#scrabble shouts into the void

[xxscrabiesxx]

not often you get a total solar eclipse out your backyard!

#scrabble shouts into the void #total solar eclipse #solar eclipse 2024

[underdark-dreams]

Thank you everyone who has read this fic along its life! I finally got up the courage to tie it up with a bow. Here's the final chapter of my Rolan x Tav series Sage and Soldier, with links to the other pieces:

Blades and Spells [Fluff - First Meeting]

Good Night for Company - [Pining - Feelings Realization | NSFW] [ch1] [ch2]

[ch1] - [ch2] - [ch3] - [ch4] - [ch5]

A Strand to Climb - Ch.6

After the end of the world, there's a wizard's tower in the Upper City.

Tags: Mild Angst, Fluff, NSFW | Word Count: 4.8k [Read on AO3]

There was no time to celebrate the death of the Absolute—not when Tav and her companions stood trapped on its back like one of the doomed cities of Netheril. Not when her ears had already begun swimming and popping from the breakneck speed of their fall.

Tav yelled something back to the rest, some stupid bit of encouragement meant to keep them all on their feet. What else could they do but hold on, after all? They were all helpless, exhausted from battle, keeping their footing however they could as the brain’s pulsating flesh descended from the sky.

When they punched through the misty cloud layer below, Tav’s stomach leapt straight up into her throat. They were sailing across the Upper City, and the high spire of Ramazith’s Tower was rushing forward to meet them.

Too soon, her ears rang with the sickening, rib-shaking crash as the dying Netherbrain collided with the column of the Tower. Her shout of horror was lost to the explosive crumble of masonry and the whip of wind. She had only a second to fear the worst. 

The impact spun the creature on its descent; Tav was knocked hard to her side, forced to scrabble for purchase on the monster’s slimy flesh as it careened sideways. Her limbs skated ineffectually over the brain’s folds—she was sliding toward the edge—

Not like this, her mind screamed in protest.

Tav yanked the sheathed dagger at her thigh and plunged it into the dying Absolute. Two hands gripped the hilt with all her might, even as her legs swung over the side of the Netherbrain like those of a limp ragdoll.

“Hells, we’re headed for harbor—!”

Behind her, Wyll’s yell of warning cut through. Tav understood at once—if they hit the Chionthar still standing on the back of the Netherbrain, its mass would pull them deep underwater with the strength of a vortex. She craned her neck blindly.

“Gale!” Tav shrieked for him, mad with panic. What if he’d fallen in the Upper City? What if he was gone, and she was beseeching a void?

Then she heard Gale’s voice call out for the Weave, and his spell hit hard along her spine. Her boots lifted unnaturally, the feet within them tingling with the power of flight—

The Netherbrain banked hard over the central City Wall. They were low enough now that Tav could make out figures with upturned faces—people watching the monster’s fall from the sky and fleeing away on foot, as if all pushed back by the same bank of wind. With one more lilt, the fleshy ground under her veered straight for the ancient wooden river docks.

A sharp glint of hope. If they timed their jump just right—if Gale’s spell lasted—

“Fuck this—” Beside her, Karlach was of the same mind. She was crouched low for balance, inching forward to the edge of the Crown for a better position. 

Tav used her dagger for leverage to push herself crouched. “Aim for the roof of the Counting House!”

She heard the others fighting to their feet behind her. Gravity was accelerating their fall; sharp rain and river mist buffeted against her face as they swung rapidly for the water. But first, they passed beside a wide expanse of flat stone ramparts.

And then—they jumped.

—

Tav’s limbs cried out in exhaustion; her rain-soaked leg plates jangled heavily with each boot tread. She dragged herself through the streets of the Gate on adrenaline alone. 

Those streets were in chaos. Though the battle was newly won, each corner she rounded brought a fresh skirmish. 

Newborn mind flayers stumbled about in swarms, hungry and rudderless without direction from their Elder Brain. Many still dripped with blood from the death of their human forms. Those Baldurians who weren't running from them with crying children in their arms had snatched up tools and blades alike to run the creatures through with the ruthlessness of survival. 

The chaos helped. Grit and blood and thudding bodies distracted Tav from the one sight she wanted to turn her head to, yet couldn't bear to see. 

As her boots climbed the cobbles north toward the Upper City gate, Rolan’s tower crumbled over and over in her mind’s eye. She felt like retching. Her lungs were on fire.

Please let him be alive, please let him be alive, please let him be alive—she prayed to any god who might still be listening.

A child’s scream brought her up short on reflex.

Silfy—the timid one from the Grove, the little girl who cried when Tav caught her stealing a worthless trinket. A young mind flayer was reaching for her, one long-fingered hand directing its neural heat where she stood frozen in terror.

Tav’s teeth ground in her skull. She was so thoroughly fucking done—her longsword scraped out of its scabbard and arced straight toward the creature’s throat. 

Just as the blow connected, an arrow shaft pushed out between the mind flayer’s dark eyes. It crumpled lifeless to the pavement in a heavy heap. Silfy turned tail without a backward glance; Tav squinted through mist and smoke, trying to identify the Flaming Fist who still held her shortbow poised.

“Lia!” Tav could have sobbed in relief. “Thank gods—is Rolan—?”

“I don’t know—” Lia’s voice was desperate as she ran closer. “Cal and I took the Sundries portal to fight with Cerys. Last we heard, Rolan was up manning the turrets.”

Tav could have swayed and collapsed where she stood. Only adrenaline kept her upright.

“I’ll find him,” she shouted above the surrounding chaos, half to herself, half to wipe that terrible fear from Lia’s face. She pushed away into a sprint without another word to her. 

He’s not dead—he wouldn’t die like that—

Would she even be able to find Rolan’s body in the wreckage if he was? Tav’s knees wanted to give way at the thought. She gasped air into her lungs, wresting that image of him out of her mind with everything she had.

When she rounded the road from Flymm’s Cargo, a powerful wall of heat nearly knocked her back on her rump.

The ancient prow of the Blushing Mermaid was ablaze. Flames the height of ten men towered into the gray skies above, unaffected by the steady drizzle of rain. Her steel chestplate grew painfully hot as she forced herself up the crest of the hill.

Shouts and acrid air clouded her senses as she dashed beside the scene. Tav caught sight of Zorru and Danis, leading a bucket line all the way from Gray Harbor; their voices cracked from heat and smoke as they yelled directions.

All at once, like the emptying of a giant basin over their heads, a crash of water fell over the blaze and its surroundings. The cobbles under her feet were abruptly drenched; Tav slipped and careened forward, catching herself hard on both hands in a clang of plate armor.

There was a deep, ominous creak from somewhere above her. Knocked breathless, Tav nevertheless craned her head back. 

The heavy wooden spindle on the ship’s prow that jutted over the street was already weakened from fire; now it was soaked through from the magical downpour. As she watched dumbstruck, it splintered with a slow twang. Then the wood snapped clean down the middle, and the length of it swung downward, straight for her legs.

Tav scrambled forward on hands and knees. Her boots and gauntlets scraped over the wet stones toward safety—

Footsteps were sprinting closer. There was a shouted incantation and a flash; Tav smelled roses as the Weave enveloped her completely for the space of a blink. Then she landed flat on her stomach in the middle of the street.

Thoroughly winded now, she coughed and wheezed for breath. The blaze and heat of the fire was strangely distant from where she lay. 

As her lungs finally filled again, Tav realized she wasn’t just lying on pavement—something soft under her torso had cushioned the fall. She lifted up with a groan to look down at what she’d fallen on top of.

Rolan was entirely covered in soot and masonry dust from horn to foot. The effect was that he blended almost completely into the gray cobbles at first glance. Only when he opened his eyes did she recognize the two golden flames staring back at her.

“Tav!” 

Rolan sat up so suddenly his horns nearly collided with her forehead. His hands gripped around her forearms with bruising force. “The Brain—I thought you’d—”

Her body had begun to violently shake as she took him in, each inch of his face strained with anxiety and streaked with dust and thoroughly alive—

Unable to go another second without him, Tav threw both arms around his neck. Rolan gripped her ribcage in turn, so tight and so long that her vision went spotty from lack of air. She couldn’t care less; in this moment, she would have dissolved right into him if she could have.  

“I thought you were dead, Rolan,” she gasped into his shoulder. “Your Tower—the Netherbrain crashed right into it.”

“Only the observatory.” Rolan’s voice was muffled against her hair. “Never planned to use it anyway—not much of an astronomer—”

Tav could have laughed hysterically if she wasn’t so out of breath. Rolan continued against her neck. 

“I was following it to the harbor, Tav, I had no idea what became of you—but then the fire, there were people inside—”

“You had to help,” she finished. She felt tears streaming fast and hot down her cheeks. The strength of her relief could’ve bowled her right over again. “I know, I know, just—”

They released each other at the same time. The kiss was stained with sweat and grime, yet it was the most satisfying one Tav had ever felt. She gripped Rolan’s face between two gauntleted hands, crushing his mouth against her.

“Lia’s okay,” she gasped out when Rolan’s lips finally left hers. “I met her south of here. She and Cal went with Cerys. Cal must be fine too, she would’ve said,” Tav added in a rush.

Rolan jerked his head in acknowledgement, his expression punch-drunk as he took her in. He was smoothing her hair back with both hands as if the motion was the only thing keeping him grounded at the moment.

“Are you all right?” Her voice was very small.

Rolan nodded at her again. Clearly spell-spent and dusted in plaster, he looked like his own ghost. “Are you?” Despite all that, his baritone reverberated warm and familiar in her chest.

“It’s so quiet,” she whispered hoarsely. Her words fell in almost comical contrast to the distant sounds of shouting, fire, and steel meeting illithid flesh. 

But she could tell from the way Rolan’s eyes moved over her expression that he understood. The tadpole was finally gone—her mind was entirely her own again.

Rolan’s spark was beginning to return. “Can you stand?”

As he rose, Tav wobbled experimentally to her feet along with him. Her knees were bruised from the tumble, and her calves threatened to cramp from exertion—but she put on a brave face. 

Unconvinced, Rolan kept an arm looped behind her back just in case; one hand fastened along her waist. Walking with him close at her side, the adrenaline began to ebb in her veins. Bone-weariness was instead closing in like a shroud. 

“We should find Cal and Lia,” she said, trying to sound purposeful. Her boots dragged with each step.

“Yes,” Rolan agreed. He was holding her very firmly—practically supporting half her weight. “And we should be sure your friends made it safely from the docks.”

Tav gave a mumbled assent. It was difficult to care about any of that now, though she knew she should. She found herself staring up at his profile beside her. 

“Rolan?”

He looked down in concern. “What is it?”

“After that…will you take me home?”

“My darling—” His lips pressed firmly to her brow. “Yes.”

—

Tav shifted on top of him with a mumble.

Rolan froze with arms still looped around her; perhaps the crinkle of scroll parchment had awakened her. 

But then her face snuffled back into the bare crook of his shoulder. The dead weight of her across his chest assured Rolan that she was still fast asleep.

It was a lucky thing that he’d settled with reading material at arm’s length—the small pack of rare scrolls Tav herself had gifted him. She’d been out cold since dawn, when they all made it back to the Tower. It was nearly twilight now, and the sun’s last orange rays were fading fast through the high windows of Rolan’s bedroom. The distant streets had grown quiet as the city retired to nurse its wounds for the night.

Rolan hadn't seen much of her battle with the Netherbrain. Tav hadn't been in a state to tell many details once it was finally over, either. She could barely keep her eyelids open. The only thing clear was that she was completely exhausted from it.

Before anything else, Rolan coaxed several very potent healing elixirs down her throat. Then he drew them a bath and helped her out of her bloodied armor. She leaned heavily against him under the water. By the time he wrapped her in a towel to dry, he practically had to carry her back to his room.

The only hint of her fire came out when he’d tried to guide her toward the bed for sleep. Tav refused to go anywhere near the large four-poster frame that had belonged to the Tower’s previous archwizard. In fact, she declared that the whole thing was to be burned, mattress and all. 

Rolan couldn’t decide whether he was more amused or touched by her vehemence.

Instead, she’d grabbed a fistful of the blankets and dragged them away in order to fall against the massive direwolf pelt rug in front of the fireplace. It was no feather bed, but still leagues more comfortable than how either of them had slept on the road to Baldur’s Gate.

Especially so with Tav draped over him, Rolan had since decided. She’d promptly held him to her and drifted off. Her bare torso was a comforting weight on his chest. Her cheek pressed against his shoulder as she slept, little steady breaths tickling against his neck.

Home. That’s what Tav had called this, hadn’t she? Silently, Rolan leaned his cheek against her hair as he read.

Lia and Cal had moved all their things into the Tower the same day its ownership changed hands. The few of Rolan’s possessions remaining in their Heapside flat had been left in a little pile just inside his bedroom door. Among them was the small leather scroll pouch Tav had gifted him on her arrival to Baldur’s Gate. 

By this point, Rolan was certain he could find a much larger wealth of arcane knowledge in his new library. Still…it felt important to study from these first. 

For one, they were certainly beyond anything he’d managed to teach himself from hand-me-down textbooks back in Elturel. Whoever she’d stolen them from must have been an advanced practitioner of the Weave. Or perhaps just a man with the wealth and fancy to build a collection, much like Lorroakan had been.

They were also a gift from Tav. That simple fact made them more valuable to Rolan than most of the wealth he’d inherited along with Ramazith’s Tower. 

Had she collected them one by one in her travels here, thinking of him while she did? A warm affection bloomed in his chest at the thought. He’d have to ask her when she finally woke.

It was as if she sensed the thought. 

With a deep inhale, Tav arched and stretched full-body against the length of him under the covers. Her hands both landed to tangle in his hair against their makeshift fur bed.

“Morning,” she purred sleepily against his neck.

Rolan decided then and there—he could very much get used to waking up like this. However, it seemed the right thing to correct her. 

He kissed her brow. “Evening, actually.”

Tav raised her groggy face from his chest then, wiping one corner of her mouth. His eyes left the page to watch her blink around his bedroom in a daze. The blood-orange light of sunset was stretching long and dim across the floorboards now.

“Oh,” she said softly, a single word holding great recognition. Her wide eyes flicked to his face. 

“Have—have I been laid on top of you like a dead fish this whole time?”

“I’d never call you that,” Rolan assured her calmly. “But yes.”

Tav looked at him in appraisal for a long moment. 

“I think you like it,” she decided, and laid her head back down over his heart. He chuckled to himself and raised his free hand to smooth the hair back from her face.

Tav sighed happily at the gesture. “What are you reading, Rolan?”

“One of the scrolls you gave me.”

“Oh? Tell me about it, then. I’m curious.” One hand had gravitated suspiciously close to his ear. Sure enough, her thumb and forefinger began tracing along its edges to the pointed tip.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Rolan sighed. He’d always been unable to ignore the shivers that flowed down his spine when she touched him there. “I’d tell you regardless.”

“I'm sorry—” Her touch fell from him immediately. “I don’t do it on purpose, really. They’re just so pretty.”

Rolan cleared his throat. “It’s fine. You can—go on. If you like. Just know it’s a bit distracting.”

After a moment, her fingers cautiously returned. She was careful to keep the motion smooth and predictable this time. Rolan focused back on the page he’d pressed to fall flat before she woke.

“This one teaches a technique for arcane portal conjurement. The linking of two locations with a path carved through the Weave.”

Tav swiveled on her chin to look up at him. “Like the one from the Sundries to your library here?”

Rolan hummed in assent. “I've read about wizards who linked much more distant places together. The distance from here to Waterdeep, for instance. It requires a tremendous bit of spellwork.”

“How on earth?” She frowned at him in curiosity. “Where do you put a portal if you can't see where it's going?”

“Not sure yet,” Rolan mused, already being drawn back in by his reading despite her affectionate intrusions. “Most likely it requires two casters to sculpt the spell properly. I’ll need to understand the basic mechanics first.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Tav replied. She snuggled back into to the warmth at his neck.

“Of course I will.” Rolan shook the parchment out with his hand to punctuate the statement. 

Tav let out a quiet exhale of laughter—but she said nothing to question him. It made Rolan swell with pride a bit.

He held her for another quiet moment as the fire snapped and danced in the hearth beside them. Its light seemed to burn brighter and even warmer now, with the sun finally gone behind the horizon.  

When Tav shifted further over his lap, he didn’t think anything at first. Perhaps she was still trying to get comfortable on their makeshift sleeping arrangements.

Then she ground the heat between her legs over his half-hard cock, and a reflexive sound was pushed from Rolan’s throat.

“Tav,” he groaned.

“I’ve always loved that confidence of yours.” She had propped herself up with hands on his chest to gaze down at him. The covers fell back to bathe her lovely bare shoulders and breasts and stomach with firelight. “You don’t understand, it’s like catnip to me.”

“Where's this coming from?”

“What? Is it not enough that I just woke up naked with the most handsome, brilliant young archwizard on the whole Sword Coast—”

As she showered him with teasing flattery, Tav canted her hips harder against his own. Rolan leaned back against the tips of his horns with another involuntary groan; the scroll fell away dangerously close to the fire, forgotten.

