, I hit the sidewalk in a limp. I had moved without thinking, landing in a pleasant suburb bathed in spring's afternoon sunlight. It served as a delightful contrast to how I was feeling- which was shit. I was screwed. I was so fucked. If the angel was worth his salt, I'd be tracked right after he dealt with whoever walked into my office, no matter what corner of the globe I popped to. I was running on borrowed time, and with all my options exhausted, I turned to my phone. My contact list spun like a rotary. Demon, demon, demon- Why am I friends with so many demons? The thought was counter-intuitive to me before 2013, now they made up half my friendslist and are completely useless in the face of celestial opposition. I slumped against a tree as I searched for alternatives. I recognized the neighborhood as upstate Washington, a personal spot for me. It shouldn't be the first go-to in an emergency, but I was concussed and apparently craving foie gras. Down the block, surrounded by a beautiful lot of imported cars, Chez Tzaz stood tall. No other spots were coming to my bruised brain when I needed them most. But it was as safe of a spot as any when it came down to it. At least there I had a bouncer. Not only that, but it sparked a sudden moment of clarity. I jerked the scrollbar back up to the top. Adria. I shot off a text. It was unfortunately less than polite. [2:03 PM] do u mind calling rock me amadeus off my back!! Her response was instantaneous. [2:03 PM] WHAT?? WHO?? [2:03 PM] the angel sent to my office!! said he was there to kill me?? i thought you said you'd warn me!! [2:04 PM] ARE YOU SERIOUS?? WHERE ARE YOU?? I twitched my thumbs volley a text back but arguing in the distance caught my attention. Someone without a reservation had made it to the door and was causing a scene. Sure, I was still seeing stars, but it was hard to miss the glaring refraction of light off their heels. That damn uniform again. My heart fell to the pit of my stomach. [2:05 PM] they are at my restaurant too??? That has to mean my apartment has already been raided. And my vacation home. And who knows what else. I'm not modest with my brand. Anything that has my involvement is emblazoned with my logo- I've plastered it everywhere I could make my mark because nuance isn't my strong suit. The unsaid consequences of this made my head pound. [2:06 PM] IF YOU ARE CLOSE ENOUGH TO SEE THEM, YOU ARE CLOSE ENOUGH FOR THEM TO SENSE YOU. GET. OUT OF THERE. I wanted to. I truly did. But all of the locations I could visualize in my mind belonged to that of other demons. Archer's apartment just thirty minutes away, Niko's office who already suffered a remodeling this year, my favorite cafe- I didn't want to drag my trouble to them. Especially not when it was looking inevitable. Meanwhile, in the distance my dutiful hostess was patiently and condescendingly explaining the dress code policy just like I taught her (armor is NOT formal-wear post the 1700's, please see the handbook). The distraught angel launched into full riposte about her obstruction of justice, so much so that I ignored my phone for ten whole seconds. By then, Adria already had an essay, surmised with a frantic, 'What are you going to do? I'm serious, where are you?' rephrased a spectacular three different ways with various usage of caps lock. [2:08 PM] im at chez tzaz. washington [2:08 PM] WHAT? WHY? WHY ARE YOU STILL THERE? [2:08 PM] why are THEY here??? The text bubble popped. The three ellipses disappeared with her abandoned thought, and I was left on read. I couldn't tell if it was a bust. Not until I heard the timely flapping of wings behind me, noticeably less toasty than Mr.Arodeus. The sound should have made me panic, but I had no doubt who it was. "What did I say? Are you an idiot?!" She hissed. As a cordial 'hello,' she shoved me into a tree. "Go!" "Ow?!" "You can 'ow' when you're safe!!" "Well?? Where do you want me to go, huh? They can find me!" I thought about jumping to whatever I could think of. Maybe to the first thing Google maps would suggest, but for it to work I had to seriously think about my location before going. At that moment, I wasn't sure if it was possible. It felt like my mind was jumbled to the point where if I tried again, I'd end up in the exact same spot. Did I also mention I felt safer by her? Because that too. She combed her bangs back, stressing as she craned around me and the tree to view the angel at the door. Looking between the two of them, they matched. How narrow was the chance that she'd be on my execution team? "Friend of yours?" "I told you to stop pushing it! They definitely have a kill order on you now." "What fantastic information that would have been earlier." "I. TOLD. YOU!" She shot back, barely restrained. Scratch that- her voice was kept low so she had dibs on killing me first. "I told you this would happen! You have friends right? Go to them!" "And endanger them too?" "Go to someone, I don't know, capable!" "You?" "Not me!! I have to deal with this." My hostess was now calling security. And in the face of one haughty college student, the angel apparently felt the need to as well. Now there was two of them, and the arrival of the second seemed to register on Adria's radar. She turned around at the same time- -And looked like she was about to blow a gasket. "Oh my God- you need to go NOW." "And what are you going to do?" "This isn't about me Mr.Sends-My-Lifestory-to-the-people-who-want-to-murder-me! LEAVE! Now!!" "I can't-" "NO! No more talking! LEAVE!" I couldn't argue any more. Our bickering caused two heads across the way to snap up. She gave me one final, violent shove, and I disappeared to the last place muscle memory remembered her pissed at me. The cowboy strip club was a start. - - - Six hours later, I was across the United States and checked into a motel. After my headache faded, I broke up my trail into pieces, ranging