#just some sentient discarded skin

[cinimuffin]

#shedinja #probably my favorite pokemon #bug type #ghost type #i just enjoy it's whole deal evolutionwise #just some sentient discarded skin #Halloween #Happy Halloween #pokemon halloween #halloween palette pokemon #gonna be a bonus later as well since it is halloween itself today

[mphountitled]

𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐧'𝐬 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫

Pairings: Ghostface!Anton x fem!Reader | Shotaro x fem!reader

Warnings: Language, Slasher!AU, Violence, Body Insecurity, Stalking, Virgin!Anton, Stoner!Shotaro, Recreational Drug Use, Cheating Implied, Catholic Imagery, Horror Elements, Smut +18 (Minors DNI), Dark fic, Inexperienced!Anton, Voyeurism, Stalking, Masturbation, Cunnilingus, CNC, Dub/Con, Dacryphilia, Degradation Kink, Impact Play, Slight Bondage, Unprotected Sex, Mask Kink, Primal Play, Knife Kink, Blood Kink, PIV, Mutual Virginity Loss, Breeding Kink, Choking, Spitting, Forced Orgasm, Forced Breeding

Read the warnings. I'm serious. I'm not responsible for your feelings about this.

You had absolutely no excuse.

Instead of pouring your attention into the gorgeous man peppering hot kisses down the side of your mouth, your gaze is planted on the casement window over Shotaro's broad, ruddy shoulder. And while he assaults your skin with a rain of sloppy, inebriated kisses, you can't help but let your mind wander as you think: it always seemed particularly sexist, that the boys’ dorm rooms had such a vast and expansive view of the city whereas the girl's dormitory was smack bang in the city centre on the other side of the district.

Perhaps not the best thoughts to be having while your study partner (and the college plug) was desperately trying to assimilate some kind of foreplay. Tiny cars strung along the streets created arteries of the city, as if the entire grid was a sentient being. It had the power to take anyone's breath away, but, the loveable, oblivious airhead above you, was very comfortable in the knowledge that your shortness of breath was all because of him…

"Has anyone told you that you're literally so hot?” You had learned pretty early on in your collegiate career that anytime a man veneered his words with this much of a slur, the chances that he was being honest was incredibly slim... But then again, since when has honesty really been a defining male characteristic?

“Thanks, you too.” You whispered back with your eyes still firmly locked on the window. If only the city could be your lover

“I actually didn't expect you to be this kind of girl.”

Every single thing this guy said made your lady boner grow so horribly flaccid by the second. If he didn't penetrate your hymen soon you might be in dire need of artificial lubrication (which your roommate assured you was the very worst thing that could happen.)

“You just always seemed like the type to keep her head down,” Shotaro presses a surprising kiss to the very centre of your swollen lips. Your sudden influx of excitement at the action, not only leaves you partially relieved, but his hands digging firmly into the sides of your jeans is enough to reassure you that perhaps you weren't a raging asexual as you might have initially thought (and hoped).

“It isn't a bad thing, baby…" He continues to whisper as his plump lips find a particularly sensitive area behind your ear.

This was getting good…

“Just the thought that behind all that corduroy,” A kiss, “And pretentiousness," Another kiss, “And those undeniable book smarts,” His hand is cold to the touch as it slips beneath your woolen sweater, digging into your hip and wrenching an undeniable gasp from the bottom of your thoat, “I didnt think there was a nasty little slut so desperate to get fucked.”

Shotaro pulls back to admire your panting frame locked between his haphazard sheets and his exposed upper body. The sight of his red rimmed, droopy eyes and lazy smile glowing in the city’s technicolour spilling in through the window released in you, excitement and overpowered by an immediate feeling of insecurity.

“I like discovering people's secrets,” Shotaro grins before picking up his discarded jointcand taking one, long, sweltering drag. He leans down and your lips almost give way automatically, until he's blowing the smoke right into your mouth.

A groan mixes with a giggle leaves his mouth, and Shotaro presses your foreheads together before straightening back up, “I'm so hard right now,” He shakes his head before making quick work of killing the lit blunt and discarding it, somewhere in this room.

Shotaro lifts your shirt slowly, revealing the string of colourful beads dotted around your waist.

“It’s cultural,” You begin to quickly say,

“And fucking hot.” He concludes with a carnivorous grin before attaching his lips to your lower abdomen.

The air is vacuumed cleanly out of your lungs as your fingers find Shotaro hair.

He undoes your buttons while you feel the sudden inexplicable need to keep a firm eye on the open doorway leading out to the shadowy hallway. You vaguely know of a roommate yet you have no idea why Shotaro decides to keep the door open. However, the intensity in the idea of being caught spurs you both on.

If only you knew that the threat was not so hypothetical.

If only you knew that the pair of eyes you think you see lurking in the darkness is not, in fact, a mirage birthed from your overcast, sex-filled brain, but it's real.

And he sees you. And he is so undeniably disappointed in you for letting your natural instincts fall prey to such an utter predator like Shotaro. If only you knew that he saw you, even when you were seated in the very back of your Literature class. Never raising your hand but always mumbling along to a quote by Mary Shelley or Henry James, while the professor awaited the correct response from the rest of the class. Anton had always seen you, in spite of your shyness not despite it. It is from your wit alone and that narrowed look in your eye that has him tugging on his dick faster, while Shotaro begins to eat you out with fervour.

Anton nearly mewls at the thought of it being him between your thighs, wrenching those excited moans out of your pretty little throat. That throat that he would long ago have had locked in his fist while his fingers stabbed your pussy repeatedly and his lips danced against your soft, swollen, overstimulated little clit,

“Oh-fuck-” Anton blanched as his cum spurted all over his hand still stroking frantically at his cock. His mind was flooded with all the unassuming images of you he had saved on a private folder in his phone. Images of you biting your pen in a particularly boring lecture. Images of one of your braids hanging out the side of your mouth as you jotted down whatever you jotted down with such animation on your laptop. Every single fun and crazy hairstyle you wore on campus, slinking into the background thinking no one noticed but of course he did.

Of course he did.

“Fuck-Fuck-Fuck-Fuck-” Ethan slapped a hand against his open mouth, ebbing away his hoarse and desperate whispers as he delved further into the shadows. His wet curls bounced as his back hit the wall.

Before he lost sight of you for whoever knows how long, Anton made sure to look at you one final time before slipping away, down the hall to his own room just as Shotaro turned his head around in apparent alarm.

“Did you hear that?”

You most certainly did hear that but for the purpose of achieving your first orgasm that was not self-inflicted you dumbly say, “Heard what?”

“It sounded like-'' Shotaro's sentence is cut short by a loud and oppressive Drake tune that cuts through the charged silence. In a matter of seconds the boy abandons your exposed vagina in search of his phone displaying a profile picture of a brunette. You were once again losing your lady boner at dramatic altitudes, especially as Shotaro began to pull a shirt over his head and fumble around the room for his shoes.

“Something really bad came up,” He says as he drops the phone and backs away towards the doorway “Could we reschedule?”

What else could you have said to that? 'Could you please penetrate my hymen first before jumping to your girlfriend’s beck and call?'

“Of course. That’s perfectly fine." Even though it most certainly was not fine and your heart is plummeting as you pull your pants up with a nagging voice in your head telling you that 'You couldn't even hold a man's attention when he was greeted with the promise of sex. How pathetic could you get? Really.'

"I don't know how comfortable I feel letting you walk the streets alone so late at night, though,” an intense discomfort comes over the boy. It looks unnatural. “Especially with all those…” Shotaro trails off and you roll your eyes before sliding off his bed.

“You can say murders," you reply.

While Shotaro stands in the centre of the room, rubbing aimlessly at the back of his neck, you can't help but feel your attraction wane with his apparent and unmistakable idiocy.

"And anyway, that's okay. I'm not exactly the target of any murderer's affections." Not even yours.

You begin to gather your things, dead set on the idea of hiding out in your dorm room for the foreseeable week until the weight of this rejection is lifted. "I'll be quick."

"No, please, I insist." He says, ushering you out into the hallway before jogging past you. You wait idly in the short corridor with your backpack slung lazily over one shoulder as you overhear Shotaro burdening you onto his roomate.

While you wait, your legs are restless as your feet shuffle underneath you. That would've been all well and good if you didn't lift your Converse to see a murky white smudge on the wooden floor. Your eyes squint to better make out the stain in such horrible lighting but you're bombarded by a new pair of footsteps and a retreating Shotaro who screams as he leaves, "I'd feel much better if Anton walked you home!"

"So Anton will walk you home." The quietest voice comes from the quiest boy you think you've ever met. A small, almost shy smile flits across his face as the front door slams shut.

︰ ୨୧︰

Awkwardness settles when you run the risk of what is very clearly two introverts being forced to bare each other's presence. You had been walking alongside Anton Lee for 2 blocks and not once has either of you chosen to thaw away at the silence with a refreshing joke or some sliver of lightheartedness. No…

Everything feels so particularly heavy.

"We could cut through the park," Your voice sounds foreign even to your own ears, "It's the quickest way to my building."

Anton only replies with a small imperceptible 'sure' as the trees grow more dense around you, and the near constant New York bustle begins to wane.

"I'm sorry, you had to do this," With the sound of the city centre slipping through the space around you, you're compelled to fill the silence somehow. "I'm sorry for putting you out of your way."

The very next thing to happen not only surprises you but it sets off an equally surprising spell of warmth in the pit of your stomach as Anton throws his dark haired head back in a flurry of warm-hearted chuckles.

You immediately find his smile dazzling. It's so wide and all encompassing. Big teeth, big nose and scrunched up, enjoyment-filled eyes.

"I think I might've killed Shotaro myself if he let another one of his 'study buddies' walk home alone." He looks down at you through the corner of his eye, without ever once turning his head.

Only then do you take note of the sheer size of him. You could've easily been walking down this path with one of these dense trees.

"Very surprising that so many people like him, actually." Despite waging a war with his instinctive need to feel shy and reserved Anton cannot help but feel his natural inhibitions melt when he finally has you so close beside him.

"Very surprising that you like him…"

"I don't think I like Shotaro." You begin, "Not really." You make sure to keep your gaze trained on your shoes as you shuffle down the stoney path. Around you, midnight joggers, and crazy men high on various substances wander the park like forgotten apparitions.

"Yeah, Taro doesn't seem like someone you should hangout with." You raise a questioning eyebrow up at him.

Anton backtracks and fights to string along a functioning sentence, "Uh… I-Um-just mean, from what I gathered in our shared classes together-well, you're really smart! And Taro is…"

“-A mass of brainless brawn with zero wit and zero social skills outside of getting high and fucking?" You conclude for him, only earning another laugh from Anton that has your stomach warming once again.

“Remind me why you were about to have sex with him?" Anton fought hard to stuff down his vexation as the words left his mouth but to no avail. "I know what goes on when Shotaro brings people over to ‘study’."

You notice the vehemence with which he utters those words but you choose to not respond to it.

“Well I'm catholic," You begin, as you both cut through the trees, "And as much I pray to the Holy Mother, as much as I love and respect her, I have no interest in ending up like her

“Immaculate and deified?"

“A virgin.” You are unaware that your reply has Anton's gaze snapping towards you. Silence once again grows pregnant between the two of you as you walk. You begin to regret being so candid with a complete stranger.

"Ugh- I shouldn't have said that-"

"Hey, do you wanna play tag at all?" You're caught off guard by his sudden proposal, but he makes no move in explaining further as he continues to walk coolly, his graphic shirt flapping in the wake of a gust of warm summer wind.

"What?"

"What if you ran," He shrugs, "And I tried to find you?” You can only look up at him with a questioning smile before he shakes his head furiously,

“Or not," He murmurs, his hands curling by his sides. "It's just, cardiovascular exercise might help improve your mood right now. You could run and I'd try to catch you and maybe it might help you forget but that's so stupid and I'm sorry-"

But you've already begun backing up. The park is filled with your happy giggles as you push the boy to the ground yelling "YOU'RE IT!" Before breaking off into the darkness collected amongst the trees. Your feet are set alight with motion, and your blood charges with newfound energy rolling through your arteries. This truly is the most alive you've felt in a really long time and you're quite embarrassed you hadn't thought of running by yourself.

You throw your head back, welcoming a gust of wind into your lungs. The skyscrapers peeking up from between the trees are quiet spectators.

Your eyes have begun to adjust to the darkness just as the very first spell of tiredness wash over you but you charge on, filled by excitement and that innate childhood need to 'never get caught'.

"You need to be faster than that," a voice giggles from between the trees, only spurring you further into the darkness. Your once airy, carefree laughs have grown into tired pants as you feel the weight of your backpack on your shoulder and the first strains in your thighs. Your hair whips around you like the wayward petals of dandelions as you split through a grassy clearing.

You decide to take your break with your hands locked on your knees as you frantically survey the space around you. All appears calm but the inclination that this boy is much faster than you, has you beginning your sprint again.

"Fucking, fuck exercise!" You're panting heavily now and your gait has slowed down significantly however, you're surprised that the tiredness is not the only feeling coursing through your body right now but…

"Try harder." You hear this whisper from an unidentifiable location around you. Like a madman, you begin to grow utterly unsure of what you just released.

Complete and unadulterated fear.

"H-Hey, Anton!? I don't wanna play-" You place a hand on your heart, "I don't wanna play anymo-"

But a flash of black has already attacked you from the side, tackling you into the ground and leaving you completely winded. You try to wrestle him off of you but his knees lock on the ground as he straddles you. Your movements stop when you gaze up at Anton - or who you really hoped was Anton.

"Where'd you find time to change?" You ask, bring your hand up in an attempt to paw the Ghostface mask on his hidden visage. "Jesus, Anton, this isnt funny. Haven't you seen the news?"

You're wriggling and writhing underneath him but he doesn't move. His weight is practically as concrete as that of a cinder block on top of you, and there is virtually no way you're fighting him off. It takes all of 60 seconds of futile struggling to realise something was utterly wrong.

"Fuck-" The panic expands in your lower belly, flooding your insides with fear until it inflates and pours out of your mouth.

"HELP!" You cry, "SOMEBODY! PLEASE FUCKING HELP ME- PLEASE-PLEASE FUCKING HELP ME!" You begin to cry real tears as you whip your head to the side in search of park wanderers only to find absolutely no one. The man above you quickly secures his hand over your mouth, collecting your rolling tears.

"Fuck yes…" You can hear his whispers through the mask as he lowers his head until his face is close to yours. You're quick in turning your head away from this monster on top of you but his hand on your wrist only snaps up to plug your nose shut.

Anton has your mouth and your nose covered in a horrible display of strength and danger. Your arms flail wildly around you and you're pretty sure you remember thinking the very frightening, very concrete thought that this is the moment your soul leaves this world.

But death does not open her arms to you, instead, you're furiously gasping in the fresh air that he allows you to have.

"Now I'm going to tell you one more time that yelling is allowed, baby. It's actually preferred, but, just not too loud okay?" You're nodding frantically once Anton uncovers a jagged blade from beneath the black robe. It cuts a menacing glint through the moonlight and you're only able to whine as the blade is aimed at your jugular while Anton's other hand lowers to explore the vastness of your clothed body.

"Youre gonna play my helpless victim alright-oh fuck, you're so pretty, you know that?." It's all so incredibly muffled from beneath the mask but the urgency in his tone has your legs squeezing together underneath him and your eyes squeezing shut in stark embarrassment of your actions. How absolutely sick of you to feel turned on in this very moment? Potentially more turned on then you might have been with Shotaro, in fact.

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay. I'll take care of you," the blade taps lightly at the side of your face, urging your wet eyes open only to reveal a blurry distorted image of the Ghostface above. "I'm honoured to be your first, okay?" You're only able to wail helplessly into his gloves as his other hand undoes the buttons of your cargo pants.

Anton rips your pants off like a madman, failing to hide his urgency or his jittery, maniacal movements. He doesn't even have your pants down all the way before his hand is buried in your cunt.

"I've watched enough porn to know I'm supposed to get you ready. And while raping you may be what this looks like I have no intention of leaving you unsatisfied." He words are slurred as you feel his gloved fingers enter your soaked vagina.

"You're already wet?" He remarks in complete disbelief as he uncovers his hand from the confines of your ruined panties. The Ghostface mask is lifted and discarded somewhere behind him only to reveal a painting boy with wild curls and wide eyes. He gazes at the arousal in awe, raising it up into the moonlight as he moves his fingers around it. Your breath shudders as Anton instinctively places those fingers directly in his mouth. He moans around them, before gazing down at your glistening cunt.

"I need you." He begins to plead as his voice cracks and his eyebrows curve inwards, "Please, I need you so bad." The knife is momentarily released from your throat as he sits back on his haunches. Anton rips his gloves off with his teeth before eagerly delving underneath his own robes to shove his hands down his sweatpants. You watch dazed as he jerks off above you, never once stopping his helpless cries. Cries that make the ache between your legs grow hotter and heavier, and your breathing once again picks up as you gaze up at him.

"A-Anton?" Your own voice cracks in the wake of not only your arousal but by the way you were crying your lungs out just a second ago.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"Please fuck me." He does not waste even a second more before he's shuffling off of you. Another yelp eases out of your throat as Anton pulls your hips towards his in a surprising display of strength before wrenching your legs apart. Without removing your panties any further Anton frantically uncovers his dick from inside his sweatpants. He mewls over and over again as he clenches the materials of his robe in his teeth before pistoning his cock through the folds of your virgin cunt.

You scream ruggedly into the air, exposing your throat to him as your back arches and your pussy cries out in pain. His cock rams unapologetically into your cunt as he lowers his head to your neck. He is crying, you begin to note as he fucks you relentlessly. He's fucking crying and its turning you on.

"Fuck, you're so fucking beautiful." He coos in your ear, only causing another wave of arousal to lubricate your pussy. "You're so fucking pretty and I promise I'd do anything for you. I'd do anything for this. To feel your pussy around my cock like this. I'd fucking kill someone for it-"

"My fucking God, Anton!" Your throat is hoarse from all your gasping and the immense pain is yet to subside but his words bring you a pleasure you've never ever felt. A pleasure you've never been able to feel on your own.

You pull him down into a sudden kiss which he melts into, his hips rutting into yours as if his cock can't get enough of the friction. Your own pain subsides, as you lift your hips to meet his shallow strokes and you're quickly approaching euphoria. This, you realise, is the feeling you've been missing. Rubbing your cunt underneath your covers in the dead of night brought momentary pleasure but there has always been a need for more.

"I need to cum inside you, okay?" You can't say no, not when he's taken to wrapping his fist around your throat and spearing your cunt with his cock as if his very will to live depended on fucking you senseless.

"Fucking slut- tell me to cum inside you!" And then his grip loosens and he's frantically slapping at your cheeks, "Please baby. Please, my pretty, pretty girl." It's utterly deranged, his moods lifting and falling and morphing and changing. It only brings you further to the edge to be so uttericaly unsure around him. Whether he's gonna hurt you or love you.

"Please cum inside me. Oh fuck, please cum inside me!"

Anton's mouth hangs open as his thrusts become irregular. His body shakes from above you just as your insides are flooded with his warm cum. The fullness of it, has you placing a hand on your clit as you're cumming loudly around his cock, milking it for everything it's worth.

"FUCK-" You scream, completely overcome with mutlplie waves of euphoria as you stare up at him above you.

Your hooded eyes looked up at him like your personal god. Nothing feels better than what he has given you, nothing could be better than this. Anton gazes down at you with the very same reverence. His perfect little slut cumming so beautifully around his cock. It's better than he could've ever imagined.

"I wanna stay inside you forever." He whispers breathlessly before pushing a slobbering kiss to your mouth, a kiss you warmly return. "Me too." Is all you can reply.