“Tav,” he repeated more forcefully, pushing himself up on one elbow. Her face above him was full of mischief. “You’ve just been through hells—are you sure you’re well enough to—?”

“Yes.” She threw her head back in a moan with the word. Rolan’s hands flew instinctively to her hips. She was already rocking and grinding in rhythm against him, leaving a wet patch of heat where their hips slotted together.

“You’re unbelievable—” Rolan held her arms back insistently, forcing her to look at him. 

Tav panted and bit her lip as they watched each other. He was of half a mind to return the favor. Look at the pretty hero of Baldur’s Gate, fresh from battle and already writhing on my cock—but the clear desire between her legs had rather scrambled his own thoughts. 

Instead, Rolan did what he could manage to tease her. “Tell me how you feel right now.”

“Hot.” Her voice was low and tempting; her eyes were dark with desire. “Wanting you. Needing you inside me—”

Even without leverage from her palms, Tav managed to shift over his ridges in a way that made Rolan twitch and shudder under her.

“Good gods—I want you too,” he heard himself gasp out. 

It was all the encouragement she needed. His grip had gone slack in distraction; with one hand guiding him, Tav angled herself up and sank down over the hard ridges of his length.

Her tight, wet heat all around him nearly knocked him breathless. Rolan lay back and ran his hands up her thighs. The firm muscle there led him straight to the lovely swell of her hips, and he gripped each hand with nails dimpling into her flesh.

Strong and soft—Tav was somehow both of those things at once. As she sat adjusting to him, her eyes certainly had never been softer than they were now, moving over his face.

“I missed this,” she breathed. 

Rolan nodded in silent agreement. From tonight on, he swore to himself, neither of them would ever have a chance to miss this.

When she began moving, it was slow and deliberate. Her hips glided up and down to take him—so warm, so perfect. Rolan glanced where their bodies met, watching his length disappearing into her again and again. The sight was almost too much; he felt compelled to close his eyes.

Instead, Rolan pushed himself seated. He couldn't be close enough to her. 

Tav folded her arms around his shoulders at once, adjusting to the new angle without breaking rhythm. Her face was bathed in firelight.

As he took in every inch of her, Rolan caught sight of an old blade scar under her jaw. He’d never noticed it before now. He leaned to press his lips against it.

She tilted her head with a soft sound, opening up the rest of her throat to his mouth should he want it. And he did—Rolan kissed and nipped at the flesh there while Tav rode him, her voice softly gasping and whispering his name over and over like a prayer. 

The rhythm of their hips together increased to something desperate. Rolan felt heat licking under his skin, burning like flame everywhere their bodies touched. She clutched desperate fingers over the deep ridges along his shoulder blades.

“Come in me,” she gasped. “Please.”

That one little word was his undoing. Who was he to deny the woman who had just saved everything he loved in the whole Realms, herself included? 

Rolan forced his mouth away from Tav’s throat to watch her come apart. She was already close—he could tell from the way her mouth fell open, the way her walls twitched and gripped him tighter each time she bounced down onto his lap. 

“I love you—” 

He wasn’t sure she heard with the way she arched and tensed into him—but then she already knew, didn’t she? Tav’s arms were trembling around his shoulders when she came, as if he was the only thing keeping her anchored down to earth. 

When he felt the coil inside him unraveling, Rolan buried his face into her shoulder again. She was whispering praises against the tapered shell of his ear—things too sweet to even commit to his own memory. Rolan clutched at her back with both hands as he finally shuddered and spilled inside her.

He kept his arms locked tight around her middle as the twitching waves at his core echoed and subsided. Then they tipped backward together, their bodies still connected, to land in a soft pile of fur.

For a long moment, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the way they both panted against each other. Lying on top of him again, Tav’s lips brushed against the trail of ridges below his collar bone.

Soon enough, one of his long fingers began tracing over her back. He practiced the shapes of his somatic spell components along the empty expanse of her skin. She was so soft and smooth there—so unlike the way Tieflings were formed.

He felt goosebumps raise where his fingers touched. Tav shivered against him. 

“That tickles,” she mumbled into his chest.

“Apologies, darling,” Rolan told her. Some other time it would be very interesting to investigate how ticklish she was. For now, he stilled to press his palm against her lower back instead.

Tav heaved a deep sigh against his chest. “What are we supposed to do now?”

Rolan crooked his head down at her. “What do you mean?”

“Now that it’s over.” Tav propped her chin on both hands to meet his eye. “I can barely remember what it feels like to just…live my own life. You know?” 

Rolan carded one hand back through her hair. He understood the feeling well. 

“There’s still plenty to occupy both of us,” he assured her. “I need to complete the Tower repairs before the next storm, which could be any day knowing Sword Coast weather. And the Lower City is in a state of absolute ruin. I’m sure you’ll have a hundred people knocking on my door come morning, asking for their hero’s help with a hundred different things—”

To his surprise, Tav sat up on his lap in a huff. The motion reminded him he was still softening inside of her. 

“There you go spoiling my fun,” she complained good-naturedly. “Here I expected you to be thrilled at the prospect of finally having me in your bed day and night, with no mortal peril hanging over either of our heads, no less. And you only want to discuss Baldurian civics—”

Rolan felt himself beginning to laugh at her, a relaxed and throaty sound. “Is that what’s troubling you? Tav, I thoroughly intend to fuck you often and well.”

“You’d better,” she warned, but the corners of her mouth had begun to twitch. He wanted to devour her.

“And since you’ve declared my own bed permanently off-limits—” 

In one motion he rolled their bodies to pin Tav under him. It earned him a little ‘oh’ of surprise; he was conveniently still buried between her legs. “You’ve put me in the position of having to be resourceful.”

“Big change for you, that?” Tav teased. But her legs crossed behind his flanks to keep him close. As they did, one of her heels inadvertently rubbed against the sensitive base of his tail. 

Rolan hissed in air between his teeth. He saw her eyes spark with recognition, and leaned down to kiss her senseless before she could do anything wicked with this new information.

By the time they surfaced from lips and tongues and teeth, he was already achingly stiff inside her again. Her hands ran down his front, flowing over each concentric pattern on his chest with open want. It sent a shiver all the way down his spine, from neck to tail.

The way Tav looked at him—the way she touched him as if he was perhaps the loveliest thing she’d ever seen. He decided it would take him years to get used to. Maybe he never would.

Rolan kept still regardless, waiting for her to finish her explorations. All traces of teasing were long gone from her now. 

Tav’s eyes reflected the warmth of the dying fire as reached up for him. She passed one more deliberate hand over the planes of his face, as if she’d like to memorize the feel of them. Her fingers landed to gently clutch around his jaw.

“My wizard,” she said softly. 

Rolan had never been one for pet names; even from the people he cared about most. Those words should have sounded diminutive and sentimental to him, even spoken by Tav. 

Instead…

They fell sweetly against his ear, flowed like honeyed wine down his throat, and nestled into a space that glowed with warmth somewhere behind his ribs.

And why shouldn’t they? He was her wizard, after all.

#sage and soldier #rolan x tav #bg3 rolan #bg3 fanfic #rebgrrl writes #underdark-dreams #spicy #nsft #crying (me) #holy rolan empire

[factorialsotherfandoms]

And done! Mostly archivists, some Roier, Fit, and the rest of deathfam at the end. TW: aftermath of torture, major character injuries, fantasy sickness, ooc warning for probs everyone but the situation is fucked so who knows. It's 6638 words please just take it as it is and love it or at least the idea for me <3

The doorbell rings, and it pulls Cellbit from his sleep. He’s curled on the floor of the fear room, having never quite made it to bed last night. With a bit of effort he pulls himself to his feet, cursing out whomever decided to wake him at this hour.

If it isn’t important, he’s starting another murder spree.

“Coming!” he calls, unsure if it will reach, as he takes the elevator up and then stalks down the hallways.

He gets to the doorway, and rips it open. With a sigh he prepares to berate them, only to freeze as he opens the door.

It’s Philza.

Philza. Who has been missing for a little over two months.

Philza, dressed in rags and smelling of blood.

“Philza?” He asks, looking over him, looking for his wounds. “We missed you; where've you been?”

And it doesn't matter that Cellbit had been asleep, because Philza is somehow alive and somehow back, even after so long. He can’t be angry, not seeing him wide eyed and like this.

He doesn't get a reply, just a shake of Philza's head. He sways in place, stumbling into the wall. Cellbit reaches out, taking his arm and trying to support him.

Philza looks at him, and there's a purple taint to his eyes.

Some sort of void sickness?

What the fuck.

Cellbit wants to ask, wants to scream and to shout, but there are clearly much more pressing problems here. Instead he takes a deep breath, and tries to position himself to take more of Philza's weight.

Cellbit is a wet tissue of a man, strength wise but he could swear Philza was never this light before.

Philza, who flinches at the touch, then all but collapses against Cellbit's side.

“Do you have a warpstone?” Cellbit asks, already thinking through if he has the supplies to make a spare. “We should probably get you to the infirmary…”

The weight on Cellbit's side is suddenly gone. A trail of bloody footprints stain the stonework as Philza stumbles backwards, rapidly shaking his head. All until he's pressed against the wall and the… then he just shakes.

And, fuck, Philza is usually a sensible one. But it's been months, and he's wounded, and Cellbit can see the signs of torture and knows the obvious culprits but…

“Okay,” he thinks, and thinks again. “Okay. My drawing room then. I have the first aid kit Mike made for Richas somewhere.”

Philza calms, and hesitantly nods, and goes as if to stand before leaning back against the wall, and offering out hands instead.

Why isn't he speaking? Void-sickness, possibly, but if so Cellbit would expect the taint to be visible on his lips or throat. Roier would probably say something about trauma, but Roier isn't here right now - he's taken Richas and Pepito for a sleepover at Foolish's dragon and, hell, at least the children aren't here to see the blood on the floor.

He'll have to clean before they get home.

Still, Cellbit takes Philza's arm, helping him drape his weight across Cellbit. He drags more than carries him, and most of their movement is kept going only by Cellbit.

Beneath his hands, Cellbit can feel things - too thin, but then the Federation has probably starved him (why is he void-sick, if the Federation took him? That doesn't add up but who else would it be?). There's dried blood beneath his fingers, and some tacky like the scabs have not quite been able to set. There are ridges, too, new scars born across his skin. Philza’s own fingers are weak against Cellbit’s arm, hurting and blistered and the skin scraped like he had been scrabbling in gravel.

Torture. Cellbit knows what torture is.

He wonders if Philza remembers any of it, or if he is like him.

Either way, Cellbit is going to find Cucurucho, and rip his spine through his neck.

With a trail of bloody footprints they make it to the drawing room. Cellbit helps Philza sit, making sure he is steady before letting go. There's a water jug left on the table, so he gets Philza a glass, and hands it to him.

Cellbit doesn’t ask ‘where the fuck have you been’ like he wants to, nor does he comment on the man’s state, instead he says “wait there. I’ll get some potions” before turning and sprinting back up the stairs.

Potions, bandages, stuff for stitches, water and soup - he grabs two buckets of water and a bottle or three of antiseptic, too, just to be sure. Did the Federation have him? It’s the only answer Cellbit can think of - from just a brief look Cellbit could see he was covered in wounds, friction burns on his ankles and wrists while his feet bled, and he looks half-starved. He’s pale, too, too pale, and he isn’t sure whether to hope it’s blood loss or lack of sunlight as both options suck.

He messages Roier, just in case - Missa he’ll worry about later, once he knows what is going on. No need to worry Philza’s loved ones in the middle of the night, and certainly not when they’re surrounded by people.

HIs knife goes in his belt - there’s no room for mistakes.

And then it’s sprinting back to his front room, only to find Philza is… gone?

He would call it a hallucination, if not for the bloody footprints still all over his carpet, and the still-full glass of water beside the sofa.

“Philza?” he calls, swallowing the crack in his voice.

Did the Feds steal him back from his own damned house?!

There’s a shuffling nearby. Cellbit turns, looks up, sees Philza perched on his toes, bloodying the top of his bookshelf.

“Sit back down and let me see where you’re hurt,” Cellbit points to the chair.

Philza looks about and around, curling tighter into himself. He stares at the window.

Jumps down.

Bolts towards it.

Crashes into the glass.

There’s a very definite noise of main, but it’s muffled and something about it is /wrong/.

Cellbit grabs his shoulder, steadying him, leading him back to the sofa. His own hands are shaking, and Philza keeps glancing back to the window.

What about the window is wrong…?

As soon as he sits down, Cellbit goes to examine it. He cannot see anything odd, but pulls tight the curtains just in case. 

“Better?” Cellbit asks.

He does not get a response, so he just hopes that he is.

The next question is… What first… Philza’s body is an itinerary of injuries - his face and his wings suspiciously intact but for the exhaustion and the void-sickness in his eyes, the stain also dappled across his nails and small patches of skin - but Cellbit knows what he wants first.

Everything is bad, but it is Philza’s feet that are bleeding.

So he grabs everything and kneels before the sofa. Carefully, watching Philza as closely as he is watched in return, he takes one of his feet. Cellbit has to pick the remains of utterly ruined shoes away, just tiny scraps of the fabric which once made up the uppers and soles. Beneath that are the wounds, and around it the blood.

Some of it is stones, and mud, and sticks, and dirt.

Some of it is blisters, a mark of how long Philza must have been walking.

Some of it looks suspiciously like very, very deliberate slash marks - all across the soles of his feet, and across the backs of his ankles. They’re deep, and surrounded by cross-hatched scars of equally thin slashes, like the wounds have been applied again and again and again.

If Cellbit were to cut someone’s feet like that, it would be to stop them from running. With how deep the slashes are… He doesn’t think that Philza was ever supposed to walk again.

“Fuck,” he feels himself swear and this… this doesn’t look like the Federation at all.

The friction burns around his wrists and ankles, looking like chains, sure, but the slicing…? They’d trust their bars, and they’d torture with something bigger, and if you are genuinely a flight risk they lock you away. Not… Not this.

It’s just as cruel, but not really in their style.

So he’s killing Cucurucho and someone else, then. Just got to work out who, because he cannot think of anything else on the Island which would trap someone in the void.

Still he slowly works on picking out the debris, doing his best to clean the wounds with a cloth dipped in clean water and antiseptic poured on it as he goes. The wounds are so extensive, though, and dirty, that…

Well, Cellbit isn’t a doctor; he pours the entire other bottle of antiseptic into one of the water buckets. Once he’s done all he can with his fingers and the cloth, he shoves Philza’s foot into the bucket.

Philza makes a strange noise; Cellbit checks, but he is gestured at to continue, so… So he repeats the actions.

The second foot is, somehow, worse; the cuts are shallower, but there’s barely skin between them.

Cellbit is out of his depth, he’s so far out of his depth, but they need treating now, and Roier has yet to answer the message - he’s probably, like everyone else, already asleep.

He picks out the gravel, and places this foot more carefully into the antiseptic bucket, and prays it’s enough to avoid an infection.

From there he moves to where he felt blood before, tracking the wounds. These ones are smaller, simpler, much more like their usual issues. Cellbit knows how to clean up a cut and bandage an awkward shoulder wound - he’s done it before. He can bandage to give pressure to a sprained wrist, and he’s certainly had his fair share of blistered fingers in his life.

The quantity is wrong, all wrong, but actually tending the wounds is something anyone of the island could have done.

And then… And then he must get carried away, too busy charting them, too busy tracking the black-ish stains on Philza’s stress and trying to calculate how bad the void-sickness is, too occupied to be taking proper care.

Because he does not mean to scrape a blister on his palm, tearing it open and letting the fluid leak out.

But he does.

Philza screams, but it does not come fully out. Neither do his lips open, the sound trapped in his throat and his nose, and Cellbit���

Cellbit has a horrible realisation.

“Philza,” he asks. “Philza, can you open your mouth for me?”

Philza shakes his head.

Wait, English is ambiguous, maybe… Maybe he’s not…

“You can’t, or you won’t?”

One shaking finger is raised.

And Cellbit slowly nods.

He’s known things like this before, he’s seen it before - he’s done it to people before - but think of it being done to someone who has only ever trusted him, only ever tried to help or be his friend…

“Can I touch your lips?” he asks.

Philza doesn’t react at all. He stares at Cellbit and barely even breathes.

Still Cellbit approaches, hesitant hands reaching out. He cannot see anything, not like this, so…

So if he’s right…

It’s not glue.

He’d be able to feel it if it were glue.

Slowly, carefully, he pushes a finger between Philza’s lips

and there, at the back, he finds the stitches. Thin but strong, pulled extremely tight and narrowly sewn. There’s not even space for a straw, and Cellbit knows how to fix this but he’s not sure he /can/.

He doesn’t even know who he needs to dissect.

“I…” he stares at it, leans closer to look, examines the thread - it was white, once, but it’s brown with dried blood and spit. They’re set so far back that they’re sewn more into Philza’s gums than the skin of his lips.

Cellbit pulls his hands away, “I don’t think I can help without hurting you.”