from teleports, taxis, and one distressing trip aboard public transport. Under the assumption that no angel would dare subject themselves to the general populace on such intimate terms (see: wedged between the lunch rush and earlybird boozers), I felt safe. Adria did not. "This is my fault." She said, for a third time, pacing the floor. I looked up from the pages of a Better Homes and Gardens magazine, spoon in mouth. The first time we had this conversation, I was covertly panicked. By the second, I wore myself out. And by the third? I have more productive things to talk about. "I knew it was a bad idea. I knew they were doing raids-" "Do you always do this?" It couldn't just be me noticing it, that there was something egregiously wrong with this picture. She was an angel- a Power, a soldier of Heaven's prestigious battalion- worrying this hard over a demon she met two months ago. Don't get me wrong. I get it, I'm charming, I'm suave, and maybe in the right light my atoning adds a tragic depth to my character that may drive the angels wild- But I was still just that. A player on the opposite team, who made a huge mistake that got me booked in the first motel who'd take cash instead of card, until I was sure I wasn't being followed and I looked presentable enough to see my friends again. And she was here with me, inexplicably, trying to make my screw-ups her own. Why? I had no idea. "Do what?" "Overthink." "This is not overthinking!" She said, denial in gusto. I began worrying a lot less when her catastrophic thinking began siphoning all the energy in the room. That left her fretting on her own, while I examined Martha Stewart's upcoming Spring line. I much preferred being told how to pick the perfect counter-top than conduct my own life. "I should have been the adult. I shouldn't have sent the letter knowing what was going on upstairs." I snorted, flipping a page idly. "Don't take credit for my plan." "I'm not taking credit, I'm taking responsibility!" "And why would you do a thing like that?" She rolled her eyes. "What are you going to do now? Tell me." "Easy. I get Dr.Nikolai to write me a doctor's note." "Really?" She stopped, sudden. Her tensely folded arms fell loose. Taken off-step of our normal rhythm, I almost didn't have the heart to issue a reality check. She caught up to me in the next beat though, defeated with a heavy sigh. "Aren't you afraid..?" "Yes and no." I shrugged. "I need this to wrap up. I already miss my shower and my kitchen, I mean look at that-" I waved a hand at the sad, sad kitchenette through the door. One half-wall was fencing it off from the living room. It sounds trendy in theory, but the execution here had bar stools doubling as coffee tables, and the bite-size microwave trying to hop the border. The whole layout was claustrophobic, and pretending that this was the biggest of my problems worked for me. Not her. She plunged onto the edge of the bed, her head in her hands. Her bangs fell over her eyes in a tousled mess that matched her fringing braid. My busted up face didn't hold a candle- looking at the two of us, you would have thought her life was the one turned upside down. "You aren't taking this seriously." "I'm taking it seriously, Adria. Are you just trying to admit you are afraid?" "Yeah! Yeah, I am actually! It's like every time I try to help I only make things worse!" "Well that's funny because I refuse to do anything but believe you helped me." I shut the magazine, scooting to her side, with Ben & Jerry's in tow. "I wanted my name up there. Guess what? Now it's there. What's a little clout?" "Clout," She spurned, tired. "Would you call what he did to your face clout too?" Her hand delicately lifted to assess the damage but I ducked away. Not today, ma'am. I shifted my shades like it'd cover the bruise bleeding down into my cheek bone. It wasn't the worst of it. I imagined my chest to be a blotchy bovine pattern by now, but I sensed her concern for what it was: another way for her to feel worse about herself. Another way to be a failure. "No touching." "Yeah, well. Here's the rest of your things." She tossed me a bag. They were necessities I requested. The woman had yet to get herself an iPhone but had no problem grabbing my shopping list of moisturizers and specific detergents. The Green Giant wasn't on my list (it was her own addition to my list of demands, which she loving refereed to as 'shit you ACTUALLY need') but she grabbed that. Punching the bag into submission seemed to give her reprieve when just saying she helped didn't. I watched her pulverize the frozen vegetables, under the guise of breaking them up for me, until it was just sad and vaguely terrifying. The Quick And Easy Dinnertime Medley didn't deserve this, nor did she. Something bad was going on in that head of hers- guilt. I didn't understand it, but I know I didn't need to because it was ridiculous to begin with. "Hey. Heeeey," I leaned into her shoulder. "I don't know why you're so broken up about this but it's fine. I'm the one who should be worrying right?" "But you're NOT. I am! And I can't help it, okay." "You helped me, alright? You did," I rescued the bag, putting it against my sore ribs like she originally intended. "You did something for me no one else could. And for some reason that wasn't enough, and now you're here!" "Yes." She admitted, biting her lip. "Doing nothing." "Nope- nope. You're leaving out the cool part. You're here breaking three heavenly laws in the process." "Definitely." "Like a rebel. Like a spy. And my hero~" "And getting you putted on a most wanted list by mail, and delivering frozen peas? They should make me a saint, too." "Yup. Saint Kyriakoloupoulos, Patron of unconventional assistance." I said, mocking prayer. "And fists. If only I invoked you then." You could tell she wanted to answer something else melodramatic and guilt ridden, but her gaze fell to my hands.