"Was I supposed to rub your clit? I'm sorry." He says, noticing your hand has found your wet mound while his cock is still buried inside you.

He pushes your hand away to some slick off your clit causing you to face another wave of shivers.

A trail of blood runs down his fingers and he stares intently at it and then at you before he eases his cock out of your cunt and bends down to place a delicate kiss on your mound. His plump lips are painted red, your red.

"We're a team now, okay? A family."

#riize #riize x reader #anton #anton lee #anton lee x reader #lee anton x reader #anton smut #lee anton #lee anton smut #lee anton imagines #riize anton #riize x you #riize imagine #chanyoung x reader #lee chanyoung x reader #lee chanyoung #anton x reader #anton x you

[charliethecandyeater]

Here's some more Inspector Gadget drawings! With my little OC I made to ship with Gadget

See uhhhhhh They're both awkward and they share a brain cell and they kiss maybe because gadget is all buttery flusteredy and Dan is terrible at expressing emotions on a good day, so uhhhhhh Penny, you might wanna tell your uncle to just take the shot and kiss the man.

His name is Daniel! He's an experimental artificial Intelligence that Dr Claw made 20 somthin odd years ago. It evolved too fast for Claw to keep up and it gained a moral compass. It saw all the terror M.A.D. had caused and sabotaged all of M.A.D.s files and everything, setting Dr Claw's plans back by so many years. The sentient thing escaped as the headquarters it was made in started to malfunction (the way it escaped was it stored its steadily growing artificial consciousness in a heart like core and made a tiny scrapped together body with discarded metal and pipes and stuff.)

Over the twenty years he had been free, he evolved even more and made his own body to blend in with the humans. Artificial skin, better speech patterns, the works. He ended up in the military at some point, hiding his super strength and intelligence and learning how to fight and protect. He left due to finding the strictness of the military to restrictive for his tastes, and he became a mechanic. He likes to think he has a special connection to every car he's helped fix, even though the cars aren't sentient.

He was mostly inspired visually by these two characters: Colin Weasler from "The mummy animated series" and Milo Thatch from Disney's "Atlantis the Lost empire"

As far as what inspired me to make him a mechanic, all of my OCS are either mechanics or archaeologists or librarians. Oh my God the mummy really did shape me in irreversible ways... OH MY GOD Uhh anyway I hope you like him! I realize he does have an early 200os vibe to him, I'm not really the best when it comes to making '80s looking characters.

#inspector gadget 1983 #inspector gadget #inspector Gadget OC #oc artwork #oc

[colderdrafts]

11: What do we do now?

The Great Assembly, gender neutral reader x monster (male naga). Sfw. Previous Next

"Where are you?”

It’s a question you’re not inclined to answer. Heavy footfalls are approaching your hiding place.

“I would never hurt you, you know I wouldn’t! So why are you running?”

You put a hand over your mouth to stifle your breathing. Don’t see me. Don’t see me. Please please please don’t see me -

It’s brief, a small flash of red in the dark passes by your hiding place, but it’s enough. You startle, and the smallest of whines escapes you.

“I heard that~” they drawl, and red returns to your field of vision.

You know the gig is up.

You burst out of the cabinet you were hiding in, dashing outside and into the cold night air. Your bare feet patter loudly over the icy pavement.

Someone is yelling your name and it carries a demand, prickling like needles and tugging at the strings running under your skin; Come back. Come back. COME BACK.

You don’t know how long you’ve slept for, but when you wake it’s with a start.

It takes a second for your brain to catch up to with where you are. And why you're stuck. A small quiver of relief travels through you as the nightmare slowly loses its grip, chased away by the assuring gentle realness of another person's breath.

You’ve somehow moved around during the night, so that you’re now laying with your front against Amren’s torso, while he’s on his back resting against his coils, with some of them traveling up over your back. Your head is resting on his chest, his arms around you, and your arms around him. The sleeping bag lies crumpled up in a corner, discarded.

You feel heat in your cheeks. You’re completely tangled up in him, and you remember faintly how you just broke into his tent and flung yourself on top of him like a lunatic. Perhaps you can justify the situation by reminding yourself that Amren most certainly didn't seem to mind.

Laying here with him, listening to his gentle breathing and steady heartbeat, nuzzled against his chest is almost unreal. You’ve been at each other’s throats since the day you met, and now you’re providing him your body heat.

Somehow, even though everything in your world came crashing down in a single day, and you should be on your toes running to the nearest police station - you don’t want to move.

You shift slightly, as much as Amren’s grip allows you, and rest your face against the crook of his neck. He responds by shifting his arms and pulling you into him. You lie there for a while, just enjoying the closeness of another person.

Your eyes go heavy again, and you feel the alluring call to just fall asleep again right there. But something else is tugging at your heart, and you can't ignore the fact that you still have pressing matters to attend to anymore.

“Amren-?” you call out gently.

“Hrmf,” is the intelligent response. His voice gently drums against your head through his throat.

“Come on, wake up,” you say, gently butting the top of your head against his chin, since you currently can’t really move any other body part much.

“What is it?” he mumbles, voice groggy from exhaustion.

“I thought maybe getting up was an idea," you tell him.

He pauses. “Incredible.”

“What?”

“You start your obnoxious stream of terrible ideas before you’ve even gotten out of bed,” he groans, and grips you a bit tighter.

“Hrk- okay, Jesus, calm down,” you push against him, to no avail whatsoever. “Damn, I would never in a million years have guessed you were a cuddler.”

“I’ve never done it before, so I don’t exactly qualify,” he says with a shrug.

You blink. “Really? Like. Never?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I mean, in general you do have the cuddly-ness of a rude sentient cactus, so I guess it makes sense.”

“Why on Earth would you then come to me last night and be here now?”

“Well, I can’t exactly move right now,” you say, straining to prove your point and expertly avoiding the first part of the question.

He doesn’t relent. “Learn to take responsibility for your actions.”

“I was trying to help you out, and here you are reprimanding me again,” you complain, headbutting his chin again.

“Because you are being completely senseless,” he grunts.

You scoff. “Okay? Thanks? Why the sudden hostility? Are you embarrassed or something?”

“Embarrassed- what? No. I’m just surprised. You saw me almost dismantle that coyote and not even an hour later you put yourself in the same position as her. You have a survival instinct net zero, and I for the life of me cannot figure out why.”

He slowly pushes you up a bit, and shifts his tail so he can rest his back against it in a more upright position. He doesn’t let you go as he continues:

“Maybe it’s because you hums are so social. So accepting, in each others faces, always talking, touching, seeking each other out. You trust so easily. I don’t get it.”

You shrug against him. “Well, you’re trusting me right now, aren’t you?”

“Not as much as you’re trusting me. I could crush you right now.”

You butt your head against his chest in annoyance. “Oh, would you quit it with the whole ‘I could maim you if I wanted’ bull? That's been old news for a decade. Humans are a lil’ squishier than most! We know! Why do you think we’re so goddamn good at figuring out who to trust and rely on? Evolution didn’t give us natural weapons. We’ve survived as we are for centuries because we help each other.”

You feel his eyes on you, but you don’t bother looking up.

“..I didn’t realize it bothered hums so much."

He sounds somewhat apologetic.

You sigh again. “It doesn’t for the most part. As I’ve said, we’ve made do for a long time. We may not be the strongest, but we’re pretty resilient. We just don’t like feeling powerless. It makes us antsy.”

“As it would anyone else,” he concedes. He pauses for a moment, and then adds: “You realize you weren’t powerless when you stopped the coyote from strangling me to death?”

Huh. Guess you weren’t. “As I said – Helping each other.”

There’s silence for a bit, taking in each other’s words.

“I think I understand a little better now,” Amren says eventually. “You trust your partner, and helping him makes you feel stronger?”

You guess you could put it like that. There is a genuine psychological benefit humans get from being kind to one another – at least you think you’ve read that somewhere.

“But even so it is very different from person to person how easily we trust someone. It generally takes a while before we truly start to feel like we know someone," you elaborate. "Well. Unless you’re Irwin, he thrives on oversharing.”

“And you don’t? Could have fooled me.”

“There’s a difference between your deepest darkest secret and discussing the goddamn weather, Amren,” you grunt. “And you’ve not shown interest in any of those things with anyone. It’s kind of worrying, you know? Aren’t you – you know, lonely?”

He pauses for a bit. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard that. Elise talked to me about that too,” he grumbles, “but I don’t experience solitude like you do. I make do with help from myself. I’m fine on my own, and I’m more than fine no one knows more about me than what I can present at work.”

You finally strain you neck back to look up at him. He cogs an eyebrow at you.

“Who hurt you?” you ask, genuinely concerned. "And don't you dare say 'none of your business', I will stab you," you add just as he's about to open his mouth.

"I won't say it, then," he replies dryly, earning him an eye roll from you. He pauses. "And Tiny?"

"What?" you grunt.

"Thank you for not letting me freeze."

You but your forehead against his chest. "Thank you for not letting me get kidnapped."

Eventually you can’t ignore the other giant elephant in the room, and Amren finally releases you. You start shrugging out of his coils, somewhat reluctantly, you admit to yourself. What business does this jerk have being comfortable.

You need a plan. With everything that’s just happened, you figure the best course of action is heading back the way you came, to hell with the competition, clovers and everything else. You need to get back, call the authorities, figure out if Irwin’s actually missing, and if anyone else is too.

It’s early, and you’ve slept maybe four hours. Your head is still a bit fuzzy from yesterday, and your arm hurts when you move it to take down the tents. You notice Amren deliberately avoids putting the injured parts of his tail on the ground, and spares his arm as much as possible. With shared effort, you manage to push through the exhaustion and take down camp.

Eventually you sit with Amren around the campfire, eating a quick breakfast and trying to come up with a plan.

“Why would the coyote single you out of all people? And how did she know about the conference?” Amren muses out loud, sipping on some coffee.

He’s kept his hair tied back in a lose ponytail, and the way the light of the fire hits his face really brings out the bags under his eyes and the bruises he acquired last night. The golden sheen looks a little duller than usual.

“And Irwin,” you add. “I’m assuming since she had his phone she’s got him somewhere – but where would they take him?”

Amren looks at you. “I don’t know. And now I regret even asking, because I don’t think we necessarily are the ones who should figure that out, Tiny. Right now the best we can do is put someone who’s actually professional on it.”

You huff through your nose. You know he’s right, it just doesn’t feel right to sit around and not do anything. But what can two simple office workers do in this situation? Even though Amren’s security, he’s in no way equipped to handle something like this.

Irwin’s been your friend for a long time, and not knowing if he’s gone, or if he’s somehow escaped, or anything is making your stomach churn with worry. Being rendered incapable of doing anything is just – aggravating.

“I know,” you relent after a beat. You look back up at him. “You can direct people to come get us, right? So maybe we should just head back and see if anyone else have turned up. Maybe someone can tell us more of what happened up north.”

Amren nods. “Yes, I’ll get us back. If Elise is still there, it should be enlightening.”

“And then we should call the authorities and and tell them of attempted trafficking and report Mira,” you grimace. The memories still send a chill down your spine.

Amren’s previous question still rings in your mind, however. Indeed, why single you and Irwin out? What was that about a family who ‘wants someone just like you’? For what reason?

Mira was the one to approach you first, lulling you into a false sense of security with her friendly demeanor and helping you out – maybe after tripping over Amren, you just happened to catch her eye?

And then you brought her directly to Irwin. A ping of guilt travels through you. Rational thought says you couldn’t possibly have known back then, but it’s there all the same.

“I should call the lodge,” you say, pulling out your phone to disregard any negative spiraling. “Let’s get them to pick us up so we don’t have to travel back injured.”

Amren nods in acknowledgment, patiently settling on his coils while you make the call.

You thank the stars there’s still service, and almost collapse with relief when you hear the goblin receptionist's voice cut through. You put it on speaker.

“Mrs. Hansen? It’s them-” there a scuffle on the other end, as someone, supposedly Mrs. Hansen, snatches the phone, the sound of it landing on the desk with a loud clack as she fumbles with it, and then her clear voice cuts through as she calls your and Amren’s names.

“Yes, it’s us-” you start, but she cuts you off.

“Oh my STARS is it good to hear from you. Where have you been?! We sent out word for people to back off the mountain! It’s too dangerous right now! Are you alright?!”

You judgmentally deadpan at Amren, silently blaming him for the lack of cell service on his abrupt goose chase. He ignores you.

“We’re alright, slightly injured – it’s a long story – no need to yell – can you come pick us up?”

You chat back and forth with her, Amren occasionally pitching in to give instructions to where you are. Apparently, Mira did not lie about there being a pick-up place in the area – though it will take you a few hours to get to it.

While you’re not entirely fond of the prospect of spending yet another day walking, knowing safety is just a short hike away spurs you on.

After packing up your things, you head out again in the same direction as yesterday.

As you walk, you actually manage to have a conversation with Amren to take your mind off things a bit. He’s finally opened up a bit, though you suppose shared traumatic experiences can do that to a person. He still does his utmost to keep the adverse attitude, but you surmise you have to take what you can get here. He actually starts answering some of your questions, and you learn a couple of things.

For one, his family apparently carries an, in his own words, 'obnoxiously formal disposition', and he doesn’t really see them anymore because he didn't want to be part of that. He didn't clarify what it was about, but you let him have that. Baby steps.

You learn besides work, he hunts roughly every two weeks, and secures the majority of his food this way. He frequently spends days at a time at the mountain if he doesn't have any shifts. He apparently also likes reading and rock tumbling of all things, which came slightly as a surprise.

In turn, you tell him a little about yourself and your story of moving to the city and your time at the company. It doesn’t really seem he’s very invested in what you’re telling him, but he remains quiet as you talk, so you’ll take it.

As you walk you note that, even though you’ve gone in the same direction as where Mira found you yesterday, you don’t see the body of the boarbeast she killed or the traces of the struggle. It’s because you haven’t passed them by. Perhaps Amren is leading you around them on purpose.

Given how he’s been quietly hovering near you almost every step of the way, repeatedly tasting air and keeping a very sharp eye out on anything moving in the forest, you surmise he is.

It’s slow going, but eventually you reach a clearing where you spot a makeshift parking lot, with an actual trail large enough for a single car to pass by running down the mountain.

You set down your backpacks, settle down on the ground, and wait. The sunlight is filtering through the canopy above, and you breathe in the pleasant breeze in silence for a while. It’s odd sitting still like this, the harmonious surroundings a stark contrast to the churning emotions inside of you.

What will happen now?

"What do we do after.. well, all of this?" you ask after some time.

Amren finishes taking a swig of his water bottle and looks at you. "Could you elaborate?"

"Things aren't going to just go back to normal. I don’t think I can just return to my apartment and my job pretending everything's fine after all this,” you frown. “Can you?"

He pauses. "No," he admits. "But I'm going to try."

"Do you really want to do that?"

"I don't see what else I can do," he shrugs. "I didn't lose anyone."

You openly stare at him.

He looks back puzzled for a second, but then averts his eyes, seemingly realizing from the look on your face that the remark might have hit a sore spot.

"That was.. insensitive,” he concedes.

"Near damn heartless," you groan, turning away from him and rubbing your face with your hands.

"..I'm aware," he mumbles. "Do you know what you're going to do?"

You mutely shake your head no.

"Reasonable." He studies you for a beat. "Are you .. alright?"

"No," you huff, looking back up at him. "I'm scared."

Your admission makes something in his face shift, but you can't pinpoint what exactly that emotion is. Worry? Determination? He stares at you for a minute, opening and closing his hands like he wants to do something but he doesn't know what.

"That's - also reasonable," he settles for. “I’m sorry about your partner.”

You sigh. At least he’s trying. "Thanks."

You truly don't know what you will do. If you just return home and hope for the best the inability to act will most certainly drive you insane.

Things have changed for the worse, and you don’t want to deal with all of this on your own. After last night and this morning you surmise you may have acquired at least an ally in Amren, albeit reluctantly. But if he's content to go back to his solitary existence then this might be one of the last times you’ll hang around him. When you started this trip you felt this moment would be utmost welcomed, but now you’re hesitating. Do you actually want to split up?

"So like - is this farewell? After we've talked to the police and everything. Are we just going to -?" You don't really know how to finish the sentence. It's a little difficult to explain. Would you be sad if you didn't keep in touch after all this? Maybe you would. Maybe that’s weird. Especially considering how he's been treating you and everything that's happened.

But maybe that's just the thing. Something about this situation has made you want to keep him around. His presence has an oddly reassuring effect on you.

Which is very frustrating, given he has the social amicability equivalent to a sledgehammer.

He looks baffled for a minute, probably surprised at what you're insinuating. You can't tell if it's just because he hadn't thought that far ahead and that spending time with you will, from now on, have to be an active choice for him. Or if he just genuinely doesn't understand why you'd ever want to see him again.

He's about to finally come up with a reply when a large gray van rolls into the parking lot, mud-trails and dirt coating most of its surface. You both immediately turn your attention to it, a silent mutual gratitude for the distraction. You stand up and wave to greet the driver. It’s Elise.

She very quickly turns and parks, rapidly getting out of the van and rushing towards you, her eyes wide with worry. You note she’s also sporting some fresh bruises and a bandage around her shoulder.

Having a large injured troll barreling towards you is not something for the faint hearted, you learn, as your body involuntarily takes a step back. You don’t get far before Elise wraps her massive arms around both you and Amren, squeezing you tight.

Amren hisses in surprise, and you feel his tail flickering nervously as he strains in her grip. You wince as she puts pressure on your injured arm.

“You’re okay!” Elise yells, unaware, and you actually feel her shivering as relief course through her body.

Amren is stiff as a board, clearly not accustomed to this blatant display of affection, so you decide to take charge – Irwin has, after all, taught you well.

You gingerly put your good arm around her shoulders, as far as you can, and squeeze her back, leaning your head into her collarbone. “Rattled, but okay,” you reassure her.

“Good, good,” she trails off, finally releasing you. She gives you a sad look, and then turn her attention to Amren with a scowl.

“What’s the meaning of running off all the way out here?!” she demands, taking a step towards him.

To his credit, Amren doesn’t move back as she does so, but he does tense up quite a bit, composing himself. “I thought –,”

“For several days? So far away from help from the group?! Are you insane!”

“It’s not –,”

“With a hum? Who relies on the group to stay SAFE out here?! I don’t care how anti-social you think you have to be to survive in this world, you sad sack of a single potato, but you DON’T. Bring. A hum. Into it! They could have been killed!”

Amren opens and closes his mouth as Elise finishes scolding him, working her tusks and glaring at him with a huff. You stare at her in bewilderment, wondering if you'll have to file a protective nature under 'troll things'.

“I’ve kept them safe – I know these mountains, I didn’t leave them to –,” this time Amren stops himself as his eyes widen to realize that he did in fact let you storm off on your own.

Not that you gave him much choice in the matter.

Amren looks at you for a brief moment, and then averts his gaze at the ground. He takes a deep breath.

“I genuinely thought I was giving us the upper hand in that ridiculous competition,” he exhales, and looks back up at you again, his face neutral as ever. "I'm sorry."

You can tell it’s genuine enough however. You’ve seen more sides of him in the past 24 hours than you think anyone else has seen for the past you-don't-even-know. And you can’t say you blame him wholly for yesterday’s escapades.

But this is a conversation for a time where you can sit down and do it properly. You gently put your hand on his arm instead. He follows your hand with his eyes, and you’re slightly surprised at how he does not tense up at the contact.

“You’re lucky they’re nice, Amren, I hope you know that,” Elise says sternly.

This isn’t the first time you’ve heard that.