Philza tilts his head to the side, and gestures with bandaged hands.

He seems… resigned. Like he expected this.

Scared, too, glancing now at the door.

Who can Cellbit ask for help? Philza would probably want Missa, or maybe Fit or Etoiles or… Someone else early. But Fit is helping Missa protect Chayanne and Tallulah, and Etoiles is knee deep in /something/, which…

Roier might know. Pac and Mike are scientists, they could. Foolish has all sorts of strange skills, as does Bad.

He could just put a message in the general chat, but he really, really doesn’t want to do that…

And, there is also the problem that everyone is asleep.

“I’m going to get you some pyjamas,” Cellbit decides on, rather than making a decision before he’s worked out the right answer. “Will you be alright?”

Philza nods, his eyes already drifting to the door.

Cellbit hates it, hates how wrong this all is; Philza should not be curled on his sofa, clutching at himself, injured and shaking in fear. But, he is, and there is very little that Cellbit can do about it.

Something to wear is a start though - he heads back to his room, leaving Cellbit behind. Nobody on the island has a lot of spare clothes, but he manages to find a clean and relatively soft nightshirt at the bottom of a chest. He shakes out the worst of the creases, deems it serviceable enough, and heads back.

Philza is gone.

Again.

This time Cellbit checks for the footsteps - wet and still slightly tinged pink. Cursing the man and everything else he runs after, hoping he didn’t get too far.

He finds him very close to the bridge’s warp plate. Cellbit grabs his arm and, this time, Philza fights back.

It’s not a long fight, only seconds before Philza is limp in his grip and doing his best to snarl despite his sewn together lips.

The stitches don’t tear, but his skin does.

“Stop that!” Cellbit tries. “You’re making it worse.”

Philza /freezes/ when Cellbit yells, and his heart drops somehow further into his feet.

“Just… Come back inside? Please?”

Cellbit is so fucking tired.

Philza… Shakes his head.

“Philza.”

He pulls away his arm, and tries to run.

It’s not…

“Why are you running?”

It is far from the tone that Cellbit usually asks that question in, but it’s still one.

Philza… Does pause. He can’t even mouth his words, but he gestures to his eyes, and then to the darkness around them, glancing over his shoulder as he does.

He’s been looking around a lot…

“You’re being chased?”

Given someone was clearly trying to keep him wherever he was, it’s the obvious conclusion.

He nods - once, twice, gestures harder at the darkness and makes to keep running.

And then his eyes catch on a rose.

Missa had mentioned something about roses, how they were supposed to protect the family. There had been a garden of roses, the children asleep and Philza and Missa sat talking beneath the moon. And then Phil just… Dropped through the floor mid-sentence. Gone, before Missa could grab him. Gone, just like that, from a garden that should have been a sanctuary but whose leaves were withered now.

They’d looked and they’d searched and they’d hunted, and all that could be found was a small hole, with purple-touched darkness beneath.

Much the same colour as the void-taint in Philza’s eyes.

Cellbit picks a rose from the bush, and hands it to Philza, “Missa mentioned they’re… protection charms for you?”

At the mention of Missa, Philza's eyes snap from the flower to Cellbit, eyes suddenly much wider and Cellbit…

Cellbit maybe should have said sooner, because all he would want to know if he’d been tortured is if Roier and Richarlyson were safe.

“He’s safe,” Cellbit promises. “Foolish is hosting a sleepover for the Eggs tonight - he took Chayanne and Tallulah.” 

Philza doesn’t look like he believes him.

So, Cellbit presses on.

“He showed me the rose garden, though the flowers were dead,” he continues. “And the… hole? Portal? Void-patch?”

Philza wriggles his hand, holds up three fingers, and huh. Between the rose and talk of Missa, he at least seems to have calmed a tiny bit. The talk of a dead garden seems upsetting, but he clings to the rose in bandaged hands like something precious.

“It was very small, very precise. Clearly whatever took you only wants you,” and Cellbit is spitballing, only hoping he is on the right track both emotionally and logically as he still pieces it together. “It hasn’t taken anyone else, either; even if you stay in my house, it’s unlikely it will take me.”

Frankly, Cellbit doesn’t care if it does - all the more chance to create a distraction for one of them to kill it - but he knows Philza will.

Because it’s Philza, and he’s a better person than Cellbit ever had the chance to be.

“So, please, come back inside?”

Philza looks at the rose, then at Cellbit’s hand, then hesitantly, very hesitantly, takes it.

It’s hard work, leading Philza back into the safety of the castle. He’s edgier than before, and keeps being startled by the slightest sounds. He is usually vigilant, noticing the smallest of oddities, but to jump at every animal scurrying in the underbush…

Cellbit sees him reach for an axe which is not there, and maybe that’s part of the problem too.

They make it back to safety, and Philza clings to the rose even as his feet are cleaned again - bandaged this time - and he is helped into the nightshirt. Cellbit has always been the taller of the two, but they were once of similar builds - it should not hang nearly as loosely as it does.

With his lips sewn shut… Cellbit isn’t sure he can help.

“They’re probably asleep, but do you want me to text Missa? So he can bring Chayanne and Tallulah in the morning?”

Philza hesitates - if he’s still being chased… Well, Cellbit can guess why the concern.

“I can put some wards down, and ask them to come with Roier? He’ll look after them.”

He gets a nod this time, though it is slow.

Cellbit pulls out his communicator, focused as he tries to think of how to tell Missa - it’s not even a case of what would he want to know if Roier was in Philza’s situation, because Missa… Cellbit doesn’t know the man well, but they certainly have very different personalities.

In the end he settles on ‘Philza appeared at my place last night. He’s hurt, but I’ve been looking after him. Get Roier to show you over. Doesn’t have a communicator or anything.’

He shows it to Philza, who hits send, and then with clumsy, bandaged fingers writes ‘Did HE hurt you? Be safe - HE still wants me.’

That message is sent, then another is typed. It’s just as slow, Philza obviously frustrated as he has to delete duplicated letters. Still, he turns Cellbit’s communicator towards him, and shows him the message.

‘Cut it’

That those words took three minutes and clear /pain/ to write cuts deeply into Cellbit.

Just being stabbed is too kind for whatever did this. Cellbit will tear it apart with his /teeth/.

“Cut what?” he asks.

Philza hesitates, before stealing Cellbit’s knife, and bringing it to his lips.

“Stop!” Cellbit grabs his wrist, disarming him far more easily than he should have been able to. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

The reply he gets is a withering glare.

It’s good to see him have some confidence back, whatever the roses mean, but if he’s going to use it to hurt himself…

“I don’t… Think I can do this,” Cellbit licks his own lips, running a thumb of Philza’s.

His hand with the knife in it is grabbed, and tugged on.

“Fine!” If he doesn’t, Philza’s going to do it as soon as his back is turned, isn’t he? “God, I’ll try. But just enough to drink something, okay? I don’t trust myself.”

There’s a long pause, but eventually Philza nods. Cellbit swaps his knife for a smaller switchblade, flicking it open and peeling Philza’s lips open. He aims for the centre where there is least risk of damaging other things, carefully slotting the knife through…

Fuck.

He manages to cut a few of the strings, but in doing so he catches Philza’s lip. It’s not a deep cut, but he can see the blood bubbling.

He wants to lick it.

He presses a tissue there instead.

“Hold this, just let me get you a straw.”

Cellbit waits to make sure Philza has the tissue held in place - he’s smiling at him, how is Philza smiling at him when he /cut/ and /torture victim/ - before running to the kitchens.

How is he being trusted like this? He’s a fucking murderer, a heartless, cruel man; he isn’t…

He isn’t someone you fucking trust with a knife near your face.

What has this island done to him? He doesn’t mind it, doesn’t… He doesn’t hate it, he actually likes it - the having friends, the having family, the people relying on him.

It’s fucking terrifying, though.

This has only proved that.

He still needs some moments to calm down. His hands shake with the memory of blood on Philza’s lip, and it’s all he can do to pour some soup into a saucepan, and set it on the hob. Half-remembering the last time he starved he adds extra water, thinning it down. While it cooks he makes himself tea, and fetches Philza water, apple juice, and a selection of straws.

It takes a few minutes to warm the soup through. Once it has, Cellbit has just about found his footing again. He serves it up, and carries everything through.

“Here, sorry about the wait,” he says.

Philza has somehow found a second rose, and is awkwardly braiding them together. With his hands it is loose, but Cellbit can see what he’s trying for.

His lip has stopped bleeding, at least.

Neither is put down as he’s handed the glass of water. It takes Cellbit a few moments to work out the problem, but eventually realises; with his own fully functional hands he helps Philza angle the straw through the gap in the stitching, and lets him drink.

He drinks like a dying man, and Cellbit supposes it’s close enough to true. He doubts either of them have any idea how long his lips have been stitched together, but it’s long enough that the thread is stained…

Philza manages the water, then looks curiously at the rest of the tray. Cellbit offers it to him; he hesitates over the juice, but points at the soup.

Cellbit checks the temperature first - drinking the water had been slow enough to cool it down a little at least - before helping Philza once again. This time he has to help support the bowl as well as the straw. It’s awkward, but they manage it between them.

About a third of the watery soup is managed before Philza refuses more.

Cellbit has no idea if that’s good or not.

Still, they’re both exhausted, and it’s something to keep him going, and Roier will be here in the morning. Roier isn’t a doctor, of course, but Cellbit trusts him with significantly more delicate things than himself.

Cellbit can be dexterous, but delicate is for investigations not handiwork.

Forcing Philza to walk again on his injured feet seems needlessly cruel; the sofa is not the comfiest place to sleep, but Cellbit would put money on it being the comfiest place he’s slept in a long while.

“Sleep here - I’ll go grab some blankets,” Cellbit says, and he leaves, and by the time he returns Philza has already passed out on the couch.

He tucks the blankets around him, making sure he will stay warm overnight; the castle is draughty at the best of times, and when someone is sick and injured is not the time to tempt fate.

Then he sits on the floor beside the bed, knife in his lap, meaning to think and meaning to keep guard.

Most of Philza’s injuries are just torture wounds. They say little about his captor, or what they want. He’s clearly been in the End or the Void for too long - his eyes have a hint more purple, there’s dappled stains across his skin, and Cellbit isn’t sure which symptoms he has but it will probably make him struggle for warmth and fuck with his brain. That should be something like proof against this being a Federation ploy - they don’t seem to have easy access to other dimensions - but is not definitive.

The slicing on his feet despite the lack of it on his wings also is not definitive, but does not fit their usual goal. Unusual location and unusual goals? Probably not them. Stitching inside his mouth… Adds to that, really, the Federation are more cut your tongue out or sedate people sorts, not sew them up.

A goal, a goal… Philza’s face and his wings are mostly untouched, which would imply some awful… display piece, Cellbit supposes. The rags of his clothes would count against it, but perhaps he was only allowed to wear them when he was needed. Despite that appearance he could not have been that highly valued - the stitching in his mouth prevents drinking, so he would have died in another few days. Mentally scattered, but does seem to recognise people and places still - Cellbit rules out brainwashing, or at least if they tried it they failed. The injuries don’t imply anything sexual, which leaves…

Cellbit runs through it all again. Nothing quite makes sense, except…

End entities don’t like water, do they? Maybe they don’t need to drink.

Do they even need to eat? Or do they exist on some other sort of sustenance?

If he was held captive by something with no need to eat or drink, the sewn up mouth is no longer incompatible with the idea of a trophy, or a prize…

---

At some point Cellbit must have fallen back to sleep, because he wakes up to yelling. He doesn’t even think - he grabs the closest item - bucket of water - and throws it in the direction of the assailant.

He recognises the voice about three seconds later, when Roier shrieks.

“Fuck! Sorry!” Cellbit’s awake now, hair stuck to the side of his face as he scrambles up.

“Bitch!” Roier shakes off the water then, realising Cellbit is getting up, latches onto him.

Now they are both wet.

“Are you okay?! Roier’s revenge is had, or maybe not as wet hands trail all over him. “Fuck, Gatinho, don’t message me asking for medical advice at 3am and leave blood on the carpet! Come wake me up next time!”

“I’m fine!” he promises back. “I’m sorry, I’m okay, I’m fine - is Missa with you?”

“Missa?”

Roier left before Missa was awake. Fuck. Hopefully he works it out, because Cellbit’s too asleep for this.

“It’s Philza,” Cellbit replies, dropping his voice at the secret. “He woke me up last night, looking for help. I think?”

Roier’s lips form a perfect O, as he turns and finally spots Philza still sleeping on the couch. Cellbit watches as he looks him over - most of the injuries are beneath the blankets, but he is still clearly unwell - and then sees the straw in the part-finished bowl of watery soup.

A rose is still clutched in Philza’s hand, just visible where it slips out from the blanket.

“How bad is it?” Roier asks, quiet.

“They sewed his fucking mouth shut,” Cellbit replies. “I cut a little so he could drink, but stopped when I caught his lip. Cuff burns on his wrists and ankles, fucked hands, they sliced up his /feet/ so he couldn’t run, then he ran on them barefoot anyway.”

“Stupid Feds,” Roier’s nose twitches.

Cellbit shakes his head, “there’s void-taint on his chest and in his eyes. No idea how sick he is, but the Feds don’t have End access.”

“That we know about.”

And Cellbit has to concede that point - still, he talks Roier quietly through Philza’s other injuries, and explains what he did. At the end, his husband looks about as helpless as he feels, but does pull a small pair of scissors out of a pocket.

“We should probably give him, I dunno, antibiotics or something,” Roier pulls a face. “For his feet. How do we treat void-sickness? Is it just keep him away from it?”

Cellbit has no idea - it’s not like he has spent prolonged periods of time in the End, “someone will know, right? Maybe when Missa gets here?”

Roier raises an eyebrow and, fair, Missa also has likely never been to the End, but Cellbit thinks the man deserves more credit than he ever gets. If it’s for Philza, he can probably brute force his way into the answer by sheer stubbornness alone.

That entire family is a bit like that.

“If not… We can at least ask who they want telling,” Cellbit concedes. “I didn’t want to just put anything in general and have everyone on my house.”

“We’re going to murder whoever did this, right?”

“Of course.”

Roier kisses his cheek, and once Cellbit is done blushing he finds Philza watching them.

“Morning,” he says, as Roier notices and waves.

“Hey Philza,” Roier drawls on the name. “Cellbo says you got something stuck in your mouth?”

Philza flips him off. It’s a clear struggle for him to sit up, but he manages it.

“Is it okay if Roier takes the stitches out?” Cellbit asks, getting a withering look from both of them at how soft his voice turned as he said it.

Despite that, Philza nods. Roier nudges him into a different position, and sits opposite on the sofa; he actually remembers to wash his hands before peeling back Philza’s lips, and Cellbit feels a bit stupid for not thinking of that.

As he watches Roier carefully use the tiny scissors to cut the threads, Cellbit keeps guard. His fingers flick back and forth over his knife but there’s no target, nobody who isn’t dear to him here to use it on.

He’s helpless, and he knows it; hopefully between them they can work out who he needs to kill and how.

The threads are cut, and Philza is allowed a drink as Roier finds the tweezers in the first aid kit. Pulling out the threads comes with flinching and bleeding wounds, and there’s only so much that antiseptic-soaked cotton wool can do.

The thread-holes are small enough that they stop bleeding quickly, but the blood from Philza’s mouth is horrific.

There’s a thread or two left to remove when Cellbit hears the door, and remembers he should have checked his comms. He leaves Roier treating Philza to head down.

This time he opens the door to find Missa, Chayanne and Tallulah - and an awkward looking FitMC, hanging towards the back.

And Cellbit suddenly realises it’d be a really bad idea to let the children see their father while Roier’s still treating him.

“Is Phil…?” Missa asks.

“Roier’s treating some of his injuries,” Cellbit replies. “Do you want to help me make breakfast for everyone?”

The sign Chayanne slammed down is put away in favour of nodding, and grabbing his sister’s hand. If Missa bought Fit, even if only for directions, Cellbit is happy enough to let him in - he gestures for him to follow, and leads everyone to the kitchen.

It’s awkward, and quiet, and nobody seems to know how to break it. Still, Cellbit shows them around and admits “they sewed his mouth shut. Roier’s fixing it, but we need light and easy food, okay?”

For all he nods, Chayanne seems to misunderstand. There is some simple stuff, yes, but a flurry of activity and complicated dishes too. Tallulah arranges them on the plate with extreme focus, and Cellbit…

Cellbit takes the two adults, and uses the stove.

Quietly, while the children are occupied, he explains what he knows. They listen, Missa frets, and Fit’s face is grim.

“I want to check with him first,” Fit looks at Missa, who gives him a nod. “But I think I know what bullshit he got himself into.”

“You do?” Cellbit asks.

Fit shrugs, looks uncomfortable. “He was scared, thought he was being threatened… We’ll explain later.”

And that’s the sort of shit Cellbit could have done with knowing before this shit happened. He’d like to strange someone, but he knows why he wasn’t told; Purgatory was… rough, to say the least.