The beginnings of a smile tried to set in, trickling in through the recesses of her totalitarian 'No Fun Allowed' conscious. "...Did you even get a hit in?" I grinned, quickly concealing my bare knuckles behind my back. The worst of it was healed to superficial scrapes, which regrettably looked a lot less cool when trying to impress a girl with non-existent fighting prowess. "Depends. Are you rooting for my side?" I pretended like I wasn't expecting a specific response. That the wrong one wouldn't disappoint me, and that this bag of groceries may be the last piece of divine intervention I get out of this woman who already followed me down to the strip clubs of 2nd, and was now tagging along my fugitive romp across America. But she didn't. She pulled her legs up onto the bed, trying to mull over my question as if the answer wasn't clear on her face. She always was a bad liar. "Maybe." "Thought so. Ice cream?"

#office raid #towns #adria #story

[recentanimenews]

Bookshelf Briefs 6/26/17

Assassination Classroom, Vol. 16 | By Yusei Matsui | Viz Media – Most of this volume is taken up by the flashback showing us how Koro-sensei became what he is today. As you’d expect, it’s pretty tragic, but there’s also a bit of cognitive dissonance, as it’s hard to see the Koro-sensei we know today in that apathetic killer who appears at the start. But it’s the power of love that helps turn him, if not away from the dark side, at least into someone who cares about the right way to teach. Also, in case you didn’t hate Yanigasawa enough already, his portrayal as an arrogant abuser will help speed things along. Back in the present, our class is now divided—can they really kill Koro-sensei, or should they try to save him? Each volume of this series gets more and more gripping. -Sean Gaffney