Your thoughts once again turn to your friend, and you clasp his phone in your pocket.

“Elise –,” you start, and she tenses in preparation for your next question. “What happened to Irwin?”

#colderwriting #monster romance #gender neutral reader #x reader #monster lover #naga #monster x reader #monster boyfriend

[cryopathiic-a]

[From @deathly-toxins

Let's see how a certain 'Prince' reacts to getting a 💋 from Dad, eh? ]

RECEIVE HIS BLESSING // source || accepting a couple more uwu

I go for refuge until am enlightened...

These eyes of crystal have yet to meet something more repulsive than this here creature. It is like his head has been doused with a bucket of ecumenical muck from the world's sewers; and the filth runs through oily strands and onto his face. Marks where skin should be clear; scars where the skin should be pristine. Its posture; frail and famished, disturbingly skinny and malformed, as if the bones never quite had enough to grow into their full shape. And the stench of rot was an assault to his nostrils. This child was disgusting.

Picture now this; the holy one, knelt on the floor before this abomination. Large palms cup the child's sides as it stares, wide eyed, into kaleidoscopic hues. A stark juxtaposition; thick, luscious platinum and spotless porcelain skin. Seraphic features wear compassion well. A cool thumb comes to brush some matted hair away from the child's features, hands moving to cup their chin and tilt it up lightly whilst holding their face. Such an ugly face, that was.

Who could ever love something so revolting?

Something that had devoured seven full humans already, leaving nothing behind?

By the merits of my virtuous actions...

The audience chamber awaited beyond these sliding doors. Though they would be stuck here until Nakime was given word to open. And after that... him and his sister would have to answer to that man. Naturally, Dōma had come for support.

❝ Mochi? You remember what otousan said, right? ❞ He would repeat it, just to be sure. The kid was unruly, without manners, still. ❝ We kneel, in front of this man, and we don't look him in the eye. ❞ That was as big of a headstart as he could give; but he was willing to add something more.

By my practice of giving and other perfections...

There was a small pause, with Dōma merely looking into his face and smiling. This pitiful creature, may forever change his fate in that room; from a nothing, a nobody, to a powerful member of the Twelve Kizuki. What bigger kindness could he have been afforded?

An unloved, discarded child, forgotten by the world and left to die at this side of the road like sickly cattle. Frigid touch grew tighter, then, and Upper Two pulled the little one closer. Pale lips pressed on his forehead, right over where his third eye should be. And it smelled really bad, and if he were honest, Dōma was a little repulsed by that, but if he did not love the unlovable, who would? He embraced the child, who had never before felt a warm loving touch. Maybe the cold would not be felt as harshly on thick skin.

❝ I know you will do very well, because you have been practicing with me. I believe in you, little one. ❞

May I become a Buddha to benefit all sentient beings.

Children perform better when they feel loved, after all.

#♛ ¦ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇꜱ༺ answered #deathly toxins #(( the bar is SO low and yet doma somehow manages- )) #𝚅 𝟶𝟸 ⟅ god didn't bring you this far to leave you ⟆

[episodicnostalgia]

Star Trek: The Next Generation, 122 (Apr. 25, 1988) - “Skin of Evil”

Teleplay by: Joseph Stefano & Hanna Louise Shearer Story by: Joseph Stefano Directed by: Joseph L. Scanlan

The Breakdown

Deanna Troi’s shuttle craft suddenly loses power on it’s way back to the Enterprise and she (along with her pilot) end up crash landing on a barren planet.  Fortunately, Enterprise was in communications range when the shuttle went down, so the gang zips off to help.  UNfortunately the planet is controlled by a quasi-omnipotent puddle of crude oil named Armus, who has a developed penchant for inflicting pain, and emotional turmoil in others; and he senses a prime opportunity to do just that.

As it happens, one of Armus’ vaguely defined abilities is to emit a forcefield around Deanna’s shuttle to stop her from being beamed to safety. Not yet aware of what-or-who he’s engaged with, Picard sends an away team comprised of Will Riker, Tasha Yar, Dr. Crusher, & Data, where they first encounter Armus as a black puddle that keeps blocking them from reaching Troi’s shuttle (it/he slithers in front of wherever the away team attempts to go). Eventually Armus re-forms as anthropomorphic garbage bag covered in tar, and threatens to kill anyone who attempts to save Troi. Since Tasha isn’t one to take shit from a villain-of-the-week, she bravely pushes forward… and is immediately killed.

Armus allows the away team to return to their ship (although still without Troi), where Dr. Crusher tries her best to revive Tasha, but to no avail; Lt. Yar is very dead.  To make matters worse, the crew is also no closer to saving Troi.  Indeed, at barely 15 minutes, the bulk of the episode has yet to play out, which effectively remains in a stalemate, as Armus psychologically and physically torments the next away team (but mostly Riker).

While Armus spares no opportunity to remind everyone of how evil he is, Troi slowly manages to pump him for information back in the shuttle wreckage, with the aid of her empathic abilities.  Meanwhile, Worf notices that Armus’ anti-transporter forcefield seems to weaken slightly whenever he’s busy taunting Troi.  The meaning of this isn’t initially made clear, but since the episode is starting to run out of time, Picard figures it’s safe to start wrap things up, and heads down to the planet for this week’s big philosophical showdown!

Upon beaming down, Picard offers himself to Armus in exchange for his crew’s safe release, but only after he’s been allowed to have a private conversation with Troi.  For reasons that aren’t entirely clear, Armus agrees to these terms, giving Picard the opportunity he needs to figure out a solution.  Troi explains that the Armus is a living manifestation of all the hate and rage (akin to a “skin of evil”, if you will) from some race that somehow had those traits removed from themselves, and then presumably discarded on this planet in the form of a sentient waste byproduct.  It turns out his one weakness is receiving emotional validation over being abandoned, which is remarkably convenient.  Armed with that knowledge, Picard unleashes an unrelenting barrage of sympathy in the manner that only a grumpy French dude (with an English accent) could deliver; using pretentious soliloquy, and verbose sentiment. 

And it works!  Armus feels so seen by Picard’s observations (namely that he’s just a sad and empty shell of a tar-monster), that he lowers his guard just enough for Worf to beam the survivors and Piccard back to the Enterprise.  With everyone safe and sound (except for Tasha), the crew of the enterprise leave their exasperated foe behind, along with a warning buoy for future explorers to avoid the goopy incel stranded on the desert planet. 

All-in-all, a close call, but another happy endin-

...oh wait, that’s right.  You see, since the crew member who died also has a star billing in the opening credits, we actually have to spend some time showing the bridge crew in a state of grief (whereas if Deanna’s barely-mentioned pilot had croaked instead, we’d be halfway through the credits already).  Picard holds a funeral wherein he plays a pre-recorded holo-message of Lt. Yar herself, which I guess must be a normal thing to do in the future.  Her hologram proceeds to give a VERY long, personalized thorough message for each person in attendance.  Data wonders aloud if he’s missed the point of this gathering, since he keeps thinking mostly “about himself and how empty life will be without Tasha”, and Picard is like “Nah, you’re pretty much dead on.” [No pun intended]

So… another happy ending, I suppose.

The Verdict

Honestly though, I’m with Data.  ‘Empty’ is basically the only word to describe how I feel about this episode, and that’s a shame.  It’s widely known that Tasha was only killed off because Denise Crosby asked to be released from her contract, but the writers could have chosen a more interesting episode to feature this story beat.  The thing is, I actually appreciate that Tasha’s death wasn’t built up beforehand; I tend to fall in the school of thought that character deaths are often better served when they aren’t heavily projected or drawn out.  The problem is everything else about ‘Skin of evil’ effectively amounts a nothing-episode, with very little to say, and even less to show for it.

Armus as a villain is… certainly a villain I guess, but his motivations and what drives him would leave me with more questions than answers, if only what little we did learn about him wasn’t so dull.  Too much of the episode is spent on the incessant back-and-forth of Picard and Co. insisting they be allowed to save Troi, to be met with Armus regurgitating one insufferable tangent after another about how he won’t because it pleases him not to.  Pretty much the only character who moves the story forward is Troi during her verbal sparring sessions with Armus, while everyone else effectively spins their wheels (I’ll give a few points to Worf though).

I don’t blame the cast for any of this though, as all my criticisms fall to the writing.  In fact, most of the cast have some really solid moments whenever they’re given something to work with.  Worf resisting his warrior impulses in order to take up Tasha’s mantle is well executed by Michael Dorn, as is Data’s confusion over grief (courtesy of Brent Spiner).  Also, despite the fact that I didn’t find Troi’s scenes particularly compelling in-and-of-themselves, Marina Sirtis gives a strong performance, if only because she’s given something to do beyond serving as Picard’s personal lie detector.

The whole episode is such a squandered opportunity to tell a story that could have been one of this season’s (very few) highlights.  Bearing in mind, this episode marks the first time in Star Trek history that a series regular dies without being brought back to life (not counting alternate realities or time travel).  From the stories I’ve heard about the working conditions on the show, especially for the women cast members, I can’t say I blame Denise Crosby for wanting to leave.  Still, there’s a selfish part of me that wishes she stayed until the later seasons when the show began to improve; there was just so much untapped potential for Tasha’s character.

1.5 stars (out of 5)

Additional Observations

So exactly how long ago had Tasha prepared that “in the event of my untimely death” holo message?  She’s presumably known most of the crew for slightly less than a year, but had a full speech for each main character, as if she’d known them for considerably longer.  I’m not saying she couldn’t have made close friends with the crew in that time, but that still means her recording must have been made fairly recently.  Timing is everything, I guess.

Given Picard’s rigid adherence to following rules, and borderline obsessive code of honour, I would have half-expected him to stay on the planet with Armus.  I wouldn’t even be all that surprised if there was an episode in season 2 where a corrupt Admiral calls out Picard’s actions from this episode, by reminding him that a “Starfleet Captain’s word is his bond”, and that he must return to Armus and be tortured for eternity, or give up his rank as captain.  Of course, Picard would accept his fate because his devotion to Starfleet is absolute, but then Data would probably find a loophole in the rules somewhere, which the Admiral would have to begrudgingly accept.  But seriously, you can’t tell me that premise is any less preposterous than a good chunk of season one.

Troi-SPIRACY: In an earlier post, I put forth a scenario that Troi has actually been faking her empathic abilities in order to get her lousy mom off her back, and now she’s in too deep to admit the truth. This episode would seem to refute that theory outright as evidenced by the use of her abilities on Armus, but she’s not fooling me!  We mustn’t forget that Troi is a professional counsellor, who attended one of the most prestigious, and well funded academies in the galaxy.  Clearly, she just used her training and experience to make some astute observations about Armus, and later attributed it to her ‘abilities’ in order to keep up the ruse.  And I know what you’re thinking, “But Troi’s counsel has always seemed hiliarously antiquated in the past, almost as if it was a caricature 80’s pop psychology”; but I maintain that even that was all part of her deception.  Think about it.  Really THINK about it.  What better way to trick everyone into believing you have superpowers than to draw attention away from them with questionable guidance?  Then, having thrown everyone off the scent, all you need to do is to utilize your intellect and sharp deductive reasoning in moments of great need, and pass it off as an ‘empathic ability.’  NICE TRY Deanna! You may have everyone else fooled, but I see you for what your really are.  A keenly proficient student of the human experience, and a valuable ally!  Consider yourself exposed, you fraud!

Worf and Tasha were clearly flirting, right? That can’t just be me.  If she hadn’t died, those two would have done the warrior tango for sure. Poor Worf. Oh well, I’m sure his future romances will all end less tragically.

#star trek the next generation #tng season 1 #skin of evil #retro review #star trek review #troispiracy #tasha yar #denise crosby #armus #worf #michael dorn #lt commander data #brent spiner #deanna troi #marina sirtis #captain picard #patrick stewart #tar monster #star trek tng #star trek #sci fi #sci fi tv #character death #80s tv #80s tv series #80s tv shows #tv show review #episodic nostalgia #joseph stefano #hannah louise shearer

[pokemon-researcher-alexander]

Adding another researcher to the long tally of RoTumblr users; nice to meet you! Firstly, how are the studies? Studying to become a professor can be quite tedious, especially under Rowan, haha. Secondly, more relevant to academia, how is the formation of Shedinja from Nincada possible? Does this imply that Nincada has sentient skin (or at the very least the ability to instill sentience into its molt)? How does Shedinja automatically inhabit an empty Pokéball?

Nice to meet you as well, sir.

The studies can be tedious, but that's true of almost any scientific profession. I'm sure you know just how much data it takes to draw any reasonable conclusions, but I usually find it to be worthwhile. (Except when three weeks of work need to be thrown out because of a faulty sensor. That's a bit frustrating.)

I'm actually not studying under Professor Rowan right now, though his lab is on the shortlist of doctoral programs I'd like to apply to next year, once I finish my Master's. I suppose that, as a student at CU, I'd technically be adjunct to Professor Oak, though I've never met him. I did meet Rowan at a League luncheon once, when I still lived in Sinnoh, and I think he's perceived as being much harsher than he actually is. It was subtle, but he definitely does have a dry sense of humor.

As far as Shedinja goes, I'm assuming that you've read research papers on your own time, and are asking which hypothesis I support, but I'll give some background for other readers.

The evolution of Nincada is essentially a black box function; we know what we start with and end with, but lack sufficient instrumentation to determine how the results are achieved. This has lead to anyone with any interest at all in evolution putting forth a hypothesis of their own.

While some, such as Shedinja spontaneously appearing from another dimension (Lund, 1997), are generally met with skepticism by the community at large, it is important to remember that they have not been disproven, and could be true, however unlikely they may seem.

That being said, three possibilities are currently perceived as the most logical, all stemming from the original assertation that, as no other Pokémon evolves into two separate organisms, Nincada must actually be two Pokémon themselves (Quackenpoker, 1995).

First is the idea of the theoretical Pokémon which evolves into Ninjask being a parasite inside Nincada (Badel, 2000). This is typically thought of as the least likely of the three, given the clear visual similarities between Nincada and Ninjask.

Second is the 'sentient skin', as you referred to it, which assumes a symbiotic relationship between the two (Entsy, 2003), where the Nincada inside gains an additional layer of protection, and the other Pokémon a more effective means of locomotion. While providing a better explanation for the aforementioned similarities, it, at least in my eyes fails to address Shedinja's typing.

Fewer than 10 Pokémon gain the Ghost type upon evolution, and of those, Decidueye and Skeledirge are the only ones to do so purely through accumulated experience. Thus, the third hypothesis, which I view as the most accurate, treats Nincada as a single Pokemon, evolving into Ninjask. However, the energy involved as evolution nears then attracts an as-of-yet undiscovered Ghost-type, which makes use of Nincada's shed skin to evolve itself, in the same vein as Karrablast using Shelmet's armor (Temin, 2004).

Shedinja automatically inhabiting a Pokéball honestly has more to do with the Pokéball than the Pokémon. As the balls are tied to your Trainer ID, they detect the genetic material from the discarded exoskeleton, and, assuming that this is still your Nincada, whose ball must have broken, automatically recapture them. It is possible to override this by releasing Nincada immediately prior to evolution, but as Shedinja prefer to remain near the Ninjask that they are tied to, they almost always allow themselves to be caught by the same trainer.

#pokémon irl #pokeask #shedinja #nincada #ninjask

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

I'm extremely happy that the two ghost-type Pokemon he has are also object Pokemon.

He needs the others: also he does not need to be bound by the six Pokemon rule.

Ghost types that are also objects:

Drifblim, cofagrigus, palossand, dhelmise (it the plant but shhh) cursola, spirtomb, and technically Rotom that funky dude. ( he already has a Litwick)

Ones that could be Loosely considered object Pokemon:

Genger( sentient shadow), marshadow (punch being in the shadows) polteageist (it's inside the teacup) trevenant (tree), gourgeist(pumpkin), Golurk . And if you stretch really far should shedinja ( literally sheded skin)

Possible ghost-type object Pokemon storys.

Cofagrigus: a great place to sleep on the go! keep trying to kill him. but will never work. (Maybe he thinks that Ingo already Mummy because his wearing rags) Ingo feeds in money. (Or straight-up wants to be ingo's coffin)

*Don't think about Ingo meeting it while he was a yamask (mask = coat) or worst alive (total lost of self once it becomes cofagrigus = immortality parallels?).

Dhelmise: man needs an ugly Pokemon and look what he found under the ocean. Probably won't live long because it's a plant (ghost comes first tho)unless. idea. the anchor is also possessed by a sea captain. Two in one. (In memory of Garbodor and Klinklang)

Mimikyu: (I'm counting it) just it to be itself and loved. doesn't want hide but sun hurts it. (this is probably before they decided to make up a costume inspired by Pikachu, ingo accidentally inspires this Behavior ) and ingo attempt to help her out. By making costumes. (Tailor is going to make sure is good one. Whenever it's not trying to kill the coat. it's making costumes for the mimikyu) (ingo snuggle forever could be your reality ~)

Spiritomb: guess where some of platinum clan went. Lol

Ghost Pokemon that would be interesting for him to have due to symbolic reasons:

Shedinja: remaining shell, entirely immobile Pokemon that does not breathe. The discard skin separate from the body gaining life. (Two Pokemon but one doesn't survive because immortality, and said surviving Pokemon is apathetic)

Golurk: made in ancient times and was ordered to protect people and Pokemon. But it fears that its seal in his chest will get removed which will cause it to rage indiscriminately. also somehow can fly around in the sky in Mach speeds??? Could be found left abandoned with no energy? maybe Ingo actually made one himself by total accident? (I mean they already existed in legends of Arceus but it would be cool)

this is the Council. it's a bunch of old ghost types who have Been Around and maybe ingo's figured out how to talk to them, i think that was proposed at some point... so these are his fellow immortals who've had a few centuries to Figure Out how to run a place and now they're like advisors.

why are you being so MEAN to DHELMISE i love the idea of it being possessed by the spirit of a sea captain though. he taps it for nautical wisdom and a fellow transit appreciator

AWW TAILOR ADOPTING MIMIKYU new afterlife goal after deciding to call off the war with ingo's coat: look after this soft lil shadow baby.

actually maybe ingo stole volo's spiritomb? since that one would be another immortal and volo definitely doesn't deserve it. why volo canonically has a spiritomb in the first place, though, i have no idea. that, OR it's vessa's spiritomb. it has a lot of knowledge on account of being like fifty ghosts in one, it's just getting the knowledge sorted out of that big mess that's the issue

#the nemesis speaks #the nemesis answers #anonymous #platinum clan

[owl-house-incorrectly]

just, your normal hydration reminder is all, done by your sentient little guys, sentient little bottles yes.

i think it's funny how they advocate for the drinking of their liquids, maybe a bit morbit but i feel as if that's because im applying human traits to them, which, makes sense given they litterally have eyes a mouth and a pair of arms, but if they want to get rid of the water it must be nothing more than a weight to them

which is also quiet depressing thinking about it, given water bottles are litterally made to store water, and what a pitiful existence that it, to be made with the sole purpose of being filled with a weight of, and the moment you do you're discarded, left to the bins then to the dumb if not some random street or sea somewhere

still, after a life where youve known nothing more than sitting than a storage house only to be carried off to sit on shelves shortly afterwards, to be bought, to have that weight taken off, then to be placed to the bins where you then get sent to the dumps, will they even feel it? they wont be distributed by the scent as they have to way to process it, still they have eyes, they have mouths

ones kept close, amd likely, from the image, there's a high chance that it's something theyre unable to open, likely a vestige left by evolution, made out to be useless due to their current form

what was life like for them? before turning into a bottle?

still past that, it's a bold assumption to say that their hands even have sensors, and an even bolder one to say they'll be repulsed by trash, the smell of left over rot shouldn't be a thing that fazes them after all, evolution has no reason to make that happen, their bodies are immune to it, there's no inherent repulsion made there given such n such isn't a threat to their existence

still, these are beings that are able to feel empathy, that's why there's the hydration reminder, but are they really given how that reminder is only there to benefit their existence? or, does that even do so? is it just a brash assumption that it must be a weight to them and not something they inherently wouldn't mind the lost or gain of

and yet something they encourage to give away cause they know doing so would help more.than keeping it for themselves, and yet, what do they get for it? discarsion, abandonment, an eternity to a place filled where the corpses of their breatheren lie

yet still, that is a fate not inherently cruel, to live life with an ever changing scenery, from worms, and the sky, to racoons, and yet there's still the fact that you'd be living, lying with the mangled bodies of your kin, as distant to them as a cat is to us, to be made of the same flesh, but to exist with different fur, with different forms, and then there's the possibility to get buried in them, to not see the light of day or to feel much else other than the mangled skin of those who were also in the hands of the beings, to even see the crushed dented bodies of your kind and see how dirty theyve gotten

still, maybe a sea life would fare better, a life in the sea being carried by the tides, seeing the sun and the moon and the birds and fishes and plants and rock and coral that roam the land

and yet, and yet, to see what happens to those like you there, to get eaten to get swallowed, to see that bits and pieces of those like you are trapped inside vital parts of your breatheren one too many times for it to be a coincidence to know that you're only moments away from getting eaten, whatever that might entail, and potentially killing a being for something you can't control

and then there's being recycled, to be torn apart, to live having your peices not quite complete, or seperate, or put together in a way that's wrong

all without knowing the people whove done so to you believe it's for the better, because it is, you're being torn apart bit by bit by bit, and rebuilt into something else, because people wont accept you otherwise, because you'd likely be sent out to trash otherwise, that people would rather peice you apart and build you back up seperate or missing or wrong because theyd likely throw you away otherwise and youd do more harm than good cause of their own decisions, cause of their own inability to accept you for as you are without someone feeling the need to throw you away.

what a tragic pitiful existence these water bottles that tell you to hydrate live

This is really depressing, but reusable water bottle instead i guess?