“We didn’t tell anyone,” Missa adds, in Spanish, Fit glancing at his wrist to read the translations. “Fit only knows because it started when I was gone and the kids were missing.”

Cellbit doesn’t feel much better - the egg cracks with a little too much force, and he imagines it’s a skull.

It takes a little while for breakfast to be ready, and Cellbit hopes it gave Roier enough time. He warns the children their father is probably hurting, so be gentle, and also his mouth and hands hurt so he may not say much.

They consider him with far too much seriousness for their age; Tallulah writes a sign for them both, simply reading ‘I know’.

He leads them back through. Philza is holding some gauze to his lip, curled up in the corner of the sofa and watching the room. Roier sits on the other corner, sword clearly in grabbing range even as he tries to keep up low and playful chatter. It goes quiet when everyone else enters.

Chayanne and Tallulah move first, running to their father’s side. Neither of them touch him, though, waiting for the quiet ‘hello’ spoken in a deeply hoarse voice, and for Philza to offer them each a hand. Missa follows, taking the middle spot on the sofa. He hesitates, barely risking moving, but Philza leans his head on his shoulder and so Missa snakes an arm behind his back.

Every one of the four of them is either carrying or wearing a rose. Now he looks, Fit has one too.

“Was it him?” Fit asks, sitting heavily on a chair opposite.

Philza nods.

“Well, fuck,” Fit sighs, and looks around. “I’m gonna guess you need stuff for void-sickness? Anything else I should ask Pac e Mike for?”

And of course Tazercraft are the obvious people to ask. Scientists with a habit of breaking reality have likely seen this before.

“Antibiotics,” Roier adds. “For preventing infection in wounds dirty for too long? And painkillers.”

Philza gives him a withering glare at painkillers, but his hands are busy with his children and even if his lips are now free, it must /hurt/.

Chayanne distracts him by placing a huge amount of food both on his lap, and the floor all around. Missa laughs and Philza looks fond, but shakes his head softly. Missa takes one of the broths, though, and offers it to him.

Despite having his mouth free, Philza still reaches for a straw.

And Cellbit, Cellbit wants answers, but Fit is texting his boyfriend who Cellbit hopes has Richarlyson, so there’s not really anyone to ask.

Roier pulls a silly face at him.

Cellbit likes to think he’s above pulling one back, but whatever he does, Roier laughs anyway.

But, he does have breakfast for everyone else, so he hands it around and drinks his coffee and waits impatiently patiently for the family to quietly sort themselves out.

Eventually, Philza looks at Cellbit, mouthing ‘thank you’ and then, “I… you want to know?”

“Yes.”

Philza looks at Missa, then Fit - both of them nod.

“Fit,” Missa says. “Can you? I am not sure all of how to say it in English.”

Fit sighs again, puts his communicator away, and nods.

“What do you know of the Ender King?” He asks.

It’s a name that Cellbit has never heard before, but ideas are already forming; Roier is also shaking his head, a shrug on his arms and confusion in his eyes.

“Right,” Fit pulls a series of faces. “Now, I don’t know a lot. But, couple of months ago, Phil called me over to his house. It’s happened a few times - seeing messages and structural changes in the bunker I couldn’t see. One time Pac was with me, and he was just weirded out-”

Philza butts in, with a quiet, “it was Rose.”

“Rose?”

Philza nods, Chayanne slams down a sign.

‘She looks after us!’ the boy writes. ‘All of our familia.’

“She’s a goddess,” Missa adds, slowly, clearly thinking about his words. “But her powers are weak here… She looks after four, King only wants one.”

Tallulah adds ‘it’s why the bad things can’t find us’, and Cellbit isn’t quite sure which bad things Tallulah means, but it has to mean something.

Eye workers, maybe.

The idea of a goddess protecting a family is… Not exactly strange to Cellbit; he’s dabbled in the occult enough to know what sort of entities would do that, at least.

“She’s my,” Philza coughs, harsh, his throat not really ready for talking. “Spawn goddess. Where I come from.”

That’s stranger, but explains why she might like that.

“Right,” Fit says. “That one turned out to be less a problem, but the one that followed… When I went over Philza was in the middle of a panic attack, only not crying because Chayanne and Tallulah were there. He said a being from his dreams had contacted him, one more powerful than anything, against which there’s nothing we can ever do. Something about a war, and wanting Phil for himself. Phil made me promise to look after the kids if he was taken, that he’d find some way back but we were /not/ to go after him.”

And they listened? Cellbit is mostly surprised that they listened, but then Philza and his friends are more practical sorts than himself and Roier.

“There were more letters,” Missa says. “He started… corrupting Rose’s letters? Because he couldn’t find Philza.”

“And then he found you.” Cellbit finishes.

And it’s not the whole story, he knows it isn’t the whole story, but he’s got enough for the themes - a being which calls itself a god wants Philza for some reason is hunting him. That being comes from wherever Philza was before here, and has plans for him. Perhaps he is trapped as a pawn in a war between the gods and a war prisoner you are trying to sell makes sense for his treatment.

Perhaps he did something to piss off the god.

“My memory is,” Philza gestures to his head, and Cellbit knows the amnesia affecting many islanders touched him too, so he nods. “I don’t remember but…”

There’s a sign, turned to Philza where Cellbit cannot see.

Philza’s face shifts, and softens, and he reaches out for his children again as he says “I promised, didn’t I?”

“Does he have weaknesses,” Roier asks. “Everything has weaknesses!”

Philza laughs, bitter and dry. It turns into another coughing fit, one that leaves him shaking and leaning on Missa for support.

Cellbit notes Fit texting again, and has his suspicions as to what it says.

Once Philza recovers, he says, “the Ender King is fucking dead, mate. Water burnt him, but now he has no body… He’s weaker, can’t steal entire cities anymore, but he lost his weaknesses to.”

Worse than a god, it is the ghost of a god.

Has no body, though?

Cellbit looks at Philza again, and wonders - the void sickness has clearly done more to his mind than his body, and a deity of the End could likely manipulate it. If it had left him a functional body but empty mental shell…

War prisoner or flesh suit, either way Cellbit needs to work out how to kill a god’s ghost.

[Notes - void sickness. I’ve not really developed it but tldr overworld bodies are not well adapted to other realms. Too long in the void (also the End, where the atmosphere is void) fucks you up. Purple rash-like staining across skin, purple tint getting into your eyes. Common symptoms include dissociation, derealisation, and a susceptibility to the cold. If it reaches organs it can cause them to shut down, though always works from the outside in (or if caused by eating too much chorus fruit, which is an option, from your digestive tract out). The comment about Philza’s lips or throat with not speaking is if the taint had reached either his voice box or the muscles controlling his lips. Philza’s actually pretty fucking resistant to it, by a combination of genetics and very slowly increasing his exposure over time. Most people would be dead from that long, he’s just… It’s deep enough to cause muscle weakness in places, but it isn’t yet deep enough to cause damage like ‘lungs cease functioning’. The ‘bonus’ of his mouth sewn shut is they couldn’t feed him end-food, so it was only working out-in not in-out. Much like with fairies if you eat of the end bad shit happens.]

#qsmp fanfic #qsmp philza #qsmp cellbit #hurt/comfort #angst #*gestures vaguely* #please just take it I'm done with this fic #there was supposed to be more after but I liked that line as an ending line so it's the end now #I also feel you should know I wrote this watching old 3D animated b@rbie movies in the background #specifically princess and the pauper and 12 dancing princesses #plus a lot of silence #but please appreciate me writing torture aftermath to kid's movies #stuck the @ in so it doesn't show up in the other fandom tagsg

[carry-on-my-wayward-gays]

So I headcanon Jimmy as claustrophobic. And I remembered that one time in Double Life the yellow lives trapped him in a 2x1 dark hole :)

Jimmy getting shoved into the hole and nervously laughing like "ok haha guys you got me I'm getting out now" and just as he goes to climb out someone blocks his way out and shrouds the hole in darkness.

"Guys?" Jimmy shouts up and only gets muffled laughter in return. His hands start shaking and a breath gets caught in his throat. The space feels like it's shrinking. The darkness becomes a thick void that starts swallowing him whole and clogs his mind from reason.

"Guys! Let me out!" Jimmy yells. He can feel panic rattling his body and constricting his lungs. He's hyperventilating, his hands are going numb with panic, sweat is dripping down his forehead.

He can't breathe.

"Please!" He begs, sobbing now. He stumbles back and lands on a wall, sinking to the dirt floor. His iron armor feels too heavy.

Tango sees the commotion from afar and goes to check it out. The yellow lives are too close to his ranch for his liking. When he gets over everyone is laughing and knocking on blocks of cobblestone tauntingly, something twists in Tango's gut already. Something isn't right.

"What's going on here?" He asks and head turn to face him. Mischievous grins turn downright evil.

"We got your rancher!" One of them sings.

Tango's eyes widen.

"You got my buddy? What do you want him for?" They go to answer but there's a muffled shout from under the cobble. A cry for help. Tango can feel it through the soulbond.

"Tango!" Jimmy shouts. It's desperate, panicked. Tango can feel how Jimmy is clawing at the stone through his own fingertips, can feel how tight his throat and chest are. Tango can feel anxiety slither up his throat.

"Let him out." Tango urges. The yellows giggle back. Tango starts breathing heavily. He's panicking that Jimmy is panicking.

"Let him out!" Tango shoves one of the yellows and they let up. They roll their eyes and mutter about him being a party pooper and break the cobblestone.

Tango heaves Jimmy out of the hole and holds his rancher close. Jimmy is sobbing in his arms and gasping for fresh air. His hands scrabble over Tango's back, grabbing and releasing his jacket at random.

"You're ok, I got you now, buttercup. My poor lovely." Tango comforts, rocking back and forth to calm both himself and Jimmy. Tango pats Jimmy down to help ground his soulmate and to check for injury.

The yellow lives disperse. They don't talk about what happened, besides the "how were we supposed to know?" questions. Jimmy wears himself out and calms down enough to zone out in Tango's arms. Whether or not he's dozing off or dissociating Tango doesn't know, and he won't ask unless it gets bad. He just cares about having his rancher in his arms, safe and sound for now.

And when they're safe inside the ranch again, and when Jimmy is finally coherent again, Tango tends to his wounds. The scraped fingertips and broken nails from clawing at the cobblestone walls of his small prison.

"I'm sorry you had to come rescue me. I know I should be more independent in these games..." Jimmy mumbles as Tango bandages his fingertips. Tango simply presses a delicate kiss to Jimmy's bandages.

"We're soulmates, Jim. I'd come to your rescue any time of the day cause that's what partners do." He looks up and sees Jimmy staring down at him with the most sorry expression Tango's ever seen worn on a human face.

"Plus, I know you'd do the exact same for me. It's ok, and you're ok. I promise, birdie." Jimmy nods - to himself mostly - and keeps quiet for the rest of the night. In his head, he's echoing Tango's words.

They're soulmates. And they keep each other safe.

#shadow's scribing again #this was posted purely for my mutual maris aromanticwhore so thank shem for this seeing the light of day :) #jimmy solidarity #solidaritygaming #tangotek #tango tek #team rancher #rancher duo #double life #double life smp #trafficshipping

[naavispider]

BESITE BESITEBFZJFHDBFICHZ

ONGOSBDEIF

OMG I HAVE A GIGABRAIN IDEA, THE MOST AMAZING PROMPT IM SURE YOU’LL FIND IT INTERESTING

A SEA STORM

AND SPIDER GETS THROWN OFF BOARD BY A WAVE

AND IF WHEN QUARITCH SAVES HIM HE SEES SPIDER HAS NO MASK SO HE TRIES TO GET HIM BACK ABOARD AS FAST AS POSSIBLE WHILE HIS BBY HYPERVENTILATES TRYING TO BREATHE 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

This ask has been in my inbox for AGES (I'm so sorry) but every time I look at it I DIE thinking about it. Not Spider being thrown off the ship by a wave 😭😭 Here's a little crack drabble 😭

Spider grabbed for the nearest railing as the ship bowed again, dropping steeply as it descended the crest of another tremendous wave, sending Spider's stomach flying up through his throat. His feet left the deck and he clung to the wet railing as tightly as he could. He needed to get inside, now. 

“Spider!” He thought he could hear distant shouts calling his name, but they were lost to the wind and sea spray that assaulted his face, obscuring his mask. Then, the ship slammed back down onto the surface of the churning ocean, sending Spider hard to the floor. The force of it was so great that he momentarily lost his grip on the slippery railing, and with a jolt of panic found himself sliding along the deck in the direction of the stern of the ship. He was going to be washed away. He scrabbled desperately to find something - anything - to cling on to, but the metal deck was perfectly smooth, and he couldn’t control the direction he was sliding in. 

He felt the burn of the friction on his exposed skin, but it was overpowered by the dreadful realization that another wave was looming behind the ship - and he was headed straight for it. Thunder cracked and lightning illuminated the silhouette of the 70 foot wave. Spider stared at it for a moment that contained an eternity. 

This was it. 

It was going to crash down on them, and he would be lost to the sea. He didn’t have time to say a prayer to Eywa, because he hit the railing at the stern with an almighty crash, unable to brace himself in time. Pain bloomed in his side - it felt like he’d cracked at least a hundred bones with the impact. He reached his hands to grip on, and braced himself for the seconds before the wave crashed down. He didn’t look up to see his fate, but the darkening of the light around him told him that the wave was upon them… it was right above them… any minute now…

He took the deepest breath he was capable of, and braced. 

Water slammed into him from above with the force of a thousand direhorses. His skin burned and his body crumpled under the weight of the onslaught. He had no choice but to let go of the railings, knowing his fate was sealed. Water was all around him. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t even feel anything. He was lost, tumbling and swirling in a freezing void of grey. Panicked seconds passed, and still he was submerged. The deck was gone from below him. Something was wrong, he should have come up for air by now. He didn’t know where he was, his lungs had frozen up from the icy water and nothing made sense. 

He kicked out against the water, not caring about anything other than finding the surface. His hands reached upwards - or what he assumed was upwards - to try and claw himself towards air, and it was at that point that his fingers brushed past the tubing of his mask. It was floating next to his neck, unconnected to anything. He’d been holding his breath instinctively, but more panic surged through him as he realised the mask was compromised… the exopack had been ripped away by the storm surge. 

He kicked violently towards where the water seemed lighter - surely that was the surface. He continued to be battered and thrown constantly, but he never gave up. He had to make it. 

Just when he was sure his lungs couldn't hold out any longer, his fingers found air, and his head quickly followed. He breached the surface with a gasp of grateful air - completely forgetting that the Pandoran atmosphere was no longer filtered for him. 

Immediately, his head began to swim and dizziness clouded over his brain like a fog. He gasped for breath again - the only thing he could possibly do. 

As he knew it would, the dizziness doubled in ferocity and the backs of his eyes burned. This was it. This was how he went. He closed his eyes against the pain, and his final thoughts were a plea to Eywa for acceptance. 

*****

“Shit, Colonel, he’s overboard!” came a shout from Wainfleet, struggling to be heard over the roar of the storm. 

The recoms were clinging to the rail on the starboard side of the top deck, but when a wave had swept Spider away towards the stern, they’d screamed after him. 

Quaritch wasn’t waiting to be told. He had been fighting his way towards Spider since the first waves had crashed on the ship, but the kid was so small and fragile and… human. He simply couldn’t hold onto anything against the force of the water. 

“Spider!” Quaritch screamed for the hundredth time in the past half an hour. Where was he? He’d gone.. disappeared over the side. Quaritch couldn’t see him. He ran as best as he could towards the stern, but the swaying of the boat made him slow. Waves crashed against him, but he made it. His eyes scanned the churning ocean, but it was a nightmare. The water was grey, frothing, and choppier than Quaritch had ever seen on Earth, even including the gigantic sea storms as the planet cried out to be saved. It was apocalyptic. 

It was hopeless.

Wainfleet staggered up behind him, and a second later he was followed by Z-dog and Mansk, all of them desperately scanning the waves for signs of Spider. 

“There!” Z-dog shouted, pointing to a spot a hundred feet away. 

Quaritch searched the waves desperately, finally catching sight of a tiny head bobbing at the surface, a ragdoll in the waves. 

Without thinking, Quaritch leapt head first into the waves. He hit the water hard - he knew that if he were still human, he never would have survived it. It was stupid. It was necessary. It was the only thing he could do. 

Relishing in his Na’vi strength and stamina, he furiously swam towards the spot he’d last seen Spider. Waves towered over him now, and it was difficult to keep sight of the boy. When the next wave lowered, he found him again. Spider was floating twenty feet away, and Quaritch finally reached him, breathless and lungs burning. 

Shit. 

Spider’s exopack was missing. Quaritch turned the unconscious boy over in his arms, searching for the equipment as if it would just be floating nearby. Heart pounding, he found the disconnected tubing that connected Spider’s mask to the bare Pandoran atmosphere. 