Complex Age, Vol. 5 | By Yui Sakuma | Kodansha Comics – Phew. After a gut-wrenching fourth volume, I was seriously wary about reading this volume. Thankfully, however, it is far more encouraging than the last. True, Kimiko is still planning to give up on cosplay, and though she tries to sell it as wanting to devote herself to photography, it’s clear that what Rui (boo! hiss!) said to her had a role to play in her decision. But Nagisa meets her fiancé and can’t help but be happy for her best friend. Meanwhile, Hayama continues to cosplay and is having fun in her new job as an event coordinator. The bottom line is—the future needn’t be bleak, and Nagisa is left to wonder where her own limits are. With people at work and home seemingly inclined to respect her choices, could we possibly have a happy ending next time? I hope so! – Michelle Smith

Everyone’s Getting Married, Vol. 5 | By Izumi Miyazono | Viz Media – I’d mentioned Kamiya’s ‘aggressive courting’ in the last volume, and here it walks way over the line into blackmail and emotional abuse. Kamiya has become a creep, and Asuka is rightly trying to do her best to pull away from him without it damaging either her career or Ryu’s. Ryu, meanwhile, is having his own battles with Kamiya, as each says that they don’t care about what Asuka is really thinking about. Frankly, I think Ryu’s doing a better job of it, and he’s also able to break things off with Sakura in a more permanent way. Still, Kamiya isn’t going away, and the volume’s end shows him trying to be the Sun rather than the North Wind. Frustrating at times, especially when Kamiya’s being a creep, but still good. – Sean Gaffney

Food Wars!: Shokugeki no Soma, Vol. 18 | By Yuto Tsukuda and Shun Saeki | Viz Media – Yes, Soma wins his battle, showing that the power of fantastic food is better than the power of bribery. This also means that the administration’s goons temporarily back off attacking Polaris Dorm, and we get a highly amusing celebration scene (with more horror from newbies at Isshiki stripping). The big impact comes in the middle of the book, as we learn that Erina’s father is attacking Polaris in particular due to a past with Soma’s father. In fact, he was unaware that Saiba was Soma’s father (the danger of taking the wife’s last name, a far more Japanese thing)… and moreover, Erina was unaware of it as well. In any case, more bad things are happening as the book wraps up, and I expect things will get worse soon. – Sean Gaffney

Kiss Him, Not Me!, Vol. 11 | By Junko | Kodansha Comics – Well, new rival turned out to be absolutely terrible, didn’t he? This volume consists of a lot of running around trying to stop Kae from getting forcibly married. Kae spends the entire main storyline in her “overweight” form, which surprised me, but it doesn’t stop her making an awkward but impressive escape attempt. Unfortunately, after that she mostly acts as a passive prize, only snapping and letting Mitsuboshi have it right at the end. And even that seems to be a case where she can only “win” by literally pounding him into unconsciousness with her bulk. There’s also a side story which is terminally ridiculous—which is good, as this manga needs to be over the top silly in order not to drown in problematic shoujo and fat stereotypes. Variable as always. – Sean Gaffney

Kuroko’s Basketball, Vol. 11-12 | By Tadatoshi Fujimaki | Viz Media – It’s rare you see a tie in a sports manga, but given this is only the qualifiers, a tie is what we end up with. Of course, this just means that Kuroko and company have to win their next match, and it ends up being against a bunch of goons who fight dirty. The leader of this team is fantastic in an awful way, showing off a couple of tragic backstories before taking them back with a smirk. Teppei and Junpei also get a lot of focus here, with a flashback that shows how they both joined the team and how Teppei got injured (and also how obvious an OT3 with them and Riko is). But they pass, and the Winter Cup is up next, with all of Kuroko’s old teammates. An extremely compelling basketball manga. – Sean Gaffney

Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic, Vol. 24 | By Shinobu Ohtaka | Viz Media – Did I say the flashback would take up ‘some’ of this next volume? Sorry, I meant 90% of it, as everything turns horribly tragic and awful in the best backstory way, as Aladdin finishes trying to explain why metal users fighting each other leads only to destruction. There is some truly heartrending imagery here, with children burned to death and lots and lots of dead bodies. Couples we loved and found cute are beaten down by events, and of course Sheba dies, but not before giving birth to Aladdin. That said, I suspect we haven’t seen the last of Arba. It is really nice to see the main cast again, and I loved the “Alibaba is undercut” gag’s exquisite timing. In any case, the flashback is finally done—will we get more Morgiana now, please? – Sean Gaffney

Of the Red, the Light, and the Ayakashi, Vol. 7 | By HaccaWorks* and nanao | Yen Press – A rather interesting thing happens in this volume: quite a few things are revealed and yet the overall story doesn’t get appreciably clearer! Yue and his friend Akitoshi are trying to rescue Tsubaki from the shrine, but before they can manage to do so, he’s whisked away to be tossed into a pond to give strength to Mikoto, who is fighting off Akashi, whose body now belongs to Yue because Shin stole it hundreds of years ago and oh, also, Shin is the progenitor of the Tsubaki family line and by the way, here’s the deal about Mikoto’s missing tail. So many things to try to keep track of and make sense of! Thankfully, Yue’s personal dilemma is a very compelling one. I’m invested in his outcome, even if I don’t fully grasp what happened in the past. – Michelle Smith

Sweetness & Lightning, Vol. 6 | By Gido Amagakure | Kodansha Comics – This is a particularly good volume of Sweetness & Lightning—there’s a bit more conflict than usual and it doesn’t always get solved through yummy food. Tsumugi gets attached to the lost kitty she and her dad have taken in, only for its real owners to come to claim it. Then, the gang goes camping and a couple of her friends get in a disagreement. Something similar ensues on Kotori’s school trip. And Inuzuka’s bossy brother shows up and offers unsolicited advice on various things. The best part, though, is when Tsumugi stays a while with her grandparents while her dad is chaperoning a school trip. Not the part where they eat locusts, but the time she spends with her great-grandmother, looking at pictures of her dad as a kid, and contemplating complex topics like getting old. Delicious food and some bittersweet feels? I am so on board with that! – Michelle Smith

By: Michelle Smith

#Anime #News #Manga Bookshelf

[pagesofkenna]

Hemophobia

Trans male Juno Steel, irregular menstruation, hangovers, unhealthy binding practices, suicidal thoughts (I put out a call for irregular menstruation cycle experiences to help me research for this fic, and I wanna give a shout out to everyone who responded because it was a lot more than I expected, and it really helped!)

[Also on Ao3]

Juno hated blood even on his best days; waking up drenched in his own was nothing short of a nightmare. He could feel it before he saw it – a visceral tear of muscle against muscle deep in the pit of his stomach – and the smell made it obvious these weren't just hunger pangs. It didn’t help that he was hungover, too.

The blood was a recurring nightmare, Juno’s worst. There was no rhyme or rhythm to it, no way to guess when his body would betray him absolutely, and no way to stop it altogether without expensive medication or surgery. All he could do was try not to pass out again from the pain, or the sight of the red spread on his sheets.

He couldn’t remember the last time this had happened – months ago, at least, which felt like years ago. He couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do about it. Out of instinct he crawled off the mattress – his insides protested painfully – and towards the bathroom door. The blood was still spreading down his trousers, the same ones he’d worn to the office the last three days. They’d have to be burned.

In the bathroom Juno fought the urge to vomit. The pain meds he stored under the sink were probably expired, but he dry-swallowed to pills anyways and pulled himself into the shower. His head pounded, from the alcohol last night, and how fucking bright the lights were, and all that blood everywhere, and the smell.

He started the shower before bothering to undress, and sat there – he couldn’t stand yet, not in this state – letting the water wash over him. It was almost freezing but somehow the sensation helped. Below him the water marbled with red streaks, and Juno stared up at the jet of new water to avoid looking.