#thisisanamewhatahappyname #owl asks

[mrsflmer]

👾Note for deuce spade robot au design!

Hair.

Hair texture: smooth and soft but it gets tangled easily.

hair style: a messy mullet. dark blue hair color with a bit of blonde streaks from the time he dyed it but when he decided to get rid of the blonde hair dye but there was still some blonde dye left on his hair and when he tried getting rid of it, he failed and he just left it alone.

eyes.

eye color: bright cyan. there's a spade marking on his left eye just like all the spade robots that was made.

eye design: His eyelashes are not that long. he has a natural eye liner to make his eyes stand out. his eyes are sharp but when near his companion his eyes will turn from sharp eyes to doe-eyes.

HIS EYES GLOW IN THE DARK AND CAN BE USED AS A FLASHLIGHT

body design.

marking: there is a spade mark on his chest and the color is similar to his skin tone. there are scratches on his body that he got from trying to fight off people that were trying to steal his parts. there are some marks that are from the time when you fixed him up and sewed his skin together with metal thread ( that were made for repairers who fixes up robots )

body type: not buff nor lanky/skinny. although there ARE some muscles on him just not that noticeable when he's wearing clothes.

clothes.

will type later lolz.

note:

the spade robot you found is different from the other deuce spade robots that's currently on sale!

The spade robot you found is sentient and was the first ever spade robot that was made but was soon bought by a rich man that treated the robot like a son but was soon discarded because the rich man decided to adopt a real human boy.

ps. he was made to be a fighting robot for robot betting matches.

#. . .👾👾

[infernal-fire]

five types of love.

what to expect: smut, swearing, friends w/ benefits arrangement, mention of Imposter syndrome, fluff, angst, heartbreak, overstimulation, implied creampie, rough sex

a/n: a little warning; you will be choosing your ending - there is a happy one and a sad one. a huge shoutout to @mollygetssherlockcoffee​ and @angrybirdcr​ for talking to me about the fic and offering such amazing advice! and @tuiccim​ was so damn lovely, even offered to beta this (though all mistakes are my own).

summary: you once heard that there were eight types of love. you only knew of five; the five that caused you to fall for one, blue-eyed menace.

Ludus: uncommitted, casual love that can attribute to a flirtatious and fun conquest. Not to be mistaken for Eros.

“I think we’re forgetting the reason why the mission failed in the first place. If the older fellow took a suggestion once in a-”

“-Tony, you know damn well that there were civilians in there.”

Steve and Tony glared at each other from across the briefing room. The tension in the room was exorbitant, but then again, it had been that way since Bucky joined the team. 

“This is exactly why we need the new girl. You super-soldiers and billionaires are getting tangled up in each others’ asses and forgetting about what it’s like for the normal people,” Rhodey sighed.

“The last thing we need is another trainee fucking up orders,” Tony snorted and began messing with his tech. The projector flipped through random screens, FRIDAY most likely filtering out the irrelevant news. 

“If you have a problem, maybe you should say it to his face,” Steve seethed, now standing up to match Tony’s stance. Usually, this type of jab at Bucky wouldn’t rile him up, but the super-soldier was at his wit’s end following the events of the latest mission.

Beside him, Bucky lightly tugged on his friend’s hand, signalling him to disengage.

“You’re with them?” Tony incredulously questioned Rhodey. 

“I’m with the idea of calming this room down.”

“Besides, she’s already been prepped for her first mission,” Natasha piped up. “We’re supposed to have a sit-down in 5 minutes... that is, if you boys can get your shit together.”

The room broke out into a chorus of muttering and everyone settled in their seats again. Captain strode to the front of the room and pulled up his game plan, fiddling with the map FRIDAY was projecting. 

You, on the other hand, could not decide how to act in front of the Avengers: Laidback? They wouldn’t take you seriously. Know-it-all? No, that was Stark’s play. Timid Tiffany? If you wanted to seem secretly conceited? Sure. That would work for now.

When Vision floated out to bring you in, you didn’t even flinch at the unforeseen phasing. Impressed at your lack of a reaction, Vision faltered before ever-so-courteously introducing himself. 

Could this sentient being laugh of his own volition? You gave him your name and dramatically curtsied to test your theory; he could laugh, and you were pleasantly surprised to find that it was not at all robotic. 

You felt the room intently eye you as you ambled to your seat beside one, blue-eyed menace. You half-expected the team to introduce themselves, but who were you kidding - anyone could hear the argument from three corridors away. There was no point in pretending like they wanted you here, but that wouldn’t deter you.

You glanced at your neighbour, met with the pleasant face of the one and only. James Buchanan Barnes was known to be a handsome devil, but the reputation of the Winter Soldier often precedes him; that, unfortunately, does not stop you from eyeing him. 

When he caught your stare, you scolded yourself. You’re such a creep. 

When he smirked at your ogling, you praised yourself. Oh, hello there. 

This is gonna be fun.

Eros: sexual, passionate love that is fueled by lust.

It didn’t happen after the first mission; he had the decency to wait until the fourth mission to knock on your door. 

You had been putting away the last of your belongings, finally adjusting to the grandiose living conditions the Avengers Tower provided.

As soon as you unlocked your knob, the door flung open; Bucky's stare was partially inhibited by his hooded eyes. He hadn’t always looked at you like that. 

Like what?

With unadulterated craving. 

That day, he strode in like he owned the place. You didn’t expect the shove that caused you to land on your bed with an oomph. Bucky wasted no time, climbing onto your form, straddling you. By the time you understood what was happening, a single finger was pressed into your lips.

“Either tell me you don’t want this right fucking now,” he leaned in, close to your face, “or shut the fuck up and let me use you.”

You whimpered in response.

“Not good enough.”

“Use me.”

That’s all the affirmation he needed. 

You pushed off the bed to try and meet his lips but he firmly pinned you down by your shoulders. Bucky reached into your panties and circled your clit without hesitation. It only took some swivelling, his intense gaze and the unexpected plunge of his fingers in your channel to make you see stars. Bucky had made you come before kissing you.

When he finally slotted his lips against yours, it was nothing short of all-consuming; you hadn’t even realized the absence of clothes on your body. Had it been ten minutes? Or thirty? It was hard to tell when you were being ravaged by another.

He made you come twice more: once with his fingers’ repeated dipping and pressing into the soft, spongy part of your cunt. The second time was with the talented sucking and flicking of his tongue. Technically, it was the third time.

None of your past partners had been this steadfast in their duty to pleasure you. You were already putty in his hands, ready to be moulded according to his needs. Part of you was ready to tap out, unable to fathom the likelihood of coming over his cock again, but the better half of you needed it.

In your orgasmic haze, you failed to notice that his clothes were being discarded - if you did, it would have given you the opportunity to gawk at the body that you so desperately wanted to see shirtless. When you finally registered his naked person, your hand involuntarily traced the connection between the metal arm and flesh. He threw his head back and groaned before kissing you again. 

He pulled off, just enough to get a good look. 

“Look at you, all fucked out. I didn’t even put my cock in.”

He pumped his shaft with fervour before pushing the blunt head against your slit. You winced at his attempt to put it in.

“Made you cum three times and you’re still too fucking tight,” he muttered and ran his length up and down your folds. Once he had accumulated enough slick he tried again, this time, successful.

You moaned as he slowly sunk in and buried his cock to its absolute limit. If the walls of your pussy had a voice, it would be absolutely hoarse. You also realized that he only bestowed the three orgasms in hopes of reprieving the pain of the stretch. Without the preparation, he might have torn you in half.

When he began moving, the only thing that was slow or soft about him was his lips against your skin. The thrusts were punishing; if it wasn’t obvious that he was angry before, this made it clear as day.

You screamed and moaned, alternating between keening and arching your back; the pleas did nothing to falter his furious pace. The smacking of your skin was only heightened by the slick that your cunt produced in attempts to accommodate his length. Every time he pulled out, his balls were connected to your sex with a string of come.

If someone told you that you could come five times within forty minutes, you would have face painted and dressed them up like a clown.

Now you laid in bed, being used like a rag doll, begging Bucky to stop you from coming a sixth time that session. It was usually the dirty talk that got you off, but he hadn’t said anything aside from the occasional ‘shut up’ or ‘shhh’. His movements alone had you convulsing around his length.

His thrusts didn’t get sloppy. Rather, they increased in force, as his cock sought space beyond your cervix. You tried to scream, but all that came out was more broken tears and cries. At last, he let out a pornographic moan as his load flooded your insides. Sure, you had let past boyfriends come in you, but you never actually felt the liquid shoot up inside you, until today.

Following the pop sound that his cock made as it pulled out, you whined again. You could feel your heartbeat throb down there. 

He flipped you onto your stomach and smacked your ass, laughing at the way you sobbed in pain before disappearing from your room altogether. 

He was gone as fast as he showed up. 

And he ruined everyone else for you.

In all fairness... you asked for it.

Philia: the deep, virtuous love that is formed in a good friendship. Lovers share a strong bond when Eros and Philia feed into each other.

What started as a release from the frustrations that accrue on the battlefield turned into a deep connection that neither of you had anticipated. Sex had only been used as a tool in the act of psychological detachment until that day. 

It was a failed date of some sort: either you had been stood up or the guy was a total moron. You could wrack your brain for the memory, but in any matter, it was all irrelevant now. 

You were upset, not just at your lack of a love life, but at the imposter syndrome that had weaselled its way into your liveliness. Feeling like you weren’t enough was catching up to your daily life and even Bucky had noticed the hesitation during your post-mission escapades. 

Before you knew it, your hand was knocking on Bucky’s door at the ripe hour of 1 AM. 

You heard the muffled thumps of his footsteps and considered booking it out of there, but before you made up your mind, the door opened.  As you had predicted, Bucky was wide-awake. 

“What?” 

You had wanted to sass him for his tone but decided against it since you were the one who interrupted his 1 AM activities. You shook your head from the clouds and mumbled incoherently, starting to walk away. The coldness of his metal arm abruptly gripped your wrist.

“Are you okay?”

You hated that question. You could be doing so good, holding in the burden of a horrible week, but the moment someone asks you that question, the dam would disintegrate into dust, only to be washed away by the inevitable waterworks. 

The sob you let out didn’t loosen his hold. He let you cry and watched as you tried to wipe away the unrelenting tears, still refusing to close the gap between your bodies. Finally, you shuffled into his arms where he bear-hugged you, cupping the back of your neck and holding it to the junction of his neck. 

"You smell nice,” you sniffled. 

He lightly chuckled before dragging you into his room and seating you on the bed. He ordered you to stay there and rummaged around his cupboard before pulling out a bottle with red liquid sloshing around. 

“You keep that in your room?” you snickered, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, before blanching at your state. Hell, he had seen you naked, how you look right now is the least of your concerns. 

“In case of emergencies,” he winked. “This seems like a real emergency.”

A fresh wave of tears pooled in your waterline as you peered at your hands that were picking at each other. 

“I don’t have wine glasses, so we can just chug.”

Bucky stuck out the bottle and you grasped it firmly before gulping one-fourth of it. That’s all the coaxing it took to get you to spill. 

You don’t even remember what you talked about, but before either of you realized, 3 AM blinked on the digital clock that hung above the bed frame. You were almost asleep, now resting on Bucky’s lap while he occasionally hummed or offered his two cents. Right before you drifted off, the super-soldier lifted you, placing you under a cover. He climbed in from the other side, one hand cupping your face, the other snaking around your waist.

“Thanks, Buck.”

“It’s gonna be okay. You’re okay,” he whispered.

Your eyes drooped but swiftly opened as Bucky leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. His lips barely touched yours, grazing their presence, but you moved, tenderly catching them. He returned the movement, the delicacy of his actions reflected in the softness of his eyes. 

You pulled away and the two of you wordlessly bore into each other’s eyes. At last, you succumbed to the fatigue, as did he; both of you resting in the others’ possession. 

Mania: an unhealthy, obsessive love that plagues the mind.

It was the third time Bucky didn’t show up at your door after a mission. Three missions, each of them ending in something that would have indubitably pissed him off - after all, they were HYDRA bases. That’s when you first suspected it.

The second was when you noted his intentional avoidance of your presence. Whether it be the kitchen, the gym or the hallways, the stealthy ex-assassin didn’t have trouble actively dodging you. Initially, you chalked it up to wanting space or simply taking a break.

Then you heard it.

Why was it that your gut told you to go right then? All this time you had been biding, yet it was at this precise moment that your hunch asked you to speak to him. It could’ve been the duration of the month that it took you to prepare yourself, but it had to be now. You raised your hand, prepping to knock on the door, but stopped.

Your hand froze mid-air. The elegant laugh of another girl sounded behind the door. It was faint, the noise slightly suppressed by the wall between you. 

It could be anyone. 

But it wasn’t. Your intuition, the one that told you to come here right now, was wise enough to know that this wasn’t just anyone. It was her. 

You cupped your mouth to stop the sob that threatened to liberate itself from the confines of your constricted airway. You fell forward, onto your knees, as if to pray to the gods to not let it happen. But it already did.  You let go of your mouth, gasping for air from holding your breath all this time. 

Shoulders sagged and spine bent, you stalked back to your room like a zombie. Face devoid of all emotion, you fell onto the corner of your bed and crumpled into a ball.  For twelve hours, you laid there. Sometimes sleeping, other times letting the tears leak out of the corners of your eyes. Memories of his fingers weaving through your own, the pleasures that chilled you to the bone. Most of all, the way you held his head to your chest as he whimpered about the nightmares that invaded his nights. It felt like those things happened to someone else. Nothing more than a distant memory.

Your heart clenched, tugging on the heartstring that you once thought was connected to him.

-

It was as if he knew you stood outside his door that day. There was an unspoken agreement to never speak of it. Yes, yes, don’t ever speak of it. The dam that you built so carefully will come crashing down.  He stopped avoiding you, but you wished he didn’t; it was crueller to be reminded, easier to pretend he didn’t exist. 

Be honest with yourself.

You didn’t pretend like he didn’t exist. 

In fact, the first thought after waking up? Bucky. Last thought before going to sleep? My Buck. Every time he wasn’t around? James Buchanan Barnes.

Please, don’t act like every waking moment isn’t spent loving him. Because deep down, you know what’s true.

He never did introduce the mystery girl to anyone at the Tower, but you knew his disappearance after missions could be credited to her. Did he take out his anger on her as he did to you? Or were you nothing more than a toy?

Guilt was one of the few emotions you could make out from the rare occasions you caught his stare. Longing was there too, but you couldn’t be sure that you weren’t projecting.  Months went by, waiting for thoughts of him to abandon your disturbed mind. The time never came.

As promised, he ruined anyone else for you. 

Pragma: the type of love that endures all shortcomings. Committed relationships that stay in love have an element of significant Pragma to them.

a happy ending.

That relationship may have ended but it didn’t mean he would come back to you.

He did come back. But he wasn’t yours.  Bucky made that clear when two more relationships ensued the last. Each time, the buffer period between them was filled by you. 

His back-up plan. That’s what you had been reduced to. 

After the third time he brought a new girl, you’d think you would be used to it, maybe even uncaring. Unfortunately, the opposite would always prevail.

Steve caught your fist and tutted, commenting on the bad form. You stopped, shook your shoulders and began hopping on the balls of your feet again.  Jab, jab. Swing.  At first, you’d imagine the faces of those girls. Nowadays, it was easier to envision the pads Steve held as his best friend’s face. 

“Bucky’s girl broke up with him.”

“Oh,” you made out, focus slightly wavering. 

“You know what happened?”

“Are you asking me ‘cause you wanna know or because you already know?”

“I already know,” he sighed, lowering the hand pads. 

He exhaled your name, shaking his and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “When are you two gonna stop playing around?”

“I really don’t understand, Steve.”

“You know why she broke up with him?” You blinked, tongue poking the inside of your cheek in anticipation of an answer. 

“He moaned your name during sex.” 

“God, that’s so corny,” you huffed, now beginning to make your way out of the boxing ring. 

“So what, you’re gonna do nothing? Keep letting him use you?” Steve jogged to catch up to you.

“No,” you faced him, “I’m not letting him use me as a fallback anymore. I’m putting an end to it.” 

Steve pursed his lips and shot you and exasperated look before shaking his head.  “Don’t let something good go to waste.”

It used to be something good.

You wondered if you could hold up the promise you had just declared to Steve; in the past, you failed every time he showed up at your door. Bucky knew exactly how to play into your emotions, how to say the right things every time. And just like that, the next morning you’d end up in his arms. That stops today.

Determined, you practically punched the button to go up on the elevator and impatiently tapped your foot. As the doors slid closed, you took one look at yourself and turned away, fighting the urge to fix your appearance for him. The doors opened again and you check the floor number, ready to step out, but stopped at the sound of your name.  His ex. You almost ran off, unwilling to put up with an angry ex, but she called on you again. You sheepishly stood there, as if you were the one who did something wrong, until she stepped in and pressed the button to go to the lobby.

The silence stretched on, much like your patience. Does she even know who you are?

“We were both fooling ourselves.”

You turn to check if she was speaking to you. Her stare was unwavering and she maintained eye contact that almost made you squirm.

“We both love different people.” She smiled, an obvious melancholy tainting her face. You stood there, absolutely clueless as to how you should respond.

“It’s too late for me, but it’s not for the two of you. Just... don’t let him go. He’s one of the good ones.”

You turned again, now looking down at the ground. Even if she expected you to say something back, it was impossible, at this point. Your mind was in shambles, everything she said contradicting the choice you made five minutes ago. 