“Fuck!” he shouted, turning back to the ship and dragging the boy with him. Wainfleet was at the deck, still clinging on, and he threw a buoy over the side that Quaritch made a beeline for. It was difficult enough keeping his own head above water, let alone the unconscious Spider’s. He didn’t have time to worry about it though. The kid had been without oxygen for too long, too many precious minutes. He finally reached the buoy, and the next thing he heard was the sound of chopping cutting through the air from a Sampson gunship above them. He gasped for breath, looking up at the dark sky and praying that the monstrous waves would relent for just another minute. 

“Come on, Spider, hold on!” he shouted at his son’s empty face. He ripped the boy’s mask off, since he noticed with a jolt that it had started to fill with water. “Shit!” Mansk and Z-dog appeared on hoists from the floating Sampson above their heads. “Give him here,” Z-dog shouted as she pulled Spider from the Colonel’s arms, signalling to the pilot of the aircraft to hoist them up. Spray splattered the group as Quaritch grabbed onto Mansk to be pulled up himself. 

“His mask disconnected!” he shouted. “Radio the med bay now!”

Mansk did so and they were lifted into the Sampson. As soon as Quaritch unclipped himself, he staggered straight over to Spider, fitting him with a fresh mask before checking for a pulse. It was there, faintly, but the kid wasn’t breathing. “Fuck!” he shouted. What did he do now?

*******

Spider woke up in a brightly lit room. The first thing he became aware of was his pounding headache, his burning throat, and pain all over the right side of his chest. 

He tried to make a sound, but all that came out was a dry rasp. Then he tried to sit up, but that was no good either. He cried out when his ribs protested harshly.

He looked around, trying to assess where he was and what had happened. He was on the Sea Dragon - he recognised the decor. But this was a different part of the ship. It was white, sterile, and filled with medical equipment. So, the med bay.

At that point, the doors to the left opened noisily and in strolled Quaritch, looking frantic and haggard, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Deep lines littered his forehead, and there were purple shadows under his eyes. Spider tried to croak a snide comment, but found his head hurt too much to even think of forming words. 

“Spider!” The recom’s face came back to life when he realised he was awake. His eyes widened in a mixture of relief and concern, and he crossed the room quickly to kneel next to Spider’s bed. 

“Jesus kid, you had us worried there!” He placed an uncertain hand on Spider’s arm.

Spider looked at him through bleary eyes, valiantly trying to form a sentence in his mind before exerting the effort of speech. “Wh-” he cleared his throat painfully. “What happened?” 

Quaritch huffed in fake amusement. “Well, you’re a little survivor is what happened. The storm threw you overboard and you lost your exopack. I jumped in to get you, and we managed to pull you out.”

Spider frowned slowly. “Y-you… jumped in?”

“Yeah. Don’t let it go to your head though… I’m a natural swimmer and I’d have done it for any unlucky bastard that fell in.” Spider stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or not. He couldn’t tell if Quaritch was being serious. He couldn’t tell much of anything right now. 

“You’re still pretty out of it, huh?” Quaritch asked. “You should get some rest… I’ll leave you alone to sleep.”

“No!” Spider surprised himself with the sudden steadiness of his voice. “You- you don’t have to…” he muttered, embarrassed at the way he was coming across. 

Quaritch considered him for a moment, before grinning slyly, and settling back into the chair. 

Spider let himself relax back into the sheets, and as soon as he had closed his eyes again he was passed out, safe in the knowledge that Quaritch would look out for him.

#thank you for sending this #it was very amusing #sorry it never became part of If You Playing Me #but hopefully a one shot will do 💞💞 #miles spider socorro #spider socorro #miles quaritch #recom quaritch #one shot #avatar the way of water #avatar 2 #atwow

[heliopauseentertainments]

From The Claws Of Death

I saw an idea and, uh, this happened.

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationship: Tarantulas/Prowl

Characters: Prowl & Tarantulas

Warnings: Necromancy, canon divergence, death mention

Summary: In which Prowl remembers dying, but almost nothing else.

Note: Inspired by @decepti-thots's post here.

Crossposting: AO3 | DreamWidth

Fic below cut

An explosion.

When Prowl died, he remembered an explosion.

Or rather, he remembered the sound of an explosion.

He hadn’t felt anything, not anything beyond the icy, agonizing burn of static simultaneously overwhelming all his sensors.

One of the last thoughts through his processor had been thinking how similar dying had felt to being born, onlining in a factory when every circuit fired up for the first time, confused and overcharged.

Every circuit flicking off again for the last time was identical.

Then came peace.

Relief.

Darkness.

An empty void.

A feeling of his formless consciousness being rushed off somewhere unknowable.

As his spark was conveyed through the void, up ahead voices, indistinct but familiar. Comrades, long dead. He knew them, instinctively.

Although this was, for now, a lonely journey, but there was a place of solace at the end of it. Even his own cynicism could only muster a weak argument. It was probably just final, illogical hallucinations of his processor shutting down.

Was that really so bad though?

Time no longer mattered. He had been here for seconds. He had been here for millions of years. It didn’t matter. It all felt the same in this nothingness between life and death.

Even that final explosion no longer mattered.

Lights, flashing and brilliant, beckoned as his spark approached the source of the voices.

The Afterspark.

He was nearly there, and then he would finally rest—

The roar of dangerous volumes of current overtook his audio processing as his consciousness jolted, tumbling into awareness. The voices were drowned out, silenced.

In an instant the cold void vanished, replaced by bright lights overhead and the agony of burning, overstimulated circuits channeling electricity.

It was like dying all over again only no peace, no relief, no comforting void followed the suffering. The dead couldn’t die, could they?

Birth then.

This was birth.

Prowl screamed.

Every hydraulic tensed from both the pain and the horror of once more having a body with which to scream, with which to suffer.

“Prowl!”

A voice called to him from nearby. His optics, sensitive and still calibrating, took in only a bright, blinding light.

He continued to scream, wordlessly, as his circuits slowly acclimated to the burden of being alive.

“Prowl, you’re back!”

A weight was thrown onto his chest, a chest he shouldn’t have even had. The pressure ached as he struggled in vain to throw the weight off, his limbs struggling to obey.

Prowl shouted, indistinctly, at the weight. His vocalizer wouldn’t form words, only howls.

Overcompensating for his struggling senses and lack of control, he threw himself and the weight sideways, plummeting off the edge of some surface and cascading in a heap to what was most likely the ground.

There was no clatter of metal, only the sting of cables and tubes being forcefully disconnected from his neck and back by the fall.

Arms, rough and round pulled him towards the strangely soft weight he had landed on.

An embrace.

Prowl pushed, sticking his arms out in front against that soft, furry form that was so intent on clinging to him. His hands slipped and scrabbled, like the fingers were tipped with claws.

His vocalizer finally managed to cooperate, having at last booted up with a cheery noise in his HUD, now barely visible over the blinding white.

“No!”

His optics refused to calibrate, his processor pounding from the unrelenting glare. Perhaps they were defective…. What utter hack had repaired him?

“Prowl, you’re back!” The voice called again, right in front him this time as their limbs tangled on the floor.

His plating felt wrong. Leathery and covered in… some downy filaments, like mesh drapery.

“No!” He squirmed in his struggle to escape the embrace. “Let go!”

“Oh! Your eyes!” the voice said, like they were entirely unconcerned with his terror and more like they had forgotten an appliance was plugged in unattended somewhere.

He was released, the shape underneath him wriggling away.

A soft series of clicks reverberated as the being moved elsewhere, he could hear it so distinctly, but why? His head turned to track the sounds even though he couldn’t see, further around than he ought to have been able to do.

The voice was familiar. He knew this person, but from where?

Another click and it was dark again. No, merely darker. The pain in his processor began to subside and the world, an alien world he didn’t belong in, began to take form.

Tiled floors, a tiled ceiling. Metal walls. A medical slab next to him. All grungy with some… dried substance that had dripped before coagulating.

Someone had repaired him. No, he had died. One couldn’t repair death. Right?

“Better?”

Yes, but Prowl said nothing as he sat on his knees… staring down at his repaired body.

No, new.

This body was entirely new… and the floor beneath was wet with unknown smears.

Purple.

Energon maybe.

His? Someone else’s? Usually there was a distinctive smell—or was there? He couldn’t… remember—but he found that he could hardly smell anything at all.

Long and flexible filaments hung from his plating—skin. Feathers? Pale and warm. Splotches of whatever was on the floor, on the walls, on the medical slab clung to his… feathers.

Feathers.

Cybertronians didn’t have feathers. Did they? The more he tried to think, the more the past prior to his death began to slip away, no longer at the forefront of his consciousness.

Bringing up his arms to examine, he saw that they were indeed clawed, built-in weapons… like a beast.

Prowl tried to access his statistical and simulation programs to no avail. None of the software and programming that he had used before was there, nor were most of his memories. Gaping voids of corrupted and lost data mocked him as he trolled through the databanks.

Nothing made sense.

“Prowl, I….”

He whipped his head around to look at the voice, at long last.

A purple and green being, many limbs emerging from their back, stared at him, hooked hands clasped together in… glee? It was hard to read their face. So many unblinking eyes, no obvious mouth.

He knew them.

But he was drawing a blank.

His formerly impressive selection of dossiers was now empty, wiped either by his brain module’s destruction or by his death… or perhaps by his rebirth. He had no idea.

He barely knew himself.

An incomplete name (“Prowl of …”), general function (“investigator”), a few last memories (“conflict, explosion”), but so much else was a haze. Did it matter? Maybe it did. Maybe not.

The being stared at him, expression inscrutable. Prowl didn’t understand what he was looking at. The uncertainty gnawed at his processor.

“I died,” he said, taking the opportunity to fill the silence while the weird being over there, presumably his “creator,” hesitated.

For whatever good that protest would do to him.

Dying had hurt but it had stopped and promised no further suffering.

This promised him nothing.

“Prowl, I brought you back.” They sounded… hopeful. Somehow.

The being crept closer.

“I died,” he repeated, trying to get to his feet, unfamiliar taloned limbs slipping against soiled tiling. “I died!”

“Prowl, please—“ The being grabbed him around the middle before he could escape, pulling him upright. “Please, I almost can’t believe it! You’re here! You’re really here!”

They buried their many-opticed face into the pillow feathers of his new chest, hoisting him up around the middle like a new-build’s favorite toy. He kicked his feet in the air, a weak attempt to regain his freedom.

“Who—What are you doing?” He shouted the questions, digging the claws on his fingers into the soft fur of the monster’s unnaturally fleshy shoulders. “Unhand me!”

“I can’t believe it worked,” the being continued, undeterred by the assault. “It worked! First, I lose Ostaros and then I… I couldn’t lose you too. All these years and all these failures and… and….”

The being began to dissolve into uncomfortable, wet, sticky sobs. From somewhere. Certainly not from any of those disgusting eyes—Ostaros?

Ostaros.

His memory banks pulled up a few damaged recollections as he hung limp in his captor’s grasp, exhausted.

A mostly naked endoskeleton, half-built and waiting to given the blessing of his creators.

Creators.

Prowl knew them.

The memories said he was one of them.

Who was the other?

His processor was able to find another name, another face.

Mesothulas.

They had made Ostaros together, but he couldn’t remember why.

Meso—Wait. He did know the monstrosity desperately hugging him. Somehow.

“Meso… thulas?” Prowl mumbled. The name didn’t match the picture in his memory banks, but there were a few similarities.

“Oh, Prowl!” Mesothulas clung to him like he would never let go. “You do remember!”

“… No, I….” Perhaps it would be better if he pretended that he did. Perhaps Mesothulas would lead him to clues, to piece together what was missing. This lunatic was his only link to finding out what had happened before his death… and why he had been denied his eternal peace. “Yes, yes, I remember. Of course, I remember, Mesothulas. How could I forget?”

Mesothulas made pathetic cooing noises against his chest, whatever liquid he was expressing from somewhere on his face soaking into Prowl’s brand new feathers.

Disgusting.

“You’re here. You’re here and we can go find Ostaros… bring him back, bring our son back… and be a family again!”

“Family….” He wasn’t sure what a “family” was and “son” didn’t make sense, but he would do best to not argue, not yet. His databanks tried to offer suggestions, prompting a query that Mesothulas must be his “mate,” whatever that was. There was a lot to catch up on. “That’s right.”

“You don’t know what I’ve gone through to bring you back.”

No, no, he hadn’t the slightest clue, but he was beginning to suspect that it wasn’t optical lubricant getting into his feathers, but more energon… from somewhere. Purple and thick, long separated from the person who had been using it.

As he looked down, optical rings focusing to a fine detail he wasn’t sure he had before, he noticed that Mesothulas was covered in energon and other grime. His “flesh” was torn and scorched in places, in need of mending. Was that from Prowl’s claws? No, these looked… old, ignored.

“Prowl… I have so much to show you. I was so lost with you.”

Well, he was here now. Might as well play along, at least until he had more information.

“… Me too.” Hm. “How… did you do it, Mesothulas?”

#fic #one shot #taraprowl #maccadam #idw1 #sotw #prowl #tarantulas #mesothulas

[heartofspells]

Masterpost

@wolfstarmicrofic

Prompt: transform

He floats for a long time, weightless and suspended, like time doesn't exist anymore. Maybe it doesn't and never did. He loses track of himself in the interim, like pieces of himself are flaking off and disintegrating to nothing, dust wafting around him in the endless, suffocating void that presses in on him, uncomfortable and nothing all at once.

Sirius wonders if this is what it feels like to die, to truly disappear and cease whatever existence he'd once clung to with clawing fingers. He muses if this is what it's like to transform into a black hole, celestial magnificence hanging around him but evaporating as he sucks it all in and devours it whole until there's nothing else left, just emptiness for eternity. He ponders it until his mind begins to seep away.

He can remember things at first, small tidbits and facts. The flash of unruly black hair, green eyes framed by copper waves, more green behind glasses and a shining, beaming, always bright face. Voices around him like warm comfort, an enveloping blanket of home and happiness, of that acceptance he'd always sought and finally found through strife and struggle, so very worth it in the end. He recalls brown, an endless sea of melted chocolate swirled with rich caramel, fingers of heat and electricity, keeping him grounded even as they'd shocked and sparked over his skin. Sirius remembers the anguish in the color as it had faded from sight with the turning of a back, and then everything is gone, slipping away like water through a small crack that can't be found and plugged.

He's nothing now, but that's okay, because if he can't remember anything, then nothing matters. Not who he had once been or where he'd come from; not even what had led him here to this vacuum of eternal absence. He forgets his name, forgets he was someone at all. He forgets that he's a 'he' and not only an 'it', grey ash in darkness, fluttering pieces turned to light and drowned away, damped until gone as well.

Nothing is peaceful…

"Sirius!"

He lurches upright, gasping in a deep breath of air that goes on forever before he's falling back to the hardness beneath him. His chest heaves, body quaking, but he doesn't get to rest, arms wrapping around him and hauling him up again, pressing him firmly to something just as solid but still giving and warm, sucking him inside in a different way than that terrible, crushing, eviscerating blackness.

Sirius tries to scrabble and claw for purchase at Remus' back as the other man holds him tight, but his hands won't work, everything numb and somehow on fire at the same time. He thinks he might be panicking but Sirius can't tell for sure, everything aching as he continues to gasp in a cruel, terrible way that stings his lungs, and he knows without being told that this time was different from all the rest.

"You wouldn't wake up," says Remus in a choked voice, desperate and pleading and relieved and scared, so many emotions within it that Sirius can't pin them all down, his head spinning and throbbing, forcing his eyes closed, bursting white spots of agony behind his lids. "I've been shouting at you for over a half hour now, but you wouldn't come back to me. Fuck, Sirius, you wouldn't come back."

Sirius draws in another breath, but it catches halfway in his throat, forcing out a horrible sounding squeak of sound, like a dying animal still fighting for life. He shudders with it, Remus' hold on him strengthening as though he's trying to keep him from disappearing.

"You left," whispers Sirius raggedly, his voice a wisp of a thing, barely existent or his at all. "You left me. You left me and James is going to let me die."

Remus doesn't say anything, falling backwards against the side of the sofa, something in him giving out. He pulls Sirius with him, still cradled against his chest, refusing to let him go.

#these days of dying #wolfstar #sirius black #remus lupin #sirius x remus #sirius/remus #ooooh did i have you scared? #i think i did #wolfstarmicrofic #my writing #my microfics #holli writes

[fortruthoversolace]

currently collecting low-stakes ways to desensitize myself to failure

1. shitpost on tumblr (a.k.a. shout into the void)

2. play online scrabble against strangers who are better than me

3. do harder turns in ballet class

#rambling

[whumpcereal]

whumptober, day twelve: "mayday, mayday!" | cave in | rusty nail

Have a little historical whump one-off, with Jimmy the ill-fated ball turret gunner. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled Jack, Joe, Tommy, and Will very soon, but today's prompt was a hard one for those boys.

content warnings for: character death, hurt/comfort, plane crashes, meditations on war, adult language

one shot, the mechanics of letting go

“Oh, fuck! Mayday, mayday, MAYDAY!” 