The blood would start coming faster now, Juno thought weakly. The shift from horizontal to vertical, and gravity. Better to get this ordeal over with – worse to live through. He might as well sit under this shower spray for the full week, or however long it ends up taking this time, for all the good he is to the planet. Maybe the pain will finally do its job and he can just die here. Who’d even notice the difference?

Except that Rita’s definitely gonna call if she doesn’t hear from him in an hour. And his com’s in the other room.

With shaking hands Juno stripped off his shirt, then braced against the wall so he could work on the trousers. His boxers were even worse off, the stain spread so far he had to shut his eyes and take a few breaths before he could even touch them. The clothes all fell in a wet heap by the drain. After a moments hesitation he unzipped the binder as well, and flung it over the curtain rod.

He stayed in the shower for at least twenty minutes – or thirty, he couldn’t tell how much time was passing – before shutting off the water. The headache had dulled and his hands shook significantly less, but his gut still twisted in on itself, and he sat on the toilet to rest. There were a few spare boxers under the sink with the pain meds, along with the menstrual pads that felt like wearing a diaper. He almost vomited again just getting them on.

He called Rita from the floor by his bed.

“Hello?” She sounded understandably confused. He never called this early.

“Hey, Rita, it’s Juno,” he said. His voice came out more hoarse than usual. Even if Rita hadn’t been the one to drag him away from his fifth bottle last night, she’d hear the hangover in his voice. “Listen. I’m not gonna make it to the office today.”

“See, boss, I told you to go straight home after that fight last night but did you listen to me? No. You just had to go all—”

“It’s not that,” he interrupted quickly, “it’s….”

His voice trailed off. Rita knew what was wrong but he didn’t like telling her. Didn’t like saying it. He tried for a moment to think of a reasonable excuse, and failed.

“There’s blood,” is finally all he said. “Lots of blood.”

“There’s-? Oooh.” Juno could hear her wincing through the com line, and he sighed. “Do you need me to come over? I can get some of that tea stuff I saw in this commercial that’s supposed to help—”

“No,” Juno interrupted again. He was half-naked on his bedroom floor, fighting off the abdominal pain and nausea as it was. The last thing he needed was infomercial tea. “No, I don’t need you to come over. Just take the day off—”

Now it was Rita’s turn to interrupt. “No way, Mistah Steel,” she said. He could hear scuffling over the line, like she was grabbing her things, then the sound of a door opening. “You just sit right there and I’ll be over in less than ten minutes, OK? Don’t move. Do you still have that heating pad I gave you?”

Juno didn’t remember any heating pad. “Sure,” he said.

She showed up in twenty minutes, according to the time on his com. Not that Juno was keeping track. He hadn’t moved except to fish a shirt out from underneath the bed to cover himself up somewhat. He tried to stand up when the apartment door opened but his insides wrenched and his head swam, so he settled for sitting up against the edge of the mattress. The blood smell was so prevalent he almost didn’t notice it anymore.

Rita came in with what must have been shopping bags by the sound of it, and left them in what passed as his kitchen before making her way to his room. She stopped in his doorway, and said, “Mistah Steel, that’s a lot of blood.”

“Yeah I know,” Juno grumbled. Talking hurt but what else was new.

“Are you… feelin’ OK?” she asked.

Juno sighed. “No Rita, I’m dying.”

“You shouldn’t joke about that, Mistah Steel,” she said quickly. He heard her moving to the opposite side of the bed, and the mattress started to shift. “For all I know you could be dying – I’ve heard stories, you know? Real live stories, people in so much pain they pass out, then you choke on your own saliva or something.” She pulled one of the loose sheets out from under his shoulder.

“What are you dong?” he asked.

“We gotta get these sheets washed, right?” The bedding slipped off the edge of the mattress, the elastic edge loosening beneath his back. “You let it sit too long and it can stain real bad, Mistah Steel, and it gets too – where’s the plastic?”

“Plastic?”

“Aw, look what you’ve done!” Rita practically wailed. “I told you, you’re s’posed to wrap the mattress in plastic to protect it! Now it’s all gone and ruined, it looks so awful—”

“It doesn’t matter what it looks like,” Juno said. “That’s what the sheets are for.”