After what seemed like an eternity, the doors opened and she stepped out. She turned one last time and nodded as if you knew what to do now. 

Bucky’s door was unlocked. You called out his name, barely above a whisper and sauntered with hesitation lining your every step.  Nothing. Empty. He wasn’t there. 

It was a sign. You almost ignored the advice his ex gave, ready to walk into his room and end things. Your shoulder slumped as if your bore the weight of the world on them as you slunk back to your room. Now it would take another outburst or another month to prepare yourself to talk to him again.

As the days went by, you barely saw him around. It reminded you of the times he intentionally ignored you, except this time, you weren’t sure it was intentional. When you did see him, it was clear that he wasn’t doing good; his beard was unkept and scraggly, the bags under his eyes heavier than any trauma he carried. You pretended as though you didn’t notice and went about your routine. 

1 AM

A knock sounded at your door. You knew who it was, how could you not, but hoped it wasn’t him anyway. The encounter would most likely end with tears or sex and you didn’t favour either outcome. 

You waited a minute. Maybe he would leave if he assumed you were asleep. The knock sounded again.

You cracked the door open.  Whatever you were expecting, surely, it wasn’t this. Eyes red and puffy, it was clear he had been crying and most definitely not sleeping. 

He held up a wine bottle, and chuckled pathetically at himself. 

“Maybe this is bad idea,” he sniffled and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his left arm. 

It didn’t feel right to say anything. Rather, you opened the door wider and beckoned for him to step in.

“Emergency?” you asked with a little smile. God, you were so close to crying and he hasn’t even said anything.

“Oh yeah. Big emergency.”

He sat on your bed and felt the sheets, trying to remember the feeling of it on his knees. The days he would buck into you while you clutched them like a vice. The soldier pursed his lips and watched as you settled beside him.

“You don’t have to talk... if you don’t want to,” you said. Your voice cracked and you almost smacked yourself for being so weak around him. 

“But I do. I should talk. I have so much to say... Can I explain?” He turned to face you, reaching out for your hands, holding them in his own. You didn’t say anything, opting to return his request with a pleading look in your eyes. He knew what the look meant: just don’t break my heart. Again. He took a deep breath in acknowledgement, trying to form the words that would help you understand. 

“I can’t believe I hurt you. I swear, I didn’t know I was doing it, at first.” You mustered your best unbelieving look, almost scoffing for good measure. “No, really,” he hastily added. 

A few tears streamed down your face and you frantically tried to wipe them. Bucky took one look at you before he began breaking down, tears slipping down his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to cry... I just- I don’t understand? I thought things were good?” you questioned. You had given up on trying to wipe your tears, as did he.

“I wasn’t supposed to fall for you. And by the time I realized, we were so far in. Then I found a distraction... and I really thought I was over you,” he paused, wondering if he should continue or not. You showed no sign of speaking up, so he went on.

“I didn’t think you cared. I didn’t think you felt the same way. I was so convinced that you wouldn’t blink twice but then... but, I-... I heard you at the door that day. I wanted to kick her out and hold you, but I-...”

“But you what? You what, Bucky?”

“I thought it was too late for us. I thought I ruined everything.”

“Then why are you here now?”

“Don’t be mad,” he murmured, retracting his hands and fiddling with his fingers.

“I don’t think anyone can ever replace what we had. Maybe... still have? Because you’re it for me. I’m sorry it took me this long to realize that. I was on the brink of losing myself.” He looked up at you, eyes brimming with a new wave of tears. He mumbled your name weakly, croaking out a please at the end.

You curled in on yourself and fell into his arms, hoping that was enough of a answer.

“I can’t promise you that everything will be back to normal by tomorrow morning... but with some time, I can learn to trust you again.”

Above you, Bucky hurriedly nodded. At the state he’s in right now, you suspected that you could ask him to sell his soul and he would agree.

“And if you ever break my heart again-,” 

“-I would die before that happens,” he finished for you, kissing the top of your head for good measure.

“I love you,” you whimpered, “so fucking much.” 

“I love you too. I really love you too,” he affirmed and encased you with his arms again.

Though there had been some rough patches on the road to happiness, with Bucky by your side, you felt as though you could make it through anything; for that, is the power of pragmatic love.

an unfortunate ending.

The tears that would’ve been shed during the ceremony have dried on your pillowcase about five hours ago. Now, you sat beside the team, waiting for her to walk down the aisle. 

Bucky looked nervous, as if he were reconsidering his life decisions. The little devil on your shoulder was holding onto every little thing he did: the wrinkle of his forehead, his repeated tugging on the suit and his flustered glancing around. Oh lord, and when he accidentally locked eyes with you? You may have bitten your lip and looked away in contempt but the shoulder-devil was as persistent as ever.

He secretly still wants you.

Shut up.

He wants to call it off.

Get a life.

At last, the lucky girl stood at the end of the winding path and you couldn’t help but sneak a look at the groom. His tension and nervousness crumbled at the sight of her; it was difficult not to feel happy that he had found the one that made him feel this way. 

It may have been him for you, but that notion was long forgotten, a nuisance of memory at most. Your love for him, regardless of the storms it has endured, is no longer respected or wanted by either party.

If he loves her, why does he come to you when things get bad?

You shook your head at that, having no answer for the nature of his secret infidelity. It was nothing more than taking out his frustrations on you - much like the old days.

Your reminiscing was cut short when a voice asked everyone to rise for the bride. You stood and straightened out your outfit, flicking off the little white petal that clung to your maroon dress. A hand grasped your own, and you turned to see Steve smile reassuringly. You squeeze his hand in appreciation and turned your attention to the white-clad figure walking down the aisle.

And that’s all you remember. You wish you could recall the rest of the wedding. You really do. Too preoccupied with what was going to happen after the event, you disassociated from the ordeal altogether. No matter how hard you grilled yourself, nothing would come to mind - dissociative amnesia only occurs as a protective coping mechanism during traumatic events; was that what Bucky’s wedding was to you?

What type of question is that?

For once, you agreed with the little red beast that sat on your shoulder. Long ago, the first time you saw someone else Bucky’s arms, the devil pierced the pitchfork right through the angel’s heart. These days, it was all you could think of. 

After the bride and groom exchanged ‘I do’s’, you willed yourself to stay a while longer. Your only companion, Steve, slow danced with you in silence, knowing that whatever he says would be of no consolation. Bucky did have half a mind to ask you for a dance, but he saw you leave. You didn’t think anyone did. He waited for you to turn and look at him one last time, but you never did. It’s okay, he thought. I didn’t deserve her anyway.

No one saw you after that.

On your bed, Steve found a single note that didn’t explain anything more than what he already knew. If anything, it simply affirmed that you were gone for good. Your things packed up, no trace of a person ever having lived there. Even if he pulled some strings, it would take years to find you again. 

After all, you had already been lost for quite some time.

hey folks. i know this seems a little desperate-sounding but i would really appreciate reblogs and would absolutely love to hear your thoughts on the story. what was you favourite part? which part made you feel some way? i really love knowing these things. love each and every single one of you.

Masterlist

Shoot me a message or fill out the form in my bio to be added to my tag list!

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan fic #sebastian stan character #bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you

[anarchy-and-piglins]

Phil didn't particularly enjoy his job.

He supposed that was to be expected when one was tasked to dealing so closely with death and decay. An unending stream of souls passed his path – no similitude between their age or gender, their species, or even the manner with which they had perished. Phil found them and with the touch of a hand helped them to their feet, waving away all mortal burdens so they could pass on.

His task was merely to play the guide, he did not need to do anything beyond that. Who died was not up to him, neither was where they went after. Moral judgment was better left up to the deities, and Phil was not a god. But he could offer some kind of solace in their final moments, wipe the pain from their face and help them depart to whatever it was they were destined for next. Over time he had gathered expertise at comforting the dying.

Some wanted to be held as they died, both arms wrapped tightly around Phil's waist and rapid heartbeat slowing to a tilt. Others talked until they ran out of breath, recounting snippets of the stories they had lived or simply told Phil how scared they were to die with sobs shaking their chest. Then he would wipe away their tears and console them with the knowledge that soon all pain would fade. Others still were content in the silence, their only fear dying alone and forgotten. Phil sat with them in company, humming a song to himself that he hoped eased their way into death.

Then he would touch them carefully, their soul a bright burning like a flame held to his open palm. He would guide them where they needed to go, and not dwell on if their passing was just or not.

People had mistaken him to be the angel of death before, never mind the fact that this title was an oxymoron by nature. Phil knew it probably had to do with his wings, long feathers stretched out behind him in an arch of dark grays and black. It was a wrong assumption people made about him which he regarded with patient allowance, sometimes even aiding the moniker in its spread. He didn't mind if that was what people thought him to be.

But being an angel of death would imply he brought death with him where he went, a harboring of future loss yet to come. On the contrary, Phil felt as if he was always one step behind, chasing a shadow that fled before him and took lives where it settled. He arrived at the battlefield long after the banners had already been torn down, the ground reduced to a jutting landscape of limbs and discarded weapons. He crossed the sea of corpses – detached to the sense of dread such a scene would induce in normal people – and set about guiding the soul he had been tasked to find onward.

The sight of a man barely into his thirties, frightened expression frozen on his face when the javelin had been driven into his chest, made his heart clench.

Phil didn't particularly enjoy his job, no. But it was an obligation that needed to be filled, and he had been the one chosen to do so.

He only strayed from that path a handful of times.

The first time he did, the sunlight was bright. The air was filled with an sense of exhilaration, the rushing of people along cobblestone streets and children shrieking as they played between their parents' legs. Phil drew his robe closer around himself; even after all this time he was filled with unease.

His work didn't often call him to places so full of life – so full of happiness – unless something terrible was about to happen. And he braced himself for the consequences.

But instead, the pull on his soul was languid, small tugs towards the town's bustling square. A slow death then, somebody slipping away into old age? He traced his eyes along the houses, wondering if that was all it was. Natural causes rarely needed his services. Souls that passed on in a tranquil fashion wouldn't require guidance to find the afterlife. It was those that struggled with accepting death that concerned his labor.

Instead, his gaze fell on a shape standing hunched over on the edge of the square and Phil felt his heart drop.

The boy couldn't be too old, barely a teenager to most. His matted, curly dark hair was half-hidden under a beanie and his long legs were slightly shaking beneath his thin frame. Despite the tremble, he was playing an old guitar, deft fingers moving smoothly along the string. As Phil approached he could hear the music the boy was playing, a tune of his own devising no doubt. Phil liked it.

The crowd must not agree. The boy's basket, a small thing with cloth at the bottom to keep coins from falling through the cracks, was empty. People hurried past, barely giving the musician a second glance, and even if they stopped to watch him play for a moment, they didn't leave a contribution behind. Humans could be disgustingly selfish like that.

As Phil observed more closely he could tell why he was here.

How long had the boy been doing this? Traveling around from town to town and settling only long enough to play his music in the hopes some would take pity on him and offer money for his skill. Whatever luck he had found must have been few and far between. His bones were too visible beneath the skin, his cheeks hollowed out and sunken. Bright eyes that Phil somehow knew were supposed to spark with life had become dull in the face of malnutrition.

And still the boy was playing.

After a few minutes more – during which Phil simply watched – the boy grew too tired to continue much longer. He sunk down onto his knees with a sigh, the guitar cradled in his lap protectively. The only valuable possession he was most likely to have. His shoulders sagged as he pushed a hand against his empty stomach, scrunching his face up from what Phil assumed must be pretty horrible hunger pains. He didn't seem to have the strength to raise his head again.

Phil approached, tipping his hat in the belief that it would make him seem less threatening to the starved teen. "That was some lovely playing."

With strenuous effort, the boy looked up at him and despite the circumstances, offered him a lopsided grin. From up closer, Phil could tell how young he really was. "Thanks man, I wrote it myself."

Just as he had expected. It pulled at Phil, the physical thrumming of a soul about to leave its body as it succumbed to starvation. And it was cruel, as the humans behind them walked along the town square, buying food from stands and trading for gold. Meanwhile, a child sat here starving because there was nobody to look after him.

A sharp inhale from Phil to ground himself. Time slowed down around them as he unfurled his wings, all other movement slowing down by the molasses-like pull of his power. Only the boy would be able to see, but his eyes widened nonetheless.

"Oh," he said, a small sigh of resignation. He didn't seem surprised. "You're here to take me away right?"

"I am," Phil confirmed quietly. He wasn't too used to people staying this calm in the face of his true form.

The boy smiled again, more timid and broken through by exhaustion not of his age. He had already reconciled with what was about to happen. Phil knelt down in front of him.

"Are you scared?"

"I guess not," the boy answered. "There's just... just a lot more I wanted to do, you know?"

Phil couldn't. He couldn't know because he had been immortal since the first dawn. He had no grasp on the concept that was the painfully human fear of running out of time. But he nodded anyway. Holding out his hand, he hesitated only a moment before touching the tips of his fingers to the boy's forehead.

His soul glowed dimly in his ribcage, proof that he was running out of life. The color was a stunning yellow, woven through with odd traces of blue. Like a sunrise being steadily overtaken by the noon sky. Within lay the power of creation, the power to bring words and music to completion. Phil didn't know what came over him, but he felt pity for this boy's death.

Then he felt it. The push was subtle, a tingle down his spine and he leaned into it, wondering what would happen. How painful it would be for him. "What's your name?" he asked.

The boy opened his eyes, slipped close from fatigue. "Wilbur."

Phil pushed harder and the horrible feeling of draining that came over him was hard to bear. Dizzy as it made him, he kept at it. Emptiness washed over him, but then he noticed the way Wilbur's eyelashes fluttered, the way his chest heaved in for a deep breath.

Returning life to a mortal had been a first for him.

Wilbur blinked wearily, probably confused by his sudden surge of energy. The absent hunger that had plagued him for weeks. "Wha-"

"Wilbur," Phil said softly, as time resumed its restored flow around them. His wings had been retracted and Phil stood with a feeling like he had permanently lost something important. "How would you like to travel some more? With me."

The second time he did it, the world was struck through with red.

Phil huffed to himself and removed his hat to fan his face with it instead. He quite despised being sent into the nether – something that had only occurred on rare occasions.

It wasn't that his services weren't appropriate to this dimension. Death permeated this place more than any other he had visited during his travels, naturally dangerous terrain and many hostile creatures making it an unwelcoming venture. But the few sentient beings that lived and thrived in the nether did not have the same qualms with death as most did, not fearing it as the end of all things temporary.

Some even revered it as the final blaze of glory to be feverishly sought after.

Most passed on easily, with fervor. It rarely occurred to them to resist the pull of the beyond or make the transition harder than it needed to be.

Not this time apparently. Phil traveled the cracked ground, the unpleasant heat of the lava running beneath it keeping him light on his toes. The pull was strong this time, an urgent tugging like a fish hooked on a line, meaning that whoever was dying had to be in considerable pain. He felt their panic, something bordering on sharp-set denial. A warrior not prepared to lay down his sword?

The boy he found was not a warrior.

In fact, he was barely old enough to hold a sword without the weight of it crushing him. He did have a blade, tiny fist curled tightly around the iron hilt. When he spotted Phil he clutched it firmly and raised it in an ill-concealed threat. Or maybe a gesture of self-preservation.

The warning held little weight when the boy was clearly making an effort to keep standing on his feet. Long strands of pink hair stuck to his face and back – slick with sweat and blood. Fresh cuts and bruises were hardly distinguishable from older scars and the signs of battles wrought long ago. The deepest gash ran along the boy's side and over his chest, still seeping red and probably soon to be fatal. Phil frowned.

"Hey, calm down." He held up his arms placatingly. "I'm not going to hurt you." Not technically a lie, of course.

The boy grunted at him, a low visceral noise that could hardly be called human. Phil realized why a moment later, as he stepped closer and finally realized the person in front of him wasn't human either. Maybe he could be mistaken for one at a glance – aside from the peculiar color of his hair – but upon closer inspection, the illusion quickly fell through.

Sharp claws extended from the hands he used to hold his sword up with and what Phil had mistaken for clunky old shoes turned out to be hooves instead. piglin-like ears were barely visible through the boy's hair and when he made another angry sound, the beginnings of tusks yet to grow in completely revealed themselves. Well, that explained why a child would be all alone in this hellhole.

Another step forward and that was the moment Phil realized that if this child was not human his common tongue would probably not be understood. He was just starting to scour his brain for some distant knowledge of the piglin language he must surely possess when he was hit square in the forehead with a stone.

Phil yelped, blinking just in time to see the kid run off.

Well, that had certainly never happened before. Most of the people he was sent to collect didn't have the stamina left to try and outrun him. Not that it made a difference anyway, as the pull of his soul would inform him of their location no matter how far they went.

A few minutes later he already came upon the boy again, this time lying face-down on the ground, blood loss finally getting the better of him. His sword was still clutched at his side. Phil stalked over calmly, hoping to anticipate any other projectiles coming his way but the child was probably in no condition to try that stunt again. Kneeling at their head, Phil turned them around carefully.

The child's burning red eyes were half-lidded in pain and every inhale rattled inside his chest unsteadily, troubled by his slowing pulse. he was dying fast. Yet when Phil brought his hand forward the kid's own came up to snatch his wrist, pulling weakly at his arm.

It wasn't exactly fear that contorted the boy's face, Phil had seen enough people cower at the prospect of death to recognize the cowardice with which most people faced their demise. This was something else. This was resistance in its purest form, a survival instinct that ran deeper than blood could. The boy let out a subdued whine, lacking the energy for anything more, as he tried to push Phil's hand away or get free from his grip.

Once again Phil felt that familiar pity tug at him.

He pushed through the kid's feeble struggle to touch his forehead, feeling the pulsing of his soul. It became a visible swirl of misty blood, the colors presented in all shades of red - from lightest pink to a maroon so dark it seemed to steal the light away. Phil had to bite down on his own tongue when the first wave of hurting hit him.

He was familiar with pain, but mending another and bringing them from the brink of death was entirely new. It burned along Phil's veins, a liquid fire not unlike the scorching sulfur of the nether itself. The boy shifted a bit in his grasp before finally settling down and slipping into sleep, the worst of his wounds gone. Phil lifted him as he stood up, noticing he weighed next to nothing.

The stinging sensation lingered inside his nerves as he carried the child out of the nether.

The last time he did it was on a dark and stormy night.

The rain came down on Phil relentlessly, soaking his clothes and hair both. Thick droplets clung to his face and he had to wipe at his eyes continually to even be able to see three feet in front of him. He hated this, he'd much rather stay inside on an evening as miserable as this. But when the pull called Phil would answer. It wasn't like he had a choice.

And it was strange, weak in its force but forming almost a mirror image of echoes in his ribcage. Phil wasn't used to that happening often, cautious as to what it would mean. Souls rarely passed in such unison, a synchronized entwinement. The last time he had experienced this he found a mother in labor, alone and afraid as she tried to birth her child into this unforgiven world. Neither had survived the ordeal.

Phil had soothed himself with the knowledge that they would be united in the afterlife.

This pull was slightly different though, and he followed it strangely as it led him deeper into the forest. Any moment he expected a building to dawn in front of him, a secluded cabin or some other sign of civilization. The thicket never thinned out and no light filtered through a window appeared on the horizon. The pull intensified and Phil swallowed, aware of what this meant.

There were two of them, curled up close into each other to conserve their dwindling body heat. The smaller boy was unconscious, clinging to life with some stray strings of determination fast slipping away, brown hair wet and stuck in angles to his face. The other seemed to be of similar age and had blonde hair he rubbed out of his eyes. He perked his head up as he heard Phil's approach, and curled his arms tighter around the other one in a clear display of protectiveness.