Jimmy can hear the crackling message through his headset, but it’s the sharp drop of his gut that really clues him in that things are about to go south. Literally. The plane lists suddenly and starts to dive. The fuselage’s belly is wrapped in black smoke, and even surrounded by the glass of his ball turret, Jimmy can’t see a fucking thing.

He doesn’t need his eyes to know they’re going down. 

“Are we hit?” Jimmy screams into his mouthpiece. “Bert, Parker, are we hit?” 

There’s no reply. The engines whir above him, their buzz so loud that Jimmy feels like his ears are full of bees. His body rattles as the plane jars, and he grips the controls. There’s nothing to shoot at, not when you’re falling out of the sky, but it’s steadying somehow. 

“Only two things fall from the sky, James,” his father said before he left. “Bird shit and assholes. You might be one of those two things, but I doubt it.” 

He shook Jimmy’s hand like they were strangers, and he’d tried to smile, his watery blue eyes betraying his fears. 

Jimmy wonders what his father will say when the War Department knocks on his door. He should understand. He did his fair share of dog fighting in the Great War. But still, he’d told Jim he wasn’t sure it had been worth it. 

“I fought so you wouldn’t have to. What’s wrong with the world, son? Why don’t we ever learn?” 

Gravity claws at the bomber now, and Jimmy feels the pressure in his back molars. He feels like the ground might be in spitting distance. Still, there’s no one on the radio, no call to bail out. Even if he heard one, he might not have time to scrabble for his chute; there’s not enough room in the turret to keep it on. 

Jimmy’s eyes catch on the photo wedged inside the metal edge of his porthole. Annabeth, her lips painted dark and her blue eyes smiling, even in black and white. He closes his eyes, just for a second, and he sees her as she was the night before he left: the arch of her back against his cheap jersey sheets, the way her hair tumbled free and wreathed his pillow in red curls. The taste of her. The smell. Like powder and peaches and brown butter.  

“Don’t be a hero, Jim,” she told him. “You come back to me.”

She took his hand and pressed it against the nascent swell of her belly.

“Come back to us.” 

He’d kissed the soft skin next to her navel and promised he wouldn’t let her down.

Another engine blows, but Jimmy keeps hold of the guns. He closes his eyes again and forces himself to breathe, even as the plane hurtles lower. 

There’s no exercise in basic training to prepare a guy for this. The mechanics of a crash, sure. The mechanics of letting go, not so much. 

“Do you know, Jimmy,” his mother said before she went, “I like to think that when I see you in heaven, you’ll be two-years-old again. I couldn’t hold you enough then. It’s something they don’t tell you–the way you’ll miss your children when they grow. Will you let me hold you in heaven?” 

He was thirteen then. It hadn’t seemed manly to agree. But Jimmy knew now. He would let her hold him. If Mama’s arms were what was waiting on the other side, he would fall into them gladly. 

He wonders if she will be glad to see him. Or will she be disappointed? Will she ask him why he came so soon? 

The earth is close, it must be, and the plane feels like it’s tumbling faster. 

“Parker! Bert!” Jimmy cries into his mouthpiece. “Anyone?” 

He’s used up precious seconds he did not have shouting into the void, waiting for an order that will not come. There’s only one order that matters in situations like these, and it isn’t Bert’s. 

The smoke ebbs, and Jimmy can see the ground. A carpet of green, with trees growing suddenly larger, like some kind of Wonderland trick. 

It would be beautiful if it weren’t going to smash him to a pulp in a matter of seconds. 

The turret kisses the trees, and Jimmy braces himself. 

He can’t answer his father’s question: he doesn’t know what's wrong with the world or how a skinny kid who still has spots on his skin can find himself hurtling toward death in a flying fortress a million miles from home. 

He isn’t a hero, and he did not try to be, but still: I’m sorry, his heart whispers to Annabeth’s. He knows he let her down. 

But there’s a breath, just before the turret finds the ground, before the metal and glass cave in around him. Before he goes. 

In that breath, he hears his mother. 

Oh, Jimmy. I’m so glad to see you again. 

He doesn’t feel the slice of glass shards when the turret shatters or heft of the twisted metal when the fuselage comes down on top of him. He is not broken, and he is not cold. 

Jimmy is small and warm, and he is wrapped in his mother’s arms.

#whumptober 2022 #no.12 #mayday mayday #cave in #oc #fic #character death #hurt/comfort #plane crashes #meditations on war #adult language #say hello to jimmy #a cutie patootie that you will never see again #because he's dead

[storms-path]

Day 4 - Void (Extra Credit)

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!”

Trapped in steel as it was, the beast was nonetheless unmistakeable as it awoke, shattering its restraints with all the ease of a child tearing leaves. No other creature could have that same wretched aether. No other creature could inspire such deep, unrelenting irritation at its continued existence.

“Diablolos, you sack of shite-layered goblin piss! Why can’t you just stay DEAD?!” Fareena punctuated her frustration with her trademark opening gambit: Charing directly up to the abomination of steel and void and slamming her gunblade into its chassis. It didn’t exactly do much, but it made her feel much better. Distantly she could hear Arashi and Stalwart cursing her out in unison, Sanda’s confusion at Fareena’s visceral reaction, but she honestly didn’t care. Honestly, the nerve of some creatures, thinking they could just cheat death as they wished. It wasn’t fair!

Warning: Control system failure. Warni- <bzzzt> I return to myself a- Oh, not YOU again.

If it was possible for an unholy fusion of demon and machine to convey annoyance, the Diablo Armament certainly gave it its best effort. With an almost casual swipe of its monstrously large hand it attempted to swat Fareena like the annoying gnat she was. Fareena, however, had other ideas, leaping onto the hand as it swung her way and starting to climb up the Armament’s arm, shouting obscenities all the way.

Sanda, thoroughly confused at this point, paused in nocking another arrow to her bowstring and watched as the nimble viera clambered, leapt and scrabbled her way up the creature’s forearm and onto its shoulder, somehow avoiding all of its admirable attempts to dislodge her. Slamming her gunblade into the giant warmachina’s shoulder, she continued her tirade of insults without any apparent need to pause for breath. To Sanda’s considerable shock, the great metal beast actually turned its head to respond in kind, its horrific booming voice uttering some truly vile curses.

“What… What is going ON?!” Sanda couldn’t help but express her bafflement. What was supposed to be a climactic battle to free Bozja had instead devolved into a glorified shouting match. And to make matters worse, neither Arashi nor Stalwart looked surprised. With a grimace, Arashi turned to explain.

“This isn’t the first time we’ve encountered this thing,” Arashi said with a vague gesture towards the mechanical behemoth. “Not in this form,” she hastily added at Sanda’s disbelieving look. “He was a good deal smaller when we faced him in Dun Scaith.”

“And Amdapor!” added Stalwart helpfully, turning her gaze away from the animated conversation still occurring. “He really is a persistent one, isn’t he?” A roar of fury cut through the conversation, making them all cover their ears. Or horns, in Arashi and Sanda’s cases. Fareena, clutching her own ears, was laughing. Apparently she had won that exchange.

“So you’ve… met this thing before?” In a world of newfound absurdities, this one seemed a little too much to accept. But Arashi and Stalwart just nodded grimly, the same fatigued expression on their faces.

“Thought we’d finally dealt with him after blasting him with the Nullstone, but apparently some scrap of him survived enough to find its way into that relic.” Arashi’s resigned tone echoed in the massive chamber, making the silence between viera and machine all the more conspicuous. The three women exchanged a look, then turned to see whether Fareena had been reduced to a fine paste.

Surpassing expectations once again, Fareena was not reduced to a smear of aether. Instead she was climbing back down the arm of the creature, looking remarkably smug and without a hint of retaliation from the colossus. With a spirited leap she bounded back onto solid ground, jogging over to her very confused compatriots.

“We’ve come to an agreement!” she said with an unearned grin.

“An agreement? With that thing?” Stalwart’s tone was all disbelief and veiled disgust.

“Yes! We’re going to do our damnedest to kill that voidsent bastard properly this time!”

So far so good, but… “What’s the catch?” spoke Arashi and Sanda in perfect unison.

“No catch! He’s just going to do the same to us! Oh, duck.” Fareena was already ducking as she did, barely avoiding a white-hot ball of magitek aimed squarely at her head. It slammed into the far wall with an ominous hiss. Then Fareena was turning back with a grim expression, gunblade raised as she charged into the fray.

With a well-worn grimace shared between them, Arashi, Sanda and Stalwart joined her.

#ff14 #final fantasy 14 #ffxiv #final fantasy xiv #ffxivwrite2022 #ffxivwrite #arashi washi #sanda washi #fareena hagen #stalwart mountain #i told you it'd be a more lighthearted prompt this time #fareena's ability to annoy people is legendary #and for once the feeling is mutual

[xxscrabiesxx]

rachel and taylors relationship means so much to me. god. fuck.

#scrabble shouts into the void #worm web serial

[ghoulishpencil]

Fine. If this is your wish, then so be it. You won’t find the future very pleasant. 

Darkness fell, and Aster looked up, surprised to find the sky blotted out, its light reflected to nothing by shimmering wings. The wind picked up again, whipping at their clothes and hair, drawing Finley and Aster into the sky. Julian pounced, wrapping them in his paws before he fell to the earth. 

The metallic smell grew stronger, and more sparks danced with the lightning, this time catching. The metallic burning was quickly overwhelmed by actual fire. the Tesla coils jolting as the earth itself seemed to protest the sudden change. One of them fell over, lightning striking the ground beside it, fire catching. 

And still, the moon remained blacked out, the entire sky darkening as it moved from the point over the coils outwards. A dome, a massive dome, Aster thought, stomach lurching as dress pulled tight, crushing her chest as Julian pulled her off the ground. Finley was shouting, and when she looked, she found herself dangling above the air, inhaling smoke. The coils were on fire now, the porcelain vases charred black. Julian turned, and she swung dramatically, scrabbling in the air for something to hold onto, hitting the side of his mouth. He growled but ran. A hot hand found her dangling one, and she looked down to see Finley stretching out to reach her. She grasped at the tip of his fingers, holding her breath as the beast ran past the manse and the first gate. 

He stopped, setting them down when they seemed well and away from the fire, setting Finley and Aster down gingerly, turning to look back. “Do you think that’ll reach the house?” he asked. 

The fire had grown, a bright orange glow against that forced the manse to stand in stark relief as a void. Aster found his paw, squeezing it tightly. “If it does, it’ll be okay.” 

“We’re with you now,” Finley added, taking Julian’s other paw. “Your home is with us.” 

Julian looked at the pair of them, dropping his face down and jabbing them both with his horns. Aster clung to his head, breathing in the sharp tang of musk even through the sweat and smoke. Finley’s hand brushed over hers, settling comfortably on top. 

“I love you,” Julian said, wrapping his paws around them both. “Let’s go.” 

“Together,” Finley said, and Aster nodded, coughing instead of talking. They pulled back, stepping away when Julian grabbed the gate, shaking it. It protested, screeching out its complaint, but he didn’t stop, growling, his hair standing all along the back of his neck and back. Aster clapped her hands back over her ears, Finley’s arms around her grounding her. There was a final, heart wrenching scream before the metal gave way and Julian tossed it to the side. 

A breeze blew over them, bringing with it the taste of smoke. Julian waited for Finley and Aster before he took a step out, the breeze picking up, catching the leaf litter from the forest and kicking it into the air. Aster squinted as a humanoid shape materialized, arms stretching towards Julian. 

#queer characters #aromantic character #transgender character #gay character #beauty and the beast #unplucked

[luminecho]

Me, typing: game

Autocorrect: Agamemnon.

Me: w— what. N-no..... nice try though

#it’s like that one scrabble incorrect quote lmao #I have no idea why this happened #I have never typed the name Agamemnon in my entire life I can assure you #// #echo shouts to the void

[redwinterroses]

I have fallen in love with the Creachur AU. It is such a cool concept and you are a fabulous writer. I do wonder how some of the other hermits might react to Grian. Like if Mumbo comes to Midnight Alley to trade with Grian's villagers while Grian is waiting for Scar to return with Pearl.

Mumbo needed quartz—a lot of it—and he really, really didn’t feel like going to the nether. You had to go so far these days to find any quartz veins that hadn’t been entirely mined dry, and the nether was hot, and dark, and dangerous, and… He just didn’t feel like dealing with it.

Not when Grian had a bunch of villagers just sitting there.

And anyway, Grian wouldn’t mind. Grian had to be around to mind and Mumbo hadn’t seen him since they all got home.

Still, he found himself landing quietly outside Midnight Alley and walking the rest of the way in, avoiding the sound of rockets. He wasn’t sneaking. He was just being quiet. Because he wanted to.

The Alley seemed to be listening though.

Which was a weird thing to think, because it was a build not a creature and though he and Grian had both definitely built living builds before, and though Midnight Alley was undeniably magical, he was pretty sure it wasn’t actually alive.

Actually it was pretty quiet, when he really noticed. No odd creepers or random zombies in the shadows—which was saying something, considering how many shadows there were. But the spaces between buildings and the edges of the roofs were perfectly still and safe.

So why did he feel like something was… aware?

Mumbo made his way over to the stairway (well. Hole in the ground) that led down to Grian’s villagers, trying to shake off the feeling—it was probably just Grian’s replay cams rolling or something. You often got the feeling of being watched when you lived in a world where everyone recorded everything. It was only natural.

The screech that burst from above him the minute he stepped onto the stairs, however, was not.

Instinctively throwing his arms over his head, Mumbu ducked to the side. Phantom? In the middle of the day? Maybe one had flown in overnight and gotten stuck—

Goodness!

The creature that leaped down in front of him was not a phantom.

Dozens of void-black eyes glared out at him from a face that glowed with a faint, eerie light. The creature screamed again, and its mouth pulled back in an ear-to-ear snarl of fangs that layered over each other, needle-sharp and snapping at him.

Mumbo shouted—for help, or in surprise, or a manly shriek of terror, it didn’t matter. The sound was instantly swallowed up by the thick and suffocating silence that rolled out from the creature’s form like smoke from a fire. It raised its wings, and the soot-black feathers filled the world, blocking out the light and backing Mumbo against the wall.

The thing loomed over him, teeth chittering—Mumbo couldn’t hear the sound, but he could feel the vibrations buzzing in his ribcage—and its long, bone-white tongue flickered out to taste the air. Scraps of red wool clung to its elongated body, the multiple joints of its legs bending as it crouched over him. It blinked, but it blinked like a lizard, each eye independent of the next, never breaking its fixed gaze.

The air was thin, and tasted of ozone—like the lightning Doc and Ren had summoned; like the taste of flying too high with an elytra. Like the taste of the void.

All Mumbo could see were those eyes. Enormous, glowing, pulling him in deeper and deeper until the entire world was dozens—no, hundreds—of watching eyes. Thousands of beings, terribly bored and now abruptly aware of him.

Watching, watching, watching, watching—

His chest was too tight. He couldn’t—he couldn’t breathe. His heart pounded in his ears, pressure building in his skull. His fingers scrabbling uselessly over deepslate bricks of the wall behind him and he had to get away he had to get away they were—

Watching.

“Help—” he croaked, the word squeezing through his throat. It was swallowed up by the nothing and the silence and the watching—

The world went dark.

#redwinteranswers #creacher grian au #fun fact i have no idea where this is going or what just happened to mumbo #suggestions welcome lol #tw body horror #(mmmmm... not really but we'll tag it anyway) #tw scopophobia #grian #mumbo jumbo #hermitcraft #redwinterwrites

[bibliocratic]

clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

-

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

-

Martin is happy.

-

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

-

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

-

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

--

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

-

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

-

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

-

Jon is happy.

-

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

-

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

-

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.  

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

-

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

-

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

-

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

-

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

-

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

-

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

-

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

-

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“…  you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

-

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

#tma #the magnus archives #cw racing thoughts #cw anxiety #tw eating disorder #tw ptsd #ask to tag #cw nightmares #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tma spoilers

[rae-gar-targaryen]

alight with the lights out | diego hargreeves x reader [tua]

A/N: Thank you for all of your interest after I posted the teaser! It was VERY surprising and humbling; I’ve NEVER had so many people ask for a tag before. I only ask that if you asked for a tag, you interact with this fic SOMEHOW. And go find another story you love and REBLOG IT! LET THAT WRITER KNOW YOU LOVE THEM!

I’ll be honest, I’m very nervous about this one. I’m not sure if it turned out as good on paper as it did in my head. Please let me know what you liked and what you didn’t!

Pairing: Diego Hargreeves x vigilante, powered!Reader; this one may read a bit more like an OC because I’ve given the reader backstory, powers. She’s (you’re) a vigilante who regularly runs into Diego. I keep the physical description vague, so I hope you can still imagine yourself! 

Warnings: Language; who doesn’t love getting a little sweary? Violence, fighting, references to a shitty childhood, and separately, implied sexual assault (nothing graphic, I promise); angst and angsty dialogue; SMUT-- 18+ ONLY PLEASE; lots of cocktease dialogue, fingering, pierced nipples (the reader’s not Diego’s-- sorry), biting, rough sex, choking. Romance is its own warning. Fluff.