Rita sniffed, and it wasn’t too hard to believe she’d actually started tearing up. “Mistah Steel, you’re joking, right?” she said.

“Rita I’m gonna vomit,” he responded.

“Oh don’t you dare, Mistah Steel. I’ve got enough to clean up here without you making a mess on purpose. Move.” She tugged the last of the bloodied sheets off of the bed – Juno leaned forward to get out of her way – and rolled them into a bundle on the floor. “I’m gonna soak this in cold water until I can get them down to the laundry room, OK?”

Juno grunted in response. He close his eyes and willed the cramping sensation in his abdomen to subside, tried to force his body to actually behave for once. The water in the shower started up again, and Juno wondered how hard it would be to force himself to pass out on the floor. Passing out sounded like a great idea.

“Mistah Steel,” Rita called from the bathroom, her voice slow and laced with concern. Juno opened his eyes, and saw her looking at him through the doorway. She held up the binder. “You didn’t fall asleep in this last night again, did you? I told you a million times—”

“Rita, I’m really not in the mood.” He closed his eyes and dropped his head back against the bare mattress.

Surprisingly, she stopped talking.

After a few minutes Juno lay down on the floor again, too exhausted to keep sitting up and curious if stretching his stomach would soothe the pain. Absently, he thought he should probably cover up his bare legs – Rita was no delicate spirit but it seemed rude – and finally settled on dropping a flat, worn-down pillow over his thighs. The painkillers weren’t doing anything.

Sleep eluded him but time still passed. The shower shut off and Rita left for the kitchen, and after several minutes she came back, holding one of his old mugs. “You’re gonna have to sit up to drink this,” she said.

“Is it scotch?” he asked.

“Very funny, Mistah Steel.” She held out a hand to help him into a sitting position, and frowned when he quickly pulled his hand away. “Maybe you should move to the couch,” she said. “It’s softer than the floor and you could sleep until you’re bed’s ready.”

“And get blood all over my cushions too?” Juno asked. “No thank you.” He took the mug and it smelled awful – all warm and sweet and slightly fruity. He’d have to dump it when he got up to use the toilet.

“Suit yourself,” Rita said, and she turned back towards the bathroom. Juno rested the mug on the pillow in his lap and listened as she stomped the excess water out of the sheets in his shower. She reappeared moments later, and caught him staring. “You better be drinking that tea, Mistah Steel,” she said with a glare. “I didn’t come all this way to have you ignore my sound health advice.”

“Shit, Rita, you don’t have to baby me,” Juno said. He tried to give her a weathering look, but he was probably grimacing too much from the pain. Rita just frowned.

“Mistah Steel,” she said, “I don’t think that’s entirely true.”

She wouldn’t leave, so he took a sip to appease her. It tasted just as awful as he expected it to, but the heat spread into his stomach, and a tiny knot of muscles started to relax. He scowled as if that had made it worse.

“That’s more like it,” Rita said. She took her self-satisfied look with her to the kitchen, and came back moments later with a large trash bag that Juno realized would double as a laundry sack. He watched and she trailed it into the bathroom, then came out with all the bloody evidence bundled inside, the bulging sack slung over her shoulder like a dead body. He didn’t even realize he was sipping the tea again until he saw her grin.

“I’ll be right back,” Rita said to him, “so don’t you dare lock the door behind me because I can already hack the locks open anyways. You’ve done it before and it never works.” Juno thought warily that he didn’t even have to energy to stand.

She turned to leave the room and just before she was out of sight Juno said, “Rita.”

He didn’t think she’d even hear, but she stopped and turned to look at him. “Yeah, Mistah Steel?”

His head felt light and his insides were shredding themselves apart, and all he wanted to do right then was crawl into that space underneath his mattress and die. His grip on the mug tightened. “Thanks,” he said.

His eyes were shut tight, so he could only hear the smile in her voice when she said, “You’re welcome.”

#my writing #fanfiction #penumbra podcast #tpp #i havent written fanfic in a long while so im way overdue #menstruation #suicide tw its not a major part of the story but its commented on