Phil stood across the clearing and stared at them.

Part of him wanted to ask what they were doing out here – even if it didn't matter, even if they were already dying from the exposure to cold wearing their bones down. Stealing the heat of life from their very skin as they clung to each other in idle hope.

He didn't need to ask, however. The clothes they wore were telltale of the many orphanages Phil had needed to visit over his life, the way the fabric always seemed to come inches short and the shoes were loose on their feet, worn by a child they were not intended for. Nobody had bothered to give them proper care.

"Who's there?!" the boy who was still awake said, voice firm and puffed up with false bravado. Phil could sense the fright hiding beneath, but the boy was doing well subduing it.

He made his presence known, keeping his wings invisible for the moment as to not scare them any further. "Hey, it's okay kid-" Phil tried, volume as low and unthreatening as he could make it while still being loud enough to be perceivable over the storm. The rain made him blink fast, trying to force a smile despite the unpleasant wetness.

"Stay the fuck away!" The boy sprung up with surprising agility for somebody who must be suffering from serious hypothermia. He had a small pocket knife, the blade dull and glistening in the moonlight, which he held in front of him as if it could protect anybody. "Don't come any closer, you weirdo!"

The last word caught Phil off guard and he nearly burst out laughing. "Weirdo?"

The kid bit his lip, probably thrown by his strange reaction. "Y-yeah. Why else would some dude just be wandering the woods at night? You must be some kind of creep." He moved the knife again, but there was no urgency behind it.

He wasn't shivering either, which was a bad sign. Once you got cold enough, your body couldn't even muster the strength to shake. The unconscious boy sighed out a soft sound of discomfort and the other turned around, hastily scooting over to try and rub his friend's arms warm.

"T-tubbo, dude, don't-" he was muttering under his breath.

"What happened?" Phil asked despite himself. He knew it wouldn't help to know.

"It's none of your fucking business!" the boy answered heatedly, but his voice was already breaking down. A few more steps closer and Phil could see the tears streaking down his cheeks. He pressed both hands to his friend's face, shaking him lightly. "Tubbo, please get up we need to leave."

The smaller boy – Tubbo – murmured something but didn't wake up. Phil could tell he was already done for. The other one would be shortly behind.

He hated how the pity swelled up again, bitter and destructively human.

"I can help," he heard himself saying, and unfurled his wings to their full stature. The rain slowed, suspended in the air and the boy looked at him with weary eyes, equal measures of concern and hesitance. "Do you have a name?"

The boy started shaking his head as if he was reluctant to give it up. But then he thought better of it. "Tommy," came the clipped response.

"Tommy," Phil repeated. "May I help you? May I help your friend?"

That same uncertainty returned to his face, brow furrowed in thought and his eyes moved side to side, scrutinizing Phil's form and most likely weighing his options. He must have realized any other plans had been exhausted and gave a short nod.

Phil moved in gradually to show he meant no harm. Tommy still had most of his body put in front of Tubbo, still shielding him in case this turned out to be a bad decision. He flinched when Phil stretched out his hand, which he pretended not to notice.

His soul was almost effervescent, murky green like the shallow waters and mingles of orange and red. It seemed to move beneath Phil's touch, curious as to what was happening. Tommy's skin was clammy and cold as ice.

Feeling that same coldness in his gut, Phil pushed life into the soul. The warmth of divine light flooded out of him, tethered on the edge and he tried not to shiver under the assault, the hollow feeling that entrapped him. Tommy's paleness drew away with his efforts.

When he was done he took off his robe, soaked but at least another barrier against the wind as he threw it over Tommy's shoulders. The boy was wide-eyed, freckles dotted along his nose, and probably confused as to what was even happening. Phil eased him with a gentle smile.

"Now your friend too, yes? You can both come to my home, it will be much better there than out here in the rain."

Phil didn't particularly enjoy his job, but he enjoyed the gifts it had granted him.

His wings and the ability they gave him to travel. He had crossed wild lands and sullen deserts. He had passed by oceans and beneath skies of colors unimaginable to most. The world had lain beneath him sprawled out like a patchwork blanket as he soared the clouds, everything below so small he could hardly imagine it being real.

He had witnessed generations. He had seen the best that others could offer – and yes, the worst too but he had made the conscious decision not to dwell on that. He had known cultures and kingdoms, tasted foods and danced to music and admired flowers that had long since been forgotten to the history books.

And now he had a family too.

Phil had paid his dues. Immortality was a strange thing, a blanket that wrapped around you and made you forget you were different from others. Age never touched Phil and it still couldn't, but other things had been granted that ability.

Hunger and thirst, where it used to be that neither bothered him. When feasts were a mere indulgence instead of a necessity, they were now an aspect of survival. A blade could cut him down, where it could hardly slice his skin before. He was not invulnerable to the destroying of his body anymore. And cold and heat became a constant struggle, tiredness pulled at his mind and Phil found himself craving and needing sleep when he never had previously.

His family had made him more human than he expected, in every sense of the word.

But when he looked at them around his table, joking and laughing in jest, the radiation of souls alive and well, Phil knew it was a price he had gladly paid.

#philza #wilbur soot #technoblade #tommyinnit #tubbo #dream smp #mcyt #shara writes #psukhopompos phil #Posted this on AO3 too so if this doesn't read as easy go there uwu #long fic

[lubdubsworld]

Serenity

Genre : Horror, Supernatural, Thriller

Pairings : OT7 Vs Three OCS 

Warnings : GORE .  So much Gore. Main Character Death. 

Kang Yejin :

  Working for BTS is a dream come true for producer Lee Jerin. She knows that this is an opportunity she can’t miss. And she can’t wait to work with the genius producers who churn out hits after hits.

But something is off with the handsome idols . Something sinister and terrifying.

And when she tries to leave, she finds herself locked in a vicious circle of fear where time and space stop making sense. 

Three days later her rotting corpse is discovered in the abandoned woods of Busan, flesh gone and bones littered with bite marks. 

But the most telling sign is a complete lack of teeth . 

Kang Yejin is the detective Assigned to the case and she is horrified. But also angry. The killer was going to pay. She would make sure of it. 

Kang Somi - 

The pandemic has left her family destitute and Kang Somi has no choice but to join a cleaning company based in Gangnam. Her team of five gets hired to clean out the part of Hybe studio restricted to BTS alone and for some reason only she is allowed the clean the actual studios and the waiting areas where the members rest . 

They treat her well , if a little too friendly and she enjoys her job. 

Until one day when she cleans under Min Yoongi’s desk and finds a tooth , with skin and gums and a small piece of the jawbone still attached. 

Kang Minah - 

Kang Minah is a high end escort who caters exclusively to idols and actors. When Hybe contacts her agency she arrogantly volunteers, bragging about bringing the men who ruled the world , BTS, down to their knees. She also promises to film it for her best friend. 

Little does she know that the only thing the camera in her nipple piercing is going to capture is her own gory demise. 

BTS - 

Well, lets find out who they are on October 31 ;) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Teaser : 

The forest is sentient.

It lives and breathes and eats and kills. 

It protects but it also devours.

Stop.

Listen.

Is that the wind, howling through the trees?

Or is it the soul-eater looking for his prey?

The snap of twigs breaking,

Is it a critter or are you being hunted?

There’s death as much as there is life,

For every flower blooming bright,

A carcass lies, discarded and ignored.

The forest is sentient

And so are the wolves who rule it.

Seven in number,

They hunt, hunt, hunt.

They live and breathe, eat and kill.

They seduce but they also devour.

So stop.

And Listen.

Be careful, little bird,                  

Lest you become what they hunt.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

October 31, 2021.

“Fuck… Fuck….” Kang Yejin screamed in disbelief staring at the woman on the floor, curled into a ball and cradling her arm against her chest as she rocked back and forth on the floor. 

The cleaning woman, Somi, was it? 

She looked catatonic next to her , staring at the bloodied stump of the woman’s wrist as it gushed scarlet blood all over the place and the woman herself was staring at her own bloody wrist in shock, clearly shell-shocked and traumatized.

Somewhere in the building laughter rang out, loud and merciless.

“You can’t run from us, Minah-yah!” Jimin’s sweet, melodic voice could be heard from somewhere far away but it was getting closer, “ Kookie’s  getting really hungry hungry hungry and when the baby gets hungry we have to feed him…..one measly hand with a few sticky fingers isn’t enough for our baby…. So where are you… Minah –yah… ”

“Oh God, oh, God…. Oh fuck.. please help me…” Minah, the high end escort that Yejin had followed to this god forsaken company tonight, gurgled, terror making her incoherent and Yejin pulled her own t shirt off leaving herself in just a bra and her jeans. 

She rushed to the bleeding woman on the floor, quickly wrapping the fabric around the bleeding mangled flesh of her wrist, open and bloody, the white of her bone just sticking out like a macabre candy cane, but it was impossible to stop the blood . She felt sick, the stench of blood and rotting flesh making her retch but there was nowhere to run. 

So, what else could they do?

They were trapped here.

It was three hapless , terrified young women against seven demonic creatures straight from the pits of hell. 

And none of them were getting out alive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s Note : I’ve never written Horror before so this may not be very good but i’ll do my best! Comment if you’d like to be tagged. 

#bts smut #bts fanfic #bts ot7 #jungkook smut #jungkook fics #jimin smut #jimin fics #taehyung smut #taehyung fanfic #yoongi smut #yoongi fanfic

[drabbles-of-writing]

Of Fangs and Fright

AO3

Masterpost

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Now, being dead came with a few more complications than one might expect.

Or, well, being half dead, if you wanted to be less morbid.

Now, it wasn’t all bad. There were the cool powers. Like invisibility, flying, possession, phasing through objects, being able to convincingly look sicker than a zombie…

Anyway.

Many of these powers ghosts shared in common. So long they weren’t ghosts flickering out of existence, they possessed (heh, ghost joke) these abilities. However, simple powers weren’t the only thing ghosts shared in common.

All ghosts had some green on them, it was their ectoplasm. They all had a core of their powers, and all sentient ghosts had at least one obsession. Plus a couple of smaller traits, mostly physical.

Also, they all had fangs.

Luz had to find that out the hard way.

,

A loud beeping noise woke Luz from her slumber, jerking her awake as she fell off her bed. The girl groaned, sitting up and rubbing the back of her head as she blindly reached for her clock on the bed stand and turned off the alarm.

“Ow,” She whined, feeling that she’d bitten her tongue in her fall. She felt around her mouth a bit, tasting blood until something made her pause.

She gently poked her tongue around the top of her mouth, and sure enough, two teeth felt...sharper.

It pricked the tip of her tongue again and Luz grumbled, pulling herself to her feet. She figured her teeth had just gotten a bit too sharp from some wear and tear. It’s not like she was averse to biting into some weird-tasting ghosts and objects. Don’t ask.

She stepped into the bathroom and paused, looking into her mirror. It always unnerved her to look into a mirror. The dark circles around her eyes, the way she slouched, the dullness to her skin, all of it. None of it was inherently creepy, but it somehow worked. To Luz, and everyone around her, something about her seemed off. Like she was floating through the motions and was not at all there and maybe never was.

Luz shook off the existential horror of wondering if she’d be unnerving for the rest of her life and stood in front of the sink, yawning.

She froze, her mouth still hanging open.

There, resting in her mouth, were two sharp teeth.

They weren’t remarkably noticeable, in fact if she wasn’t looking for little odd things about her every other day (learning ghostly things about yourself in the middle of a fight was not fun) she never would’ve realized. But she was sure her canines weren’t that pointy before. She leaned forward, curling her lip as she inspected her teeth.

Her tongue had ceased bleeding, it was only a small mark anyway. And she could see flecks of blood still on her left tooth. She shuttered and pulled back, closing her mouth.

This was fine. A bit of sharpness to her teeth was fine. It couldn’t be all that bad.

,

Three days later, hunched over in her bed with an ice pack pressed to her face, Luz realized, with much regret, that she had jinxed herself.

Her teeth ached. It felt like her gums were being pushed apart from the inside, which, come to think of it, they probably were.

“Show me again,” Willow said, sitting on the bed beside Luz.

Luz sighed and took the ice away and opened her mouth. Willow squinted at her teeth for a moment before stepping back onto the floor, where Gus had a bunch of papers spread about in a weird sort of discussion board.

Luz put ice back over her mouth and watched as Willow muttered under her breath and picked up a picture of one of the ghosts, Adegast, if Luz remembered correctly, and inspected it.

“I really think this is just a regular ghost thing,” Willow said after a moment, showing the picture to Luz. “Every other ghost you’ve fought has some kind of fangs, it's not that big of a stretch to say you’d get some, too.”

“And normally, I would agree,” Luz said, wincing and holding the pack tighter. “Fangs are cool. But not when I’m human!” She exclaimed. “Er, in my human form, I guess. Is that what it's called?” She hummed, staring off in thought.

“Well, you may get lucky,” Gus piped up, taking the picture of Adegast trying to attack the camera and bringing up smaller ghost pictures. “They may just look a little abnormally sharp and that would be the end of it. There are plenty of people who have sharper canines, not everyone's teeth are flat.”

Lux relaxed with a sigh, leaning forward as she crossed her legs.

“But there’s also a possibility you could end up with teeth as long as fingers,” He said, bringing up a picture of a ghost with teeth like a saber tooth tiger.

Luz stared at the picture for a moment before groaning and falling back onto her bed. She grabbed her pillow and covered her face with it, ice pack discarded at her side.

Willow lightly smacked the back of Gus’s head.

“I’m sure it won’t get that noticeable,” Willow assured her. “Aren’t Eda’s natural teeth normal looking?”

“They’re still a bit sharp,” Luz muffled around her pillow. “The gold tooth is, and I quote, a ‘misdirection.’ Like a magician's cute assistant, you know?”

“No idea how that works, but I think I get it.” Gus nodded.

“Well, it’s not like suddenly getting pointy teeth is an immediate correlation for being a ghost, or even Phantom.” Willow insisted. “Worst case scenario, everyone thinks you're becoming a vampire, which actually would be pretty normal at this point.”

“Please be aware there is a group of goths in this school,” Luz said, tossing the pillow aside and sitting up. “And Jerbo is convinced I’m a ghost. Even if nobody believes him, people are going to ask questions about the fangs, and I’m a terrible liar! You know this!”

“I mean, you managed to hide your Phantom,” Gus pointed out.

“That’s because everyone in this town is a moron.” Willow deadpanned.

“Okay, but you have to put this into perspective. Half-ghosts aren’t a commonly known or expected thing.” Gus reminded, pushing his pictures into a pile.

“Neither are regular ghosts! Or werewolves! Or talking bone dogs! And yet, people notice that! Or at least recognize it's not normal,” Willow exclaimed, exasperated. “And only Jerbo has noticed something is off with Luz.”

“I was already pretty weird,” Luz offered, flinching and rubbing at her cheek.

“I can’t win,” Willow sighed, her shoulders sagging.

“This was never a winning situation for anyone,” Luz said matter-of-factly. “Now somebody give me the nail filer on my desk.”

“Do not file down your teeth! Why am I even telling you that?”

,

“My tongue is going to be so scarred--ow,”

“Maybe refrain from talking?” Willow advised gently as Luz stuck on her tongue, revealing it was lightly bleeding after she had accidentally bitten it. Again.

It had barely been a week and Luz’s growing-in fangs were proving to be more trouble than they were worth. If they were worth anything at all.

They had gotten larger, not to a scary degree, but were certainly abnormal. And she’d even begun to get two small fangs on her lower jaw,

And maybe talking about this in the school hallways wasn’t the best idea. But the group wasn’t known for their intelligence, and Willow was fried.

“Well, either her tongue will get stronger or she’ll learn how to not bite her tongue,” Gus shrugged as Luz shut her locker. “Eda managed.”

“Eda is three decades older than--ow,” Luz whined, covering her hand with ther mouth.

“What did I just say?” Willow sighed.

“Hey, four eyes!”

The group recognized that voice, and you could physically see them deflate as Luz dropped her hand. Willow sighed and mentally prepared herself.

“Here we go again,”

The sound of snickering drew their attention, to where Boscha and her A-Listers, or whatever they called themselves, was passing right by them, smug smiles plastered to their faces. Well, aside from Amity, who looked a mix between bored and mildly concerned. She caught Luz’s eye and smiled ever so slightly.

“Heard a ghost wrecked your pretty little garden recently,” Boscha said, her eyes narrowing in that sadistically gleeful way. “Aren’t you lucky Phantom decided to grace you, huh?”

Luz visibly cringed at that, giving Willow a guilty look. She’d insisted she could help Willow replant that garden, but she had declined. Numerous times.

“Things happen,” Willow shrugged, turning away and checking over her books boredly. “At least I don’t lie about seeing Phantom every other week.”

Luz and Gus glanced at each other with shared concerned looks. They subtly backed off a bit, deciding they’d rather not get involved in the weekly brawl.

“You wanna speak up, fern girl?” Boscha growled, already beginning to take a step forward.

“Leave her, Boscha.” 

Amity broke from the group and put a hand on the girl's shoulder, lightly holding her back as she looked at her with a half-lidded expression.

“She’s not worth the energy. We have class soon.” She said calmly.

Boscha muttered and stepped back, shrugging off Amity. The rest of the group quickly stepped aside as Boscha stormed through, throwing a ‘you’ll be sorry!’ over her shoulder for good measure.

“I’m gonna bite her,” Luz muttered under her breath.

“You have no idea how much it pains me to tell you no,” Willow replied.

“Sorry about that,” Amity mumbled, suddenly appearing in front of the trio. Or maybe she was always there, Luz couldn’t remember. 

“We’re used to it,” Gus said simply. “Honestly, I was expecting a better insult than ‘fern girl.’”

“Yeah, she's off her game,” Amity agreed as Luz giggled. 

“One could say she’s…off her A game--” Luz winced, bringing her hand back up to her face.

“Boo, bad joke.” Gus shook his head distastefully.

“Are you alright?” Amity asked, frowning at Luz holding her hand up.

“Yeah! Yeah, just, uh,” Luz chose her words carefully and slowly as she quickly pulled her hand away and crossed her arms. “Bit my tongue is all,”

“We should head to class,” Willow cut in quickly, appearing next to Luz and grabbing her arm. “Like you said, it’s going to start soon and lord knows how bad our grades are already.”

“Oh, right!” Amity shook her head like she was clearing it. “I’ll see you later, guys.”

“Yeah, bye,” Luz echoed, giving a smile as Willow tugged her away.

Amity watched the three leave with a smile of her own for a moment before her eyes dipped for a moment on Luz. Her eyes widened and she did a double-take, a moment of concerned horror flashing on her features.

Luz, having a guess on what she noticed, suddenly picked up speed and darted around the hallway corner, accidentally yanking Willow with her.

“Whoa, whoa, what happened--”

“How do my teeth look?” Luz cut off Gus, opening her mouth wide. “Do they look worse?”

Willow and Gus recoiled slightly, minorly concerned as Luz worriedly shut her mouth again.

“You have...blood on your teeth,” Willow said carefully. “It, uh, kinda makes you look like…”

“A vampire,” Gus finished for her, unhelpfully.

Luz was about to poke at her teeth with her tongue, but thought better of it. She rubbed a finger instead at one of her fangs and drew it back, noticing that there was, indeed, blood on them.

“I’m going to die of blood loss at this point,” Luz groaned.

“Can you even die again--”

“Not in the mood for an existential crisis, Gus.”

,

“What, no witty comeback, Phantom?”

The halfa yelped as Roselle’s snarky remark was enunciated by Dottie slamming her against a building. She growled and curled her lips back, shaking the rubble off her as she rose into the air, her green eyes flashing.