Word Count: 12.1k of sexy, self-righteous vigilantism, half-baked metaphor and of course, at least one literary reference. 

Summary: Diego Hargreeves, aka The Kraken, is secure about few things in life; one of those things being his vigilantism. He’s a hero. Until he meets a fighter who shares the same hobby, albeit with different methodologies. Diego isn’t quite as certain about her, but her mysterious abilities make him think he and his siblings aren’t the only ones in this world with power. If only she and Diego could just stay out of each others’ hair. It’s a good, old-fashioned ENEMIES TO LOVERS, lads!

Link to my playlist of songs that inspired this fic: here

NOT MY GIF

----

You wouldn't hurt anyone who didn't deserve it. That was rule number one. Hell, if you could get away with it at all, you wouldn’t hurt anyone. 

But Mr. Adler hated children. And he had made it his mission to not understand you. To regard you with the utmost disdain. And unfortunately for you, Mr. Adler had married your mother when you were six years old. 

You had never known another father. Your mother refused to talk about the circumstances of your birth, or of the man who had supposedly been responsible. The lack of identity loomed like a large question mark over certain portions of your life. 

And Mr. Adler, that loud, controlling lout, was not about to fill that void. 

When you were in elementary school, you began to feel like you were different from the other children. Watching them carry about their days with their steel-pressed pop culture lunch boxes and not a care in the world. While you sensed your music teacher’s sadness when her cat had died. You could feel every anxiety that passed through your classmates on the day of a spelling test. You didn’t know why you could feel these things. You just could.

Prominently above them all, you could feel Mr. Adler’s hatred for you, like a thick, toxic wall every time you passed through your front door and into what was supposed to be your sanctuary. 

He shouted at you for inane things, like the pantry door being left open, or the fact that your mother was tired after cooking dinner, insisting you never did enough to help. As a child of eight, what did he expect you to do? You kept your room clean, cleared and set the table, helped your mom water the plants in her garden. What more could Adler want from you?

Still, Mr. Adler’s hate for you colored your every interaction with him, the world you saw him through tinged with an orange-red lens of rage. 

You had never tried expanding upon your grasp of others’ feelings until you had witnessed a boy in your class push your pigtailed classmate, Annabelle, down on the playground. Anna’s shock, fear and sadness had bitten into you from the other side of the sandbox like an unwelcome spider bite, sudden and itchy. 

It didn’t sit right with you. To you, how was this boy any different from Adler? Reigning terror over someone else just because he thought he could. You’d recognize that red-orange tinge in another person anywhere. 

You stood, marching over to the boy, gripping his wrist firmly in your stubby, grubby fingers. Quick as a flash, you were met with every emotion this boy had ever felt -- annoyance at Anna (she wouldn’t share her toys. How selfish, the boy had thought); anger (how dare you grab him!); and finally, prominently, fear. 

Fear looked different for everyone, you had noticed. For some, like this boy, it was an ugly green, so like jealousy. For others, like Adler when he’d been drinking, it was an inky black you could drown in. Fear was clearly the strongest. You knew that now.

You gripped the boy’s fear in your own mind, pushing it to the forefront until he began to cry, his eyes welling with the sudden fear he couldn’t understand. 

“You won’t do that again,” you said. Turning to Anna, you offered a hand to help her up, but she just shook her head, pigtails flying, and scampered away from you. 

Your teachers were clearly afraid of you after that. Could sense that something wasn’t right. Anna? You thought she’d be grateful ... but the chilly pale yellow of her fear, and everyone else’s, followed you wherever you went. 

Fine, you thought. If they wouldn’t be grateful for what you could do, you may as well help yourself. 

From then on, you exploited your teachers’ happiness -- pop quizzes became less frequent. Everytime they wanted to scold you for incomplete homework, they were left grasping at straws and with the daze of an emotion they couldn’t name. 

Adler hated you for it. 

“I knew there was something wrong with you,” he sneered over your mother’s weeping objections. “I don’t know what it is, but I know there’s something.” 

Once you reached 18, you left for the neighboring bustling metropolis and didn’t look back. The world was full of people like Adler, like the boy in the sandbox, like your teachers, who tried to use their own fear to feed their hate, to exploit others. To exercise false power over them. 

Well, you wouldn’t have it. If it meant a few of those assholes got hurt, well, so be it. 

You lived like that for years. Until --

---

"I hope you choke on it," you hissed, watching the smoky black tendrils slither their way around the man, constricting -- bringing him to his knees, hacking and gasping. "I see your fear, I feel it all. You deserve this, you know you do," you lectured, advancing toward the man, your hands raised. 

He was seconds away, you knew it-- and then one more scumbag would be off the streets for good ...

Things were going your way, you were in your favorite position in an altercation-- you know, the one where you had the upper hand? Everything was coming up you, until--

Your ears were met with a whizzing noise mere seconds before a sharp, shiny something nicked your cheek and lodged into the wooden beam just past you. 

Your gaze left the piteous man before you long enough to see what looked like a small, but dangerously sharp, knife embedded in the beam. You reached up and plucked it from its resting place, spinning it in your palm before catching the hilt in a clutching grip. You turned to see where it had come from, your eyes catching a dark blur flipping from the fire escape of the opposite building, before said blur landed at your feet.

Standing at his full height, the blur-- no, the Kraken himself-- towered above you.

You had to admit, the stories didn't do him justice. Standing before you in head-to-toe black and a harness replete with shimmering, twinkling edges and danger, you could've sworn he was your knight in shining leather. His cropped hair and facial scars gave him the air that he was every bit as sharp and deadly as the many blades that adorned his body. His oilslick eyes so like mirthless pits of danger, daring to suck you beneath their surface. He was, in a word, imposing.

Regarding you from behind his Venetian domino mask, he spoke, "Miss I'm gonna need you to drop the knife and let this man go."

You snorted.

"You're joking, right?" Not giving him a chance to respond, you chuckled as you swung at him with the hand still holding what you now knew to be his blade. 

You'd give credit where it was due, Diego Hargreeves, aka Number Two, aka the Kraken, was every bit as fast as they'd said. In this regard, the stories and Umbrella Academy-related media hadn't been wrong. 

Diego dodged your swing, bending his body back before twirling around to strike at your torso, like a snake, with his heavy, hammered fist.

The hit knocked the wind out of you, effectively breaking your concentration, and, devastatingly, your connection with the previously fear-choked man cowering in the alley behind you. As you recovered from Diego's hit and swung around to check your quarry, you could only watch as he shook himself from your fear-induced trance.

He scraped and scrabbled to get up off his knees as Diego shouted at him to "Go, just get out of here!"

You snarled and swung a well-aimed high kick at Diego's head, connecting with just enough of his jaw to drop him. As soon as your proverbial window opened, you turned from Diego to run after the man. But even grounded from a blow, Diego was formidable. He shot his arm out and snagged your ankle, yanking you to the ground. 

The gritty pavement scraped your palms as you attempted to catch yourself on your way down, growling as you glanced up to see that loathsome cockroach of a man slip out of the alley, huffing as his bloated legs carried himself far away from you. 

You tossed a glance over your shoulder to see Diego righting himself as he stood up, looking down at you before shrugging, offering you his hand.

"Not a chance," you scoffed, knocking his hand away. You rolled slightly back, arched up, and used your hands to help you spring as you lept to your feet in one smooth movement. You landed with a thud of your boots, your feet spread apart, and arms raised in a boxer's stance. 

Diego had the decency to look slightly surprised at your obviously-dangerous athleticism. He shook himself slightly as he regarded you. 

Besides, he thought, taking in your stature, it's not as though you were any match for him. No way.

"Why would you get in my way, Umbrella douche?" You bit out harshly, glaring daggers at the knife-wielding Kraken.

"Come on, hot stuff," Diego shrugged. "If you know who I am, you gotta know it's not like I can just let you mug that man with … well, whatever you were doing to him." What he had seen you do in the alley seemed to be catching up with him as he cocked his head and queried, "What exactly were you doing to him, by the way? I mean, other than hurting a civilian?"

"A civilian?" You spat. "You don't know what you're talking about, do-gooder. If you knew what he was, you wouldn't be defending him so staunchly." 

“And what was he?” Diego pressed. 

“That dickless fuckhead would-be-rapist isn’t worth the shit on your shoe,” you snarled. “And you let him get away. Nice job, hero,” you sing-songed the last word mockingly, taking advantage of Diego’s lowered guard to level a swinging hit to his nose. 

Your punch landed with a satisfying crack, Diego stumbling back, shaking his head. 

“What in the ever-loving FUCK is wrong with you, lady?” Diego shouted. 

“Take your hits like a big boy. Aren’t you supposed to be some kind of ‘Big Deal?’ ” you asked, advancing toward Diego, fists raised. 

“Honey, my reputation precedes me for a reason,” Diego quipped back, blocking your next swing and making one of his own toward your gut. 

The two of you sparred in the alleyway, whirling and spinning in a very violent dance between two unwilling partners -- Diego, clearly pulling his punches, while you were obviously preoccupied with your rage at your escaped quarry. 

Diego flipped and spun and swung his fists with a speed that bordered on unnatural. His jabs and kicks annoyingly landed, as you were really only able to block just about every other hit. Fuck him for being so fast. 

So it was true, you thought, the superpower hype was real. Well, two could play that game. 

At Diego’s next hit, you caught his fist, allowing the contact to create the connection you needed, feeling for Diego and any underlying emotion that would be his undoing, before latching onto your favorite-- past the overstuffed confidence, you tasted simmering rage. Beyond that? A tiny prickle of … was that??…Ah, yes, the stinging, burns-so-good zip of lust... File that one away for later … and beneath it all lay Diego’s stammering, stuttering, suffocating fear. 

You dug your proverbial claws into it once you found it, bringing it to the surface, manifesting it into your signature smoky tendrils. 

Drag them down with their own fear. 

Diego’s eyes widened as he looked down to see his legs wrapped in what looked like snakes. Suddenly, his worst memories of fearful days under his father’s tyrannical reign were the only things in his brain. The shouting proclamation his own inadequacies in his father’s too-posh voice pounded within his skull. It was all he could think about -- Your presence before him seemed to dwindle, he couldn’t focus on you, try as he might-- when he was overcome with the feelings of every bad memory he had ever suffered through bearing down on him like the crushing weight of the ocean, pulling him under with the riptide of his own panic and inadequacies.

What the fuck was this shit? 

He pushed through his sudden indifference toward you to regard you, the woman stood before him. Diego’s fist clenched as he took in your own grip clutching around his wrist. Your eyes were closed as your face was screwed up in concentration. 

Repulsive. You were repulsive, he suddenly thought. How could he have cared so much about hurting you when his own terror and agitation sat heavy on his tongue, like ugly curdled cream?

But he hadn’t always felt this way-- not his usual modus operandi, was it? So what was this? Was this-- you?? Was this what you had done to that man?

Diego began to dredge himself through his own agitation, past his father’s lilting abuse… through the mire of never-quite-being-enough against Luther... dragging his proverbial feet through a bog of his own self-hatred. Just long enough to wrench his wrist from your grip, grabbing you by the shoulders and spinning around, slamming you probably a little too hard into the wall behind him. Your eyes snapped open as your head made a minor thwack off the  alleyway-- you had just enough time to tilt your head to the left as Diego brought one of his knives down, driving it into the wall a sliver from the space your face had previously occupied. 

Diego bore his weight on his toes, leaning his imposing height into and over you, panting and snorting heavily through his nose. You looked at his eyes behind his mask-- hardened flints of pissed-off-superhero glared back at you.

“W-wh-What the F-f-UCK was that?” Diego spit, lip curling over his teeth in a gruesome snarl. 

A fleeting flicker of shame passed through you. He hadn’t really done anything to deserve that, had he? Before you shook yourself out of it-- No! He let that rat-faced motherfucker get away! 

You fixed your face into an impassive mask of your own before you chirped, annoyingly, “What was what?” 

Diego chuckled mirthlessly, shaking his head.  “Nuh-uh. How did you do that?” Diego pressed, leaning even closer to you, if that were possible.

“Do what?” you chimed innocently, tilting your chin up, eyes meeting Diego’s from beneath your lashes. Maintaining your feigned ignorance.

“Don’t do that,” Diego snarled. “Don’t play dumb. I think we both know at this point-- you’re alot of things, and dumb isn’t one of them.” 

“You’d know all about playing dumb, wouldn’t you, pretty boy? Or for you, is it not really playing?” You reached up and ran a finger along his sharp jaw before tweaking his chin and dropping your hand back to your side. You sighed at Diego’s stone face. Honestly, it was so boring when they didn’t bite back.

“I don’t know what to tell you, cutie pie. I can’t help it. People are just drawn to me,” you quirked an eyebrow. “Or repulsed by me. I really haven’t decided.” You fluttered your eyelashes at him, ever the pretty picture. 

Diego leaned further into you, pressing your back further and further into the wall. All the while, his leather-gloved grip creaked around the handle of the knife he’d plunged into the wall next to your head as he gripped it tighter. 

“Huh,” he mused, scoffing at you lightly. “Ya know something, doll? I just don’t fuckin’ buy it.” 

“Babe, if you wanted to play bad cop, all you had to do was ask,” you smirked as the stone face slid from his features and gave way to "surprised face."

“Honestly, honey,” you slinked up Diego’s body, propping yourself onto your toes and brushing his lips ever-so-lightly with your own as you spoke into his mouth, “Did you really think you and your reject siblings were the only ones in this whole wide world with a little … taste … of power?” you purred. 

Ah, you thought, and there it was. 

The warming, zinging hum that your ability recognized as Diego’s lust crept through your fingertips that were currently resting on his chin. You were sure if you took the time to analyze exactly who was feeling what, that this feeling of craving wouldn’t be as one-sided as you’d otherwise have hoped. Diego was, you had to admit, very pretty -- for a man. 

The swirling galaxies in his midnight eyes regarded you with confusionangerwant.  Had you really just -- kinda kissed him?

You took advantage of Diego’s surprised state to knock his grip from your shoulder and shove -- hard. Diego toppled back, and you took off as fast as your enhanced body would carry you, cutting down the alley and away from your fascinatingly frustrating new rival. 

Diego took in your retreating form from his final resting place in the disgusting alley’s concrete. Slamming his fist into the rough-gravel ground, groaning out his frustration and anger.

You were gone. 

What were you? 

Were you really like him? Like the others?

---

Diego shuffled into Hargreeves Manor, determined to see who else was around. Surely they, or Pogo, would know if there were others like them out there. Had he been the only one to run into one? Was it all a hoax?

As he wandered into the cavernous, but simultaneously stuffy, living room, sure enough-- there was Klaus, sprawled across the couch, arm slung over his face in a restless nap. 

“Klaus!” Diego barked, startling the spindly man from his perch on the couch and onto the floor. 

Klaus looked balefully up at his brother from his spot on the carpet. “Jeeeesus, Diego, really? What do you want that made that necessary,” Klaus grumbled.

“Have you seen Pogo?” 

“I haven’t seen anything but the back of my eyelids for the last several hours, thank you very much,” Klaus replied, “Although, I did have a very good dream about running into an old friend of mine in the grocery store. He was always so convinced he was straight. But I think the rest of my dream calls bullshit.” Klaus chuckled to himself. 

“Yeah, whatever, man. I need to talk to Pogo,” Diego stressed, turning to leave the living room.

“Well, wait, wait, wait. What is so important?” Klaus queried, clambering up and lumbering across the room to catch Diego’s arm.

Diego sighed, facing his brother. 

“Do you think … Do you think we’re the only ones like us?” He asked.

“Well, there’s no one like you, brother,” Klaus chuckled, taking on a rumbling, Diego-esque mocking tone, “I’m Number Two!” He cackled to himself for a moment before coming back to himself with a sigh. “And honestly, we all know I’m an original. So I’m not sure I take your meaning.” 

“I mean… it couldn’t just be the seven of us, right? There’s a lot of other people in the world… it just makes sense others could do things like what we can?” Diego pressed.

Klaus started. He had never seen this look in his brother’s eye before. The unhinged mania of a fight? Sure. Crushing doubt? Obviously. But not this … fierce certainty buried beneath a question. This was new for Diego. He must be serious. 

Klaus blinked, regarding his brother, before slowly nodding. “I mean… sure… theoretically, there could be others. But I don’t know any. Why? Did you find someone?” 

Diego drew in a breath, unsure of how much he wanted to reveal to Klaus. After all, you were his nemesis. His pain in the ass. His whatever you were. 

Diego crossed the room again, back to the couch Klaus had previously occupied, before sitting down in a creak of leather and clink of blades still strapped to his harness. Propping his elbows on his thighs, he placed his head in his hands. 

“I don’t know. I think so? I found her while I was out patrolling, and I … I don’t really know how to describe what I saw.” 

Klaus placed himself next to his erstwhile sibling, tucking his feet beneath himself as he sat, reaching up to pat Diego on the shoulder.

“There, there, big guy. Just… tell me what happened,” Klaus crooned.