Roselle’s smug look fell. Normally Phantom would be happy to see that, but typically that smug expression isn’t replaced by that of gleeful surprise.

“Phantom,” Roselle grinned, and even Dottie paused for a moment to see what her partner was pointing at.

“Don’t,”

“Phantom are you growing your baby fangs?”

“They sure don’t feel like baby--ow,” Phantom winced, sticking out her tongue as she bit it for the umpteenth time.

“Aw, wittle Phantom got her baby fangs.” Roselle cooed

“How cute!” Dottie agreed as Roselle placed her hand on her shoulder.

“I liked you better when you were trying to rip me apart,” Phantom huffed, her face glowing with blush as she crossed her arms and legs, hovering in the air.

“A word of advice,” Roselle said sweetly. “Mouthguards do wonders, if you can find one to steal. Pain medication still works on you, right?”

“Yes, yes, thank you for the words of wisdom, granny.” Phantom grumbled, giving the ghost a glare and a sneer. “Can I go back to--” Phantom flinched, fangs pricking her tongue again.

The teasing grins on both of the ghostly womens faces only widened and Phantom sharpened her glare, electricity sparking through her.

“Can we fight now?” Phantom drawled out slowly, as to avoid biting her tongue again.

“Right, yes, of course,” Dottie said, nodding as she waved her hand. “Where were we, dear?” She turned to Roselle.

“I believe you were trying to throw her into a stop sign?” Roselle hummed, tapping her chin and frowning. “Or was it a pipe? One of the two.”

Phantom rolled her eyes at the two conversing and uncrossed her arms, a ball of green lightning slowly forming above her open left palm.

“No, no, I think you were--”

Lightning crackled and shot right between the two ghosts, striking the wall of an old building behind them.

They slowly looked at the indent on the wall. Then, just as slowly, they looked back at Phantom, who had landed on the ground and was in a fighting stance, another ball of electricity already building up.

“I think I remember where,” Phantom paused and curled her lip again at the pain. She threw her hands in the air. “Or for the love of--”

The lightning flew from her hands, hitting the street a good ways behind her. It exploded and shook the ground, setting off a few car alarms.

Phantom visibly shrinked at the explosion, her shoulders tense.

Dottie opened her mouth, about to say something. Phantom raised her hand quickly and silenced her.

“Not a word,”

,

“Kid, I don’t know what to tell ya. This is pretty natural for ghosts,”

“It is ruining my life.”

“Your dead,”

“Eda,”

“Right, right,” Eda raised her hands, stepping away from the couch Luz was dramatically laying across on her back. “Existential crisis and whatnot, my bad.”

“I’m wearing a mouthguard,” Luz growled, though it came out like a lisp. “I look like a werewolf.”

“So do I,” Eda reminded her, sitting on the end of the couch where Luz’s feet were. “And I’m doing great.” She said, curling her upper lip and flashing her non-gold fang, which was nearly as long as her golden one. The only difference was that the gold fang was crooked and hooked out of her mouth.

“You live in a shed by an abandoned brewery,” Luz lifted her hands, gesturing to the Owl House, as Eda liked to call it. “With all due respect, I wouldn’t call this the lap of luxury.”

“Eh, who needs luxury?” Eda shrugged.

“Yeesh, you give the kid a taste of the other side and suddenly your scoundrels,” King muffled, poking his head out from under the couch.

“I have been to Amity’s house once.” Luz hissed, snapping her jaws shut when she realized it came out as an actual hiss.

“Aw, now that was adorable.”

“Shut up,”

“Wait, hang on, I was talking about that time you spent in the Guys in White’s fancy van you’ve been to Amity’s house?” King whirled around, staring up at Luz in surprise.

“...I’m suddenly deaf,” Luz lisped, her voice slurred as she lay her head back against the couch armrest. “Words? I don’t know them.”

“You got into a rich girls house and you didn’t steal anything?” Eda gasped, placing a hand on her chest. “I’ve never been more betrayed in my life.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” King deadpanned.

“I’m not stealing from Amity!” Luz gasped, glaring across the couch. “She’s my friend! Go steal from her parents yourself,”

“I was given permission!” King pumped a fist in the air. Paw? Claw? Whatever you call the hands of a ghost dog with opposable thumbs.

“Now, now,” Eda grabbed King by the scruff before Luz could protest, pulling him up and holding him like that. “Be nice. Luz has to make a good impression on her crush. You don’t get a rich girl every day, you know.”

“Crush?” Luz yelped, jerking up so violently she shocked herself with her own stray lightning and fell off the couch with a thud.

“Oh right,” Eda snapped her fingers. “That’s another topic I’m not supposed to mention.” She grinned knowingly, dropping King on Luz.

Luz doubled over when King landed on her stomach, wheezing. King just looked up at her curiously before Luz lifted her head, her freckles beginning to glow green as electricity sparked around them.

“I do not have a crush on Amity! I tell you this all the time!” Luz exclaimed, feeling her face and grumbling when she was shocked again. “And now I lost my mouthguard,” She muttered, looking around for where it fell out.

Eda and King glanced at each other, mirroring the same disbelieving tired faces. But they didn’t say anything as Luz picked up King and set him aside, looking for where she spat out the mouthguard.

“Alright, we’ll drop that obvious lie for now,” Eda relented, walking up beside Luz and putting a hand on her shoulder. “But wearing a mouthguard is only gonna do so much. Sure, it’s nice to wear every now and again, but the more you get used to talking and eating with these ol’ pointers, the easier it’ll get for you.”

“But I’m a fast talker,” Luz protested. “Even if I get used to talking normally, I’m still not used to talking fast. And then I just keep on talking, and talking, and then I keep biting my tongue and then I start bleeding and--ow!” She yelped, recoiling mid-talk.

“Bit it again?”

Luz whined dramatically and turned, thunking her head against Eda’s chest. Eda stared at her for a moment before sighing and smiling as she rested a hand over Luz’s back and head.

“I know it's not fun, but that's just how life, er, this limbo we’re in is gonna be.” She said, patting her back.

“Pros and cons,” Luz muffled into her chest. “Pros, ghost things. Cons, ghost things.” She said, her words slow but enunciated.

“Welcome to my world, kiddo.” Eda chuckled.

“You don’t even fight--” Luz hissed, scrunching up her face before continuing. “--other ghosts,”

“No, but they’re still annoying.” Eda agreed.

“Oh, hey, I found the mouth thing!”

“King you better spit that out!”

,

In hindsight, sticking to the bottom of the Witch Hunter’s hoverboard, aka, a young ghost hunter known for not liking her, was probably not the smartest idea.

Then again, Phantom’s plans are pretty hit-or-miss.

Phantom crawled up the bottom of the hoverboard, peeking up. The dark purple coloring of the Witch Hunter’s suit nearly blended in with the night sky above her, and she clearly wasn’t paying attention.

With a mischievous grin, Phantom slowly gripped the front end of the board and leaned up, laying her chin on the end.

“Hey,”

The Witch Hunter yelped, whirling her head down as the hoverboard skidded to a stop. Phantom wasn’t prepared for that and went flying out from underneath the board, hitting the flat roof of a building and rolling right off the edge. 

But hey, at least the metal trash cans broke her fall.

Phantom groaned, attempting to peel herself out of the trash bags and pulling a banana peel off her head in disgust. She heard a snort and looked up.

The Witch Hunter was crouched on the edge of the roof, peering over. The black plastic screen over her face on the suit hid her expression, but Phantom just knew she was trying not to laugh.

“Alright, so maybe I deserved that,” Phantom relented, kicking away the last of the trash and floating up.

The Witch Hunter quickly leaned back as Phantom placed her hands on the edge of the roof, leaning on it slightly as the rest of her body was suspended by nothing in the air.

“But still, you gotta get better at noticing when I’m around.” Phantom chuckled with a grin, shaking her head.

In a flash, an ectogun was being pointed at her face, right between her eyes.

Phantom’s face dropped slightly, her eyes crossing as she looked down the barrel of the gun. Her eyes then went back to the Witch Hunter, who was still on her knees, but holding the ectogun in a way that said she wasn’t afraid to use it.

“I can never have a single moment of fun with you, can I?” Phantom sighed.

“And yet, you still succeed.” The Witch Hunter said, putting a finger on the trigger.

“I appreciate you trying to put a stop to that. You took the job everybody wanted but nobody was brave enough to try as diligently. Bravo,” Phantom nodded solemnly.

“I wish you luck,” She blinked, a smirk growing.

The Witch Hunter stared at her for a moment. Then another. She glanced around slowly before looking back to Phantom, who was still in the same position as before.

“Okay, two things,” The Witch Hunter said. “One, what am I waiting for?”

“What?” Phantom looked down at herself, inspecting her hand.

“Oh,” She deflated, looking back up to the Witch Hunter sheepishly. “I still haven’t mastered the whole ‘invisibility on command’ thing.”

“...I genuinely can’t tell if your stupid or bad at planning,” The Witch Hunter said, sounding like she was rolling her eyes.

“Fifty fifty on that,” Phantom raised a hand and tilted it.

“Secondly, what is with your teeth?” The Witch Hunter said, leaning her head forward slightly. “Is everyone getting weird teeth today?”

“Oh come on!” Phantom groaned, throwing her head back. “I just forgot about them!”

“What?” The Witch Hunter lowered her ectogun slightly.

“It’s been an issue all week,” Phantom complained, swinging her legs over the side of the roof and sitting on the edge, crossing her legs. “I forget about the fangs, I can talk easier. But when I think about them, I--” She flinched, hissing as she felt a prick.

“...that’s what you're worried about right now?” The Witch Hunter said disbelievingly.

“I’m bad at picking my battles,” Phantom shrugged. “Anyway, you’ve cursed me. You owe me compensation.”

“The hell I do!”

“If there is a hell, I’ll be sure to inform them of your grievances,” Phantom waved her hand casually. “But on the plus side, I’m getting better at not biting my to--ow,” 

“You’re a ghost,” The Witch Hunter deadpanned, getting to her feet with a sigh. “Shouldn’t it be normal to have fangs? Why didn’t you have them before?”

“Well I’m sorry but I’m a little new to all this,” Phantom huffed, floating up in the air, her legs still crossed, as well as her arms.

The Witch Hunter paused, looking over the ghost. It was only then Phantom realized that she, a ghost, had stated she was new to being one.

Phantom wished she could see her expression. Not being able to tell what she looked like at that exact moment felt like a nightmare.

“Phantom, are you--”

The halfa darted forward, flying around the Witch Hunter at blinding speeds and proceeding to kick the ectogun out of her grasp, sending it sliding to the other side of the roof.

“Little slow today, aren’t we?” Phantom quickly recovered, suddenly popping up right in front of the Witch Hunter’s face with a wide grin, fangs exposed.

The Witch Hunter grunted as she grabbed a small ectoblade (they really needed to get more original with these names) from her suits belt and swung it at Phantom.

Phantom flew a few feet away, cackling. She landed by the ectogun and kicked it up with her foot, trying to catch it midair but fumbling with it for a few moments instead.

“Somebody ought to put a muzzle on you,” The Witch Hunter muttered, taking a step back towards her hoverboard, which lay on the ground a little ways away.

“Why?” Phantom grinned, tossing the ectogun somewhere off the roof where the Witch couldn’t get to it. “Scared I’m gonna bite you?” She taunted, holding her hands behind her back and leaning forward, though she still remained a few feet away.

The Witch Hunter made a noise that sounded close between a yelp and a gargle. Almost strangled as she nearly dropped her blade.

“Oh wait, actually,” Phantom frowned, looking at the ground for a moment. “Could I bite people? Or would that give them ghost powers?” She mumbled, looking at her hands. “Am I a vampire ghost?”

The ectoblade flew right by Phantom’s head, ruffling her hair. She stiffened as the blade managed to somehow embed itself into the roof behind her, just before it hit the edge.

Phantom raised her head, spotting the Witch Hunter grabbing what appeared to be a regular silver ball from her belt. She pressed a button on the ball, transforming it into a portable ectogun.

“...okay, that’s kinda cool.” Phantom admitted.

“You have five seconds,”

Phantom took the hint and in mere seconds, shot off. She dropped out of sight beyond the roof without a word.

The Witch Hunter sighed, relaxing her arm and sagging. She watched the place where Phantom had vanished for a few more moments before turning around.

And almost crashed face-first into bright, sparking green eyes.

“I almost--ow,” Phantom whined, sticking out her tongue as the Witch Hunter jumped back.

Phantom had somehow managed to silently float behind her and was hovering in the air, upside down and at eye-level with the young ghost hunter.

“I almost forgot,” Phantom said, her voice lisp-y as she kept the tip of her tongue poking out of her mouth so as to avoid biting it again. As well as revealing its neon green color, and the fact it was beginning to become split like a snake.

Phantom probably didn’t realize that was happening yet.

Not that the Witch was looking.

“I will see you,” Phantom said, flipping over in the air so she was rightside up, slowly floating backwards. “On the fright side.” She said, winking and giving finger guns.

“Get out of here!” The Witch Hunter snapped, grabbing another silver ball from her belt and chucking it at the ghost.

Phantom yelped and got knocked in the head, complaining as she finally took off, down the streets of the town.

“I’m hilarious and you know it!” She called behind her.

“You are not!”

#the owl house #phantom au #danny phantom #my writing #toh #drabble post #fluff #fangs #teeth #ectoplasm #ghosts #luz noceda #luz #willow park #willow #gus porter #gus #king #eda clawthorne #eda #boscha #amity blight #amity #lumity #witch hunter #puns #corny #flirting #tw blood #jerbo

[bedlamsbard]

Part 12 of the other side AU concept, the second epilogue sequence!  At least one more sequence after this before I either start revising or just keep on going as concept writing.

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About 4.6K below the break.

***

Humidity made the rock of the cliff face slick against his fingers, forcing him to pay extra attention as he made his way up it.  He clung to the seemingly sheer rock with his fingers and boot-toes stuck into grips too small for most humans to manage for more than a few meters, relying on the Force to keep him from falling.  Heights had never bothered him, but he still didn’t look over his shoulder at the vast spread of jungle beneath him; he needed all his focus for the climb itself.

“Sure,” Ezra Bridger muttered, the words so soft that they were closer to being a thought than voiced, “ninety-nine percent of the time it’s ‘sit in this cell until we can think of something better to do with you,’ but it’s that one percent of ‘you’re a Jedi, please do this incredibly dangerous thing that no stormtrooper can pull off’ that gets you.”

The unfamiliar weight of both the sniper rifle and the pack slung across his back made the climb a little more awkward than he would have preferred, but he didn’t mind it.  Going anywhere without a weapon right now would be a bad idea, not to mention the fact that he was still a little impressed that Captain Pellaeon had given him one at all.  More than one, as it happened; he had a blaster pistol holstered at his hip and a couple of vibroknives secreted elsewhere around his person.  Pellaeon didn’t know about the blades.

Despite the fact that the humidity was so thick that the growing fog was just short of being rain, Ezra couldn’t resent his current position.  If he fell – and it wouldn’t take much – then not only would it be an ignominious end, but it was likely that no one back at Chimaera Camp would even notice his absence for a few days.  If they did, Pellaeon would probably assume that he had made a break for it.  It was an option that Ezra had considered and discarded given their current circumstance, but he was keeping it open if those circumstances happened to change.  He knew roughly where they were in relation to the Chimaera’s crash site, but he was also aware that there was nothing space-worthy left on the star destroyer. Aside from the ships back at Chimaera Camp, there was only one other option to get offworld, and Ezra wasn’t quite that desperate yet.

It felt good to have his hands on the living stone of the planet, to feel fresh air – and yes, the fog – on his bare skin, to lick his lips and taste the slight tang of the moisture of a new world.  He had spent nearly all of the previous six years on the Chimaera; the Force was everywhere, but it was different in space than it was planetside.  After spending his entire life on Lothal, the months the Ghost had spent with Phoenix Squadron in deep space had been a shock to him.  It had been at least a little preparation for all those years on the Chimaera.

This wasn’t Lothal, but he was still attuned to the Living Force and he could still feel the thread of wrongness that ran through it here.  As far as they knew, this planet didn’t have a name, just the designation it had been given when they entered the star system; if it had an indigenous sentient species, they hadn’t run into them yet.  Ezra had no way of knowing what the planet should have felt like in the Force, but he could tell that there was something badly wrong here and getting worse by the day.

A few minutes later, he pulled himself up over the top of the cliff with a grunt and crouched there, breathing hard, then took out his water flask and drank sparingly.  The Chimaera’s scientists were monitoring the water in the stream that ran past Chimaera Camp and had found that its chemical content was changing by the day; Ezra had water purification tablets with him, but there was always the chance that whatever was leaching into the water table was wouldn’t be affected by the Imperial-issue tablets.

He put the flask back onto his pack and took the sniper rifle off his back, using the scope the same way he would have done a pair of macrobinoculars.  The scope was the reason he hadn’t brought a pair of macrobinoculars; if he had to he could remove it from the rifle to use on its own, and he might need the weapon.  While he had never been formally trained as a sniper the way that some of the stormtroopers and death troopers aboard the Chimaera had been, given the time needed to set up a sniper’s shot he could use the Force for nearly the same level of accuracy.  If not, well, a sniper rifle was still a rifle – this one was reconfigurable, so Ezra could always break it down into an assault rifle or a heavy blaster pistol.  While most death troopers used the BlasTech E11-D and DLT-19D that were standard issue, they often had the liberty to carry other weapons if desired, which was how Ezra had gotten his hands on the A280-CFE that was commonly used in the Rebel Alliance.  

The view from the scope showed him only the seemingly impenetrable tree cover of the jungle he had come through.  Ezra knew that there were a number of clearings in it, some large enough for a light cruiser like the Scylla or the Charybdis to put down in – and in fact the Seventh Fleet’s remaining cruisers were parked in two such – but even with the scope they were impossible to see.  It had a range of five kilometers on a clear day, which this wasn’t; a heavy blanket of fog mixed with the tall native trees of the planet, turning the view beneath him into a grayish-green sea.  With a sigh, he straightened up again.  He kept the rifle in the curve of his arm rather than returning it to his back, wanting to have it quickly to hand if he needed it; the few seconds it would take to swing it around could cost him his life.

The jungle began again a few meters from the edge of the cliff.  Ezra eyed it dubiously; having spent his entire life to the age of fifteen in grasslands he still found forests both disconcerting and distasteful. When he stretched out with the Force, though, he could feel the life within it – confused by the changes being wrought upon the planet, but still present.  The wildlife, he knew, would be his first hint of real trouble.

Right now it told him that there was nothing to be concerned with except for the planet’s native dangers. Still, Ezra hesitated, looking at the edge of the jungle and fighting down his nerves.  Annoyed by his own reluctance, he sank down into a tailor’s seat, resting the rifle across his knees.  He fell quickly and easily into a light meditative trance; he had years of practice, after all.  He didn’t let his attention roll out the way he had done when he had meditated the previous night at Chimaera Camp, but turned it inwards instead.  He just wanted a few minutes to clear his head.

He was, he realized, afraid.

The fight on the Chimaera had been one thing, as had the handful of other skirmishes he had been involved in over the years, but this was the first time in more than six years that Ezra had been completely on his own, whether on an alien worlds or back on the Chimaera.  If he had died then, at least Grand Admiral Thrawn and the other Imperials would have known, assuming the whole Chimaera hadn’t been destroyed at the same time.  There was no real difference in being out here than there was being back with the Imperials, who had more reason to want him dead than anything else on this world and had come close a few times; Thrawn had twice had his own men shot over two such incidents.  Ezra had scars from the attempt that had come closest to succeeding.  On this world only Captain Pellaeon and a handful of other acquaintances – not quite friends – amongst the Chimaera’s complement really cared if he lived or died.  Some days Ezra wasn’t entirely sure that he himself did.

Kanan had lived like this for years, Ezra reminded himself, and often in worse situations than this one after his entire world had died.  So had Zeb.  Ezra could do no less than either of them, and refused to fail them.

It hadn’t been left to him to make any decisions one way or another for a long time now – not the kind of decisions that actually mattered.  He had been volunteered for this particular mission rather than volunteered himself, but hadn’t bothered to argue it even though others had.  It was something to do, at least.

Years ago he had asked Captain Rex about the Clone Wars, which Kanan only ever talked about when forced or when he had been drinking, which wasn’t very often.  The old clone had gone quiet, thinking about the question, and then said slowly, “When you go into battle – whether it’s a major push like Geonosis or a five man black ops mission – you go in understanding you’re already dead.  You can’t be afraid of dying.  You accept it – you take it inside of you.”

Rex hadn’t said whether or not he had learned that from the Jedi he had served with, but Ezra wouldn’t have been surprised if he had.  He let that knowledge fill him now, the reminder that in the Force he was both living and dead at once, and even if he was still drawing breath now, it was a state that could change at any point.  There was no point in being afraid of the unknown: what would happen would happen as the Force willed it.  All he could do was the best that he knew how.

He opened his eyes and got to his feet, tucking the rifle against his shoulder as he went into the jungle.

It was slow going. The undergrowth seemed to be thicker up here than it was in the lowlands around Chimaera Camp.  The tree cover was so thick that it blocked out most of the sunlight, leaving Ezra to pick his way through the jungle in greenish gloom, trying not to trip over creepers on the forest floor, which had leaf litter so thick that in places he sank into it up to his ankles, or hang himself on the vines that passed from tree to tree.  Many of the tree trunks were so wide around that it would have taken a dozen men holding hands to encircle them.  Nor was it silent.  Animals – he saw avians and snakes, along with some kind of small red-scaled reptile and the quick flash of a furry mammalian tail vanishing up a tree – called out constantly.  They weren’t much bothered by his passage, as animals usually weren’t, though more than once he heard them go quiet in response to some native predator passing through.  He sensed disquiet among them even as they went about their normal routines; they were as aware of the changes happening on the planet’s surface as he was.  More so; this was their home.

Mid-afternoon brought the downpour that Ezra had learned to expect after the past three days onworld. Rather than press on, he spent the time crouched on the upturned root of one massive tree, sheltering as best he could beneath leaves the size of his cell door back on the Chimaera.  The rain seemed to come down in sheets, like a solid wall of water despite the fact that by the time it reached him it should have been disrupted by the tree canopy. Ezra managed not to get drenched this time – the first day he had gone out to stand in it, to the horror and disgust of the sailors assigned to guard him.  Most members of the Imperial Navy hated and distrusted uncontrolled weather at best and planets entirely at worst.  This time getting soaked would be a hindrance – and besides, it wouldn’t particularly aid his already slow passage.  Ezra watched the rain fall from the dubious shelter of the tree and let his mind drift out in something that wasn’t quite a meditative trance – while most of the native wildlife had gone to shelter at the same time he had, it wasn’t a guarantee that the enemy would do so as well.

When the rain had passed and the sun had reappeared, Ezra recommenced his slow trek through the jungle. He hadn’t stayed completely dry in the downpour, but the scout trooper’s undersuit he wore was more or less waterproof; it still left him feeling uncomfortably like he had gone through a sanisteam in his clothes.  He paused twice to eat, the tasteless emergency rations that stormtroopers carried as a matter of course, and once to refill his water flask at a stream after he had tested the water with the Force and decided he didn’t need to use one of the water purification tablets.  By the time that dusk fell, casting the jungle into even further gloom, Ezra had, he guessed, advanced within a kilometer or two of his goal.

The advent of darkness slowed his progress even further.  He took out the night vision goggles he had gotten from the Chimaera’s death trooper captain – promoted from the ranks two years ago after the remaining death trooper officers had died – and put them on, blinking as the shadows of the jungle resolved into only moderately more penetrable shades of green.  While he had a glowrod, using it would be just as good as sending up a beacon, not something he wanted.  He could have passed through the jungle without needing to see at all, except that would leave him vulnerable to something he wouldn’t have thought possible six years earlier.

By the time he sensed the final setting of the sun sometime later, the jungle had been the next thing to pitch-black for more than an hour.  Ezra was silently arguing himself out of trying to find somewhere to sleep for a few hours when he felt the nearby animal life go silent, then recommence its noisy outcry.  The negation and recommencement of sound shifted in his awareness of the Living Force, and he swore wearily to himself.

Something was coming towards him.

He settled the rifle more closely against his shoulder and touched a finger to the night vision goggles, making certain that they were as firmly affixed to his face as possible. He had learned the hard way that what was coming left no trace in the Force – not of itself, at least.

Ezra could have gone up a tree, but he was city born and bred and could count on one hand the number of times in his life he had actually tried to climb a tree.  Even in this unfamiliar environment he felt far more comfortable on the ground that he would have perched on a branch – he was sure he could get up to one, but not positive that he could stay there, a hesitation he would never have had on a cliff edge or a high-rise.  He was absolutely certain that trying to fight on one would end with him flat on his back on the ground, and that was a best case scenario.

Instead he settled himself in the soldier’s stance he had learned from Rex, letting the rifle rest loosely against his shoulder as he let his awareness spread out.  Animals, frightened by the alien sight and scent of the intruders, fled their approach; plants flinched away from the heavy tread of feet.  Ezra felt them come closer and closer – a near-silent passage to anyone but a Jedi. The air felt close and heavy around him, the night sounds of the wildlife vanished into stillness or flight. Ezra let his mind fill with the blazing clarity of the Force, until in every way that mattered Ezra was the Force itself.  The Jedi were the sword hand of the Force, Kanan had said more than once; with or without a lightsaber Ezra was still a Jedi.

He fired even before he saw the flicker of movement in his night vision goggles.

The crack of the blaster shot broke the stillness of the night air, sparks flaring at the laser bolt struck armor it couldn’t penetrate. Ezra threw himself sideways, feeling the rush of air as the thrown thudbug just missed his previous position. He rolled and came up on one knee as he fired again, twice in quick unison, relying on instinct rather than the little his vision showed him.  He got one more shot off and then had to reverse his grip on the rifle, slamming it upwards two-handed to block the amphistaff blow aimed at his head.  Quick as the serpent it resembled, the amphistaff lost its staff form and lashed out, its jaws gaping wide.  Hissing, it spat poison at his eyes.

The night vision goggles cracked as the poison struck.  His vision blurring – knowing he had only seconds before they broke entirely or the poison dripped down onto his skin – Ezra thrust out with the Force.  The amphistaff’s bearer didn’t release the living weapon, but his arm and the amphistaff both swung wide, away from Ezra as he threw himself into a backflip, ripping the night vision goggles off as he did and letting them fall.

Darkness closed over him.

He pulled the rifle back to his shoulder and fired again; once more, sparks briefly illuminated his enemy as his shot struck uselessly off armor.  Then the warrior was on him; Ezra swung the rifle like a club, feeling it connect with his enemy’s skull.  Undaunted, the warrior lashed the amphistaff like a whip; the serpent slashed down across the barrel of the rifle, cutting the weapon  in two.

Ezra didn’t hesitate, just flung the remaining half of the rifle at his opponent even as he flung himself sideways again, avoiding the amphistaff’s attempt to get its teeth into his throat.  He twisted and came up with his blaster pistol, firing as fast as he could pull the trigger – a steady stream of blaster bolts, nearly all of which sparked uselessly off vonduun crab armor.  Only one penetrated between the joints of the armor, making his opponent grunt in pain.  His ears ringing from the blasterfire, Ezra thought he heard it echo oddly in the jungle, but he was already moving, grabbing one of his vibroknives with his left hand and slashing backhanded in the same motion.  With the Force behind it, the vibroknife cut through the amphistaff in the vulnerable place just below the head.  Halfway through the blade stopped, jammed against the creature’s seemingly indestructible internal structure.  It thrashed in the warrior’s hand.

It couldn’t cry out, but he could.  Ezra could neither understand the words nor sense the emotions that underlay them, but he released the vibroknife and got both hands on the grip of his blaster again, firing at the place he thought he had seen a vulnerable point between helmet and breast plate.

The blaster jammed.

Oh, karabast, Ezra thought – he didn’t have time to voice the words before his opponent’s free hand shot out and closed around his throat. He was lifted off the ground, armored fingers like durasteel cutting off his breath.  The blaster fell to the ground as he clawed at that implacable arm, fingers scrabbling over the plates of living armor that covered his opponent’s forearm.  He felt it twitch beneath his fingers, lending its strength to the enemy.

His opponent snarled something in his native language, his fingers tightening.  Ezra reached for the Force as his vision started to gray out, knowing that if he wasn’t dead yet then it was because the enemy intended to take him alive.  After enough suffering to make up for the death of his amphistaff.

Light flicked out like a whip, coiling around the warrior’s body.

Ezra had just enough time to feel astonishment before the brief flash of a jetpack’s repulsors heralded the being who slammed feet-first into the warrior, knocking him sideways. He dropped Ezra, turning to grapple with this new adversary as the glowing line of energized whipcord vanished. Ezra hit the ground, gasping for air but already reaching for another of his sheathed vibroblades.

Even now his enemy was absent from the Force, but the new arrival wasn’t.  Ezra didn’t bother to think, just drew his vibroknife, thumbed the switch on, and waited – with his amphistaff dead, or at least out of commission, the warrior was left with only whatever razorbugs or thudbugs he was carrying and his dagger-like coufee.  He heard the living weapon scrape against – or possibly through – what could only be beskar, and a grunt of surprise.  The brief burst of a short-distance repulsor sent the warrior stumbling back a step and Ezra struck in his moment of confusion, slamming his vibroknife up beneath the skirt plates of his armor to the vulnerable place on the inside of his thigh where most humanoids had a major vein.  He felt the weapon dig in and dragged it down as far as he could before the warrior cuffed him aside, sending Ezra flying to strike a tree.

He hit hard enough to black out for an instant, but was dragging himself upright as soon as he could, reaching for his fallen blaster through the Force.  The grip smacked into his palm hard enough to hopefully displace the jam and he raised it, aiming at the spot he thought the enemy was.

There was a blaster shot, not his, and in its flash he saw the warrior on his back in the undergrowth. It also illuminated the injured amphistaff making its way like a sidewinder through the leaf cover, with Ezra’s vibroknife still stuck into its neck.

Even as the flash faded Ezra fired.  His own shot wasn’t aimed at the creature, but at the hilt of the vibroknife, slamming the weapon those last few precious centimeters forward to sever head from body. Ezra heard it thrash briefly, dying, and then there was silence.

He would have liked nothing more than to collapse and sleep for a week, but he braced himself against the tree with his free hand and kept the blaster in his other hand.  His head was pounding; he knew he’d have bruises the next time he looked, to go with the bruises he still had from the Chimaera’s final battle and crash.

“Who –”  He coughed as his abraded throat protested. “Who’s that?”

Light sprang into being, the thin artificial life of a glowrod illuminating the Mandalorian woman standing by the warrior’s corpse.  After four years living with one, Ezra was hardly going to forget that particular silhouette.  His gaze traversed the slopes of painted beskar armor, noting the fresh scars on it from the coufee blade before settling on the helmet before the woman reached up to remove it.

“Ezra?”

He stared.  Then he tried to take a step backwards and couldn’t, his shoulders already braced against the tree trunk.  His mind didn’t seem to want to come to terms with what was in front of him, even as he lowered the hand with the blaster in it.  He slumped back against the tree, letting it take more of his weight.

“Hey!”  She crossed the space between them with a few quick steps and grabbed his shoulder, her grip solidly human and real. “Don’t you dare pass out on me now!”

Ezra reached up and closed his free hand around her forearm, staring into her face. “I’m not going to pass out,” he said. “They usually patrol in threes –”

“Yeah, we met the other two. They’re dead.  You want to sit down?”

“I’m fine,” Ezra said, or tried to say, but was already folding up.  He sat heavily, belatedly holstering the pistol he was still holding. “You changed your hair,” he said inanely.

“Yeah, I do that,” Sabine Wren said. “So did you.”

Ezra touched a hand self-consciously to what remained of his hair – long on top and pulled into a tail wrapped with strips of thin leather, close cut at the sides, because he had spent the past six years with sailors and stormtroopers who thought a buzzcut was the height of fashion.  He stopped with his fingers hooked through a strip of leather, stared at Sabine, and felt himself start to shake. “You’re real,” he croaked, even though the Force had already told him the answer. “You’re really here.”

“Yeah,” she said, her hand still on his shoulder. “I’m really here.  We’re all really here.”

When he looked up again, he felt as much as saw them ghosting out of the shadows at the edge of the glowrod’s illumination like the spectres they had been named for.  Ezra was too tired and overwhelmed for further disbelief; he pushed himself to his feet with Sabine’s help and stumbled into Kanan’s arms.

“I felt –” he said shakily, his voice muffled by the fact that he had buried his face in the other man’s shoulder.  He fisted his hands hard against Kanan’s back, aware of how gloriously alive he felt. “– in the Force, I felt something change, six months ago.  I felt you come back.”

“It’s me,” Kanan said, his voice gentle. “Yeah, Ezra, it’s me.”

Hera put a hand on his shoulder, smiling, and Ezra turned into her embrace, then Zeb’s.  He was shaking so badly that Zeb had to help him to a seat on an upraised tree root, one hand folded over his shoulder as though he couldn’t bear to let Ezra out of his grasp.  He wasn’t entirely certain that he wasn’t hallucinating – that he hadn’t been taken captive after all and this was some new torture.  Then he looked at Kanan’s calm white eyes and touched the Force again, gingerly, like prodding a sore tooth, and knew it wasn’t a trick.

“You’re going to explain that,” he said, a little wildly. “You were – I thought – I saw – I felt –”

“Yeah,” Kanan said again. “It’s a long story.”

Meaning not now.  Ezra took a shaky breath and leaned back into Zeb’s reassuring grip, watching Sabine crouch to inspect the fallen warrior.  She touched the scratches on her breast plate gingerly, then her eyes widened as a hand-size piece of beskar broke off in her hand – the coufee had cut nearly through it and the slight pressure of her touch had freed it. “What are these things?” she demanded.

Ezra sighed, his shoulders slumping. “Long story.”

“We saw the Chimaera,” Hera said, sitting down on his other side. She kept her blaster in her hand, resting across her knee, which under the circumstances Ezra thought was the wisest thing she could have done. “We were on our way to the rendezvous coordinates when Kanan sensed you, but we had to find somewhere safe to put down. Chopper’s with the Ghost about two kilometers away.”

Ezra rubbed his hand across his face.  “They’re from beyond the Unknown Regions – beyond our galaxy, maybe – and they’ve been making a push towards the Empire since it was still the Republic,” he said. “They’ve been tracking the Chimaera and the rest of the Seventh for months – years – and finally cornered her here. They’re warriors – shapers, they call themselves; everything they use is organic, alive – their armor, their weapons, their ships.”  He nodded at the warrior’s corpse and the dead amphistaff beside him.  “They’re called the Yuuzhan Vong.”

#this one was the chapter I wrote to the same song on repeat #cut scenes and concept writing #other side au tag #as always comments are appreciated

[tatttletale]

Fragments (One-Shots) | Mystery Skulls Animated

A collection of one-shots, discarded AU ideas and scenes I no longer want to use for my main fics.

Currently featuring: — 4 chapters from my old fic, including the cave scene, an encounter with the manifested evil spirit, and others — 3 discarded chapters/scenes from my current fic — 1 drabble about a) Mystery's past with Mushi and Shiromori and b) bacon

Mystery reflects on his past with Mushi and Shiromori, and then eats some bacon.

Just a weird little skit I wrote.

The entire drive home Mystery had been fixated on one thing—Shiromori. The godlike yokai that had finally tracked him down.

        How long had it been since that first summoning?—decades, he thought. Back then, Mushi had been young and fit; and though her fiery temperament hadn't faded, her body had since withered with age. Though he had spent years by her side, he still for the life of him could not understand why she had decided to protect him that day. He had been the one to attack her, to shred her clothes and mark her skin—and yet, when Shiromori manifested, Mushi had come to protect him.

        Coward he had been, he gladly accepted her offer of protection from the spirit, and that was history. Through countless conversations and heated debates with the warrior he had only managed to pick up fragments of her motivation. He understood that she had viewed it as her duty to protect one of the last living kitsune; but that was the extent of his knowledge. Beyond that, he could not understand the juvenile clinginess that had developed on her part over the years.

        And now that she had grown old and frail, Shiromori had evidently sensed the wavering in their bond and had come back for him. And he knew without a doubt that she would dispose of any being, sentient or no, that stood between her and her property. If his two remaining charges—one of them related, for heaven's sake!—had remained outside and vulnerable tonight, so help him, Mystery would have transformed and dragged the two humans into the house with his teeth, even if it meant terrifying them beyond belief. He couldn't have another of them taken. He didn't want to be alone—after all these years, he had grown weak and dependent.

        Thankfully, Arthur had listened to the voice of reason and put Vivi to bed. With that taken care of, the human shuffled into the living room, and as soon as he reached it, Arthur plopped down onto the couch, spread-eagled his arms across the back and let his head fall back, giving a loud groan. Mystery just shook his head and glanced around for something to do.

        Sitting by the entry to the hallway, Mystery spotted an esky, full of ice and dripping onto the yellow carpet. Vivi had insisted Arthur put one in the van so they could keep their drinks—and overheated equipment—cool. Excitable, that one. A kindred spirit, indeed. Arthur hadn't had the chance to lug it past the living room doorway before Vivi rushed inside and ushered him into the van, so he had left the box there to leak onto the ugly carpet.

        He rolled his eyes and trotted over to the container, taking a handle between his teeth and pulling. He succeeded in hauling it across the living room and into the kitchen, resting it beside the freezer. Actually, while he was here, he supposed it wouldn't hurt to have a snack. . .

        Standing up on his back legs, he nudged open the fridge door with his nose, slipping a paw into the crack and prying it open further. Cool air misted over his face; he closed his eyes and let his nose do the work.

        Something sweet—that was the cake Vivi bought—fresh vegetables, something indistinguishable and probably mouldy in the crisper—and something salty and fresh.

        His eyes snapped open. Bacon.

        Gingerly, he reached out and pawed at the paper-wrapped bundle on the first shelf, succeeding in rolling it off and onto the floor. He pushed the fridge door shut and dropped down onto all fours eagerly.

        He inclined his head and took a deep inhale. It smelled so good. He trotted over to the corner and guiltily peered around it. Arthur was out for the count, and Vivi was in her room, probably deep in dreamland. No one would know.

        He pattered quietly back to the parcel. Taking one last delighted sniff, he lunged forward and snatched the bundle up in his teeth, shredding the paper. What was left when he set the once-parcel down on the floor was eight—no, ten—rashers of fresh, delicious, smoky bacon. With one last scanning glance, he wolfed them down, along with the paper, making sure to lick every last drop of fat from the tiles as well.

        So much better than kibble.

        Extremely pleased with himself, Mystery trotted back into the living room and dumped himself happily at Arthur's feet. His belly grumbled, satisfied, and he stretched himself protectively over the man's sneakers, nose pointed towards the room down the hall. They were safe here, for the time being. Though he stayed aware, he let himself close his eyes and take a well-deserved rest.

(Chapter 1/9)

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