Diego launched into the story of finding you in the alley, choking the man with your smoke without even laying a hand on him. He described to Klaus how the two of you had fought, and how you had called the man a “would-be-rapist” before knocking Diego to the ground and making your getaway. 

“Well, she sounds hot.” 

“Helpful, Klaus,” Diego deadpanned. 

“Oh, isn’t it obvious, sweet Dee?” Klaus chimed at the end of Diego’s story. At his brother’s nonplussed look, Klaus continued. “She’s just like you! She likes to put on her Batman underoos and fight crime,” he chuckled. “Even if she is like… us… she clearly can do something different. But I think the most telling thing is how obviously into her you are.” 

Diego sputtered, “Wh-what?? I am not into that … psycho. Whatever she can do, that’s all I want to figure out.” 

“The lady doth protest too much,” Klaus sing-songed. “Whatever you say, brother. But I think the only way you’ll really figure it out is if you run into her again. I mean, we know dad had his secrets. If he knew about other powered children, don’t you think the Umbrella Academy would’ve been a lot bigger? The world is a big place. I’m sure there’s more out there, but, um… we just didn’t know about it until now?” 

Diego sighed deeply. “Oh, joy,” he muttered. Ignoring the tinge of excitement that passed through him at Klaus’s suggestion he seek you out. 

Klaus clapped his hands joyously, cuffing Diego’s shoulder, shaking him. 

“A nemesis, Diego! How sexy! How exciting!” 

---

Your encounter with one of the Umbrella Academy had left you slightly shaken, to say the least. You were so careful when you went out. No one missed those assholes you took care of. Honestly, you were doing the city a favor. 

Patrolling on any given night would yield one or two men who were plotting something less than savory. And all it took was a brush of skin to determine their true intentions. 

You sighed angrily, ripping off your bodysuit and stomping across your apartment to your shower, yanking back the curtain and twisting the knob forcefully. 

Hot water began to pour from the showerhead, steam filling your bathroom. You regarded your reflection in your bathroom mirror, a distinctly palmlike-bruise adorned your shoulder from where Diego had clutched it, not to mention the scrapes that lined your body from your repeated meetings with the concrete during your sparring. 

You met your own eyes in your reflection, regarding yourself as balefulness gave way to venom. 

Honestly, that toadlike little nobody had deserved what you were about to do to him. You had watched him from the back of the bar as he had annoyingly pressed his presence onto a poor girl who was just trying to enjoy her drink. Her drink that the toad had slipped something in when he thought she wasn’t looking. He even went so far as to grab her wrist with his stubby little hands. That was the final straw. 

You steeled yourself, letting the lustful, rowdy feeling of the other bar patrons that permeated the air like thick smoke take you over. Putting on your best, beguiling smile, you crossed the room and brushed your hand over the man’s bare arm, letting him feel the tingling want that you had absorbed. Simultaneously, you felt everything of his disgusting intent-- the hateful, possessive desire for the girl, the hurt he intended to inflict to trample his own inadequacies and sadness. 

Oh, yeah, you were right about this asshole. 

He looked up at you, disgusting gaze lingering on you, before forgetting all about his intended prey, pushing back from his barstool and venturing behind you out into the alley. 

The rest, as they say, is history. And an annoying vigilante type who had an ass that just wouldn’t quit once encased in black leather just had to rain on your proverbial pain parade. 

Diego Hargreeves… Of course you knew who he was. Everyone knew about the Umbrella kids. And you knew the man once-dubbed The Kraken was still doing his best Caped Crusader (sans cape) and kicking ass by night. Annoyingly self-righteous, really, you thought. Choosing ever-so-delicately to ignore the hypocrisy laden in your thought. Is that not, in effect, what you were doing? Albeit with a little more emotional manipulation and bloodshed. 

As you thought of Diego, your fingers traced the slim, sharp cut his knife had made in your cheek as it surged past you. 

You let the remnants of Diego’s rage that you had felt overtake you, amplified by your own, as you slammed your fist into the small mirror over your sink, letting the shards clatter to the ground around your feet.

Payback was a bitch, and so were you. You didn’t know if Diego Hargreeves was a praying man, but he had better hope to whatever deity would listen that he didn’t run into you again.

You wouldn’t be so kind twice, you told yourself, climbing into your shower and letting the blood and grit from your body swirl down the drain. 

---

As luck wouldn’t have it, your gods were decidedly not on your side. And clearly whatever deity you had mentally implored Diego to pray to was on vacation. 

Because you ran into that maddeningly beautiful dipshit, several times over the following weeks. He would do his best to bust up your party, stopping you from exacting your special brand of vengeance. You’d exchange a few quips and blows before running off before he could ask you the question you knew was burning in his mind. 

You managed to evade prolonged encounters with Diego until about another two weeks later. Too soon, honestly. 

Or not soon enough? God, your inner voice was desperate and annoying. 

You encountered Diego again while you were propped against the wall of a seedy dive on the other edge of town, assessing each person as they passed. While your power worked best if you could touch, some feelings were perfectly easy to pick up from a distance. 

So far, nothing. Just a few gross, horny bikers and depressive barflies. It was a maddeningly slow night. And you doubted you were needed here. 

Just as you were about to call it and head to another hotspot, a familiar prickle passed through you. You glanced up, across the street. 

Sure enough, on the neighboring rooftop, perched Diego Hargreeves in the flesh, surveying you like some kind of Great Value Nightwing. 

You sighed, pushing off the wall and crossing the street. Diego watched as you clambered up the fire escape to meet him on the rooftop. 

“Of course you would be here,” you chastised. “Are you fucking following me? I’ve been a good girl. Haven’t killed anyone in a week. I promise!” You held up your hands in mock surrender, coming to stand in front of Diego’s gloriously firm, leather-clad figure. 

“If you say so, Princess. Maybe I’m just here for a drink?” Diego cocked his head toward the shitty bar whose entrance you were haunting mere moments ago. 

“Doubtful, Underoos. I think…” you trailed off, circling Diego, tapping your finger to your chin in a pondering gesture. “I think you’re babysitting me. Making sure I don’t do your job for you and clean up the streets too well.” 

You ceased your vulture-like circling, coming to stand before Diego. His eyes bore into your own, once again partially obscured behind that stupid mask. As if you didn’t know what he looked like without it. Your eyes weren’t deceiving you when you saw Diego’s eyes flash a quick up-down of your body before resuming his stern visage. 

Oh good, you thought. You recognized the latent feelings buried beneath Diego’s anger. A new one brushed over you-- confusion… He still hadn’t figured you, or, more than likely, your power, out…

You weren’t left in suspense too long. 

“Tell me about what you can do,” Diego pressed, advancing toward you. You took a step back to maintain some distance… best if you can perpetuate some veil of advantage. 

“Ah, ah, ah, baby. It doesn’t work like that,” you chided. “You think I’m just going to spill all of my secrets because why? You’re cute? Try again. Ask nicely,” you smirked, pushing your lips into a tantalizing pout.

Diego rolled his eyes. You weren’t going to play fair? Fine, neither was he. Honestly, his fuse was too-fuckin-short for your shit. He wanted answers, even if he had to beat them out of you. Quick as a flash, he strode toward you, jumping into a flip and kicking you down to the ground upon his landing. 

You looked up at him, standing over your body as it lay on the gravelled rooftop, bringing your hand up to touch your jaw, where his boot had collided with your face not moments ago. 

You grinned widely, savagely, around bloodied teeth and split lips. "So that’s how we’re going to play? Do your worst, Big Deal. I like when it hurts."

With that, you swung your leg at Diego’s, causing him to topple beside you, where you promptly rolled over, coming to straddle his hips, bringing your hands to his wrists, the direct contact allowing you to bring his fear to the forefront. 

Just as you were about to choke him with the smoke of his own fear, Diego surged upright, his arms breaking free from the grip of your wrists, his own hands coming to close around your throat. He squeezed insistently, enough to break your concentration-- the smoke dissipating as soon as it had come. With that, he had managed to roll the two of you over, you flat on your back as one of his thighs came to rest between yours. 

You gasped, looking up at Diego with fiery shock looming in your eyes. 

“Wow,” you rasped, “I told you before-- if you wanted to play bad cop, all you had to do was ask.” 

Diego removed one hand from your throat, bringing it to his own head and ripping off his flimsy excuse for a mask. He regarded you with nacreous, tarpit eyes that glowed and glittered with the streetlights, his breath coming in ragged, uneven puffs through his sinfully full lips. His cropped hair was glistening with sweat borne equally from the heat of the night and your encounter. 

“Baby, I think you owe me an explanation first,” He pressed, squeezing your throat lightly, free hand pulling a knife from his harness that he spun in his fingers while gazing down at you. 

You whined, rolling your hips against where his thigh rested between your legs. 

“This would be so much more fun if you’d just do things my way,” you pouted at Diego. 

“Maybe I would, if you would bother to tell me what your way is,” Diego retorted.

“I could tell you, or I could show you,” you purred, rolling your hips again. “I’m all about more fun.” 

Diego sighed. The familiar buzz of lust radiating from your skin-- or was it his own-- that always seemed to hang over your encounters was pressingly prevalent and it was all he could do to not just give in. He gritted his teeth, and shook his head. 

“No. Come on. I know what you’re doing… whatever it is. Just … tell me what it is you can do. Tell me why you’re hurting those people,” he implored.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, using your free hands to knock his grip from your throat and coming to a sitting position, as Diego remained crouched over you. 

“All you hero-types. You’re no fun. You want to know what I can do? That pleasant little hum you feel? That’s you. Well, it’s me. But it’s you. I don’t make anyone feel what they don’t already… but I can use it against them. That first night at the bar? That,” you shuddered, “That rat was going to force himself on some poor girl. I could feel his every feeling as he was preying on her. I had to stop it. It’s simple, honeybunch. I do what you do, but better. I’ll make them choke in it, their own fear, their self-hatred, their inadequacy, their lust, I’ll drown them in it, and they’ll thank me for it. Because I’m nothing if not merciful,” you gritted out. 

Diego’s mind reeled, jaw slack from your confession. He knew it! You were an empath, an enhanced emotional manipulator. Except you seemed to be able to manifest emotions into something tangible, something harmful. 

Suddenly, the weight of your confession seemed to crush Diego, you had exploited every feeling of his during your encounters to gain an upper hand. And he hadn’t truly known about it until now. 

You felt the surge of his rage, his disgust, his fear with you before he could say it-- 

“You c-can’t-- you can’t do that,” Diego said. “Kililng people who haven’t even done anything yet? It’s w-wrong. Y-you’re w-wro-wrong,” He stuttered out, clearly distressed, but advancing even further into your space.

“As opposed to you?” You bit out. “You wait until someone’s already hurting or hurt someone else to do something. How are you any better? Who are you to judge me,” you spit through gritted teeth. 

“You’re a killer,” Diego pressed, pushing back from you and coming to stand.

“Sticks and stones. So are you. But I don’t hate you for it,” you snarled, jumping into a standing position, squaring your shoulders before Diego’s imposing form. 

“You could always work with me,” Diego offered, “ We could take what you can do and just… re-tool it a bit.” 

You ground out a harsh laugh. 

“Unlikely, you absolutely patronizing dick. You don’t want anything to do with me other than to change me, control me. You’re just like them.” 

With that, you unleashed a slew and flurry of attacks on Diego, swinging your hips around to level a kick at his gut, knocking him to his knees, where your arm was ready to strike a heavy blow against his cheek, your rage fueling the unnatural strength behind the hit. 

Diego sprawled against the concrete of the rooftop, half conscious after blows you’d dealt him. 

You stood over Diego now, looking down at his prone form. 

“I would never want anyone who only means to stifle me. To take me apart until there’s nothing left. Never.” You spit a glob of bloodied saliva at Diego’s feet, leaving him in his semi-conscious, battered state-- the guilt only slightly prickling you. 

His fear-- choking on half-gasped words from behind the tremulous task of tripping over his own tongue-- followed you like a stuttering stormcloud. It stung. Knowing that he was afraid of you.

---

Okay. The guilt was more than slight. 

All he had wanted to do was help, right? 

Years alone with your power, the sting of Adler’s rejection as a child, it all weighed down on you like the crushing magnitude of Atlas. You didn’t really want to hurt him. 

You sighed, resolute. You just needed to make sure.

With that, you headed out in the storm. Headed toward Diego. 

---

The rain pounded on the walls of the Fighting Lion, plunking heavily like half-hewn nails tossed onto the small window in Diego’s back bedroom. He could hear as it landed on the brick, the wet stone and stormy atmosphere making the air thick with the scent of sagebrush and rain. 

A kind of whoosh passed through the room, prompting him to turn from where he was folding his laundry on the bed to see you propped against the door, legs crossed at the ankles, looking every bit as if you belonged. 

“Wow, Big Deal. Nice digs,” you said as you sauntered in the room, staring at the case at the foot of the bed that was full of Diego’s knives. “Not what I’d expect coming from a dude who hails from the city’s biggest mansion. But still -- homey.” 

Diego ignored the jab about his upbringing in favor of the real question.

“How did you get in here?” He asked, seemingly --and to you, maddeningly-- disinterested in your presence as he continued stacking his paired socks into their rightful place in his bureau. 

“Uh, have you seen this place? It’s not exactly rigged with ‘Entrapment’ levels of security,” you snarked, folding your arms across your chest.

“Does that make you a cat burglar? Are you Catherine Zeta-Jones in this scenario?” Diego glanced at you from his socks, cocking a strong eyebrow. 

“If you want me to be, sweetie,” you shrugged. “But, uh -- and don’t take this the wrong way, Diego, but you don’t exactly have anything I’d want to steal.” 

“Then I’ll amend the question. What are you doing here?” Diego asked, finally turning to fully face you, taking in your form as you stood by his bed. The sight causing a pleasantly-unpleasant little something to prickle across his skin. 

No, no, it’s not like that, he chided himself. Besides. You were an absolutely monumental pain in his ass. And his head. And basically every other body part of his you came in contact with. Nope, nope... Don’t think about her body parts “coming into contact” with anything of yours, he scolded. 

“Aw, well now, Big Deal. Maybe I just missed you?” You mused. 

“Doubtful. Did you come back to kick my ass with your freaky little homicidal chokehold some more?” Diego snapped.

Ouch. Maybe you had gone too far in your last little encounter. After all, wasn't that why you were there? To check on your favorite knife-wielding antagonist? To make sure you hadn't actually hurt him?

But what came out instead was--

"Is there any other kind of chokehold?" You hummed, arching your brow. 

Before he could stop himself, Diego retorted, “Based on our last meeting, I think you know there is." 

Momentarily stunned into silence, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks at the memory of his hands on your throat, you dropped your arms from where they were crossed at your chest down to your sides, hands flexing nervously. You chuckled.

"Heh. As tempting as that offer is, pretty boy, I only came to make sure I didn't ring your bell too bad."

Diego leaned against his dresser, tilting his head back and looking down his perfect, strong nose at you. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I must be going fuckin' deaf. Did you just say you slunk in here with your little kitten tail between your legs to say you were sorry?" Diego snorted, obviously pleased with himself as he saw the obvious fluster cross your face.

Okay, now he was pissing you off. You came here with good will and he sasses you? Two can play at that, as you two so often do...

"You must be fuckin' deaf, dipshit. I didn't say I was here to say I was sorry. I did say I wanted to make sure I didn't kick your sorry ass into oblivion. Which, you're obviously fine, so I'll just be going." You crossed Diego's room, breezing for the door.

Honestly, why did you think this was a good idea? Stupid, stupid, stupid…

Diego caught your arm as you passed him in your hurried attempt at an exit. You gave a half-hearted tug to pull your arm from Diego's grip, surprised to find how firm it was. You turned your head to meet Diego's gaze, throat closing around your sudden nerves. Diego's eyes were molten, boring into you with quizzical questions and low-burning heat. His grip on your arm afforded you an insight into the unique blend that was his confusion and simmering passion.

"What are you doing?" You asked.

"Come on," Diego drawled. "You clearly know what I'm feeling. But I have no idea what you're feeling. You have me at a disadvantage. I don't like it."

"Every time we meet, I have you at a disadvantage," you snarked. At the brief hurt that flashed across Diego's face, you sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I meant what I said when I told you I was coming to check on you … I just--" 

You looked down at your feet, the laces in your boots suddenly incredibly interesting to you. Diego's other hand gently gripped your chin, his thumb pressing into its apex, fingers curled beneath your jaw.

"D-don't do that-- keep going. Tell me what you're feeling for once," Diego implored, eyes meeting yours once more, lips ever-so-close to yours. “Please,” he added, softly.

Had your heart been thudding like this the whole time?? Was your jacket always this hot? All you could hear was the pounding sheet of rain, pressing itself into your brain, growing fuzzier. Diego's proximity to your person was decidedly distracting. Wholeheartedly overwhelming. 

Could he really not tell what you were thinking? You were certain at this point it must be written all over your face. Were you not being obvious?? Your burning ardor for him creeping through every inch of your person, drowning your intentions and better sensibilities in anything and everything Diego Hargreeves. You swallowed the lump in your throat before speaking.

"I'm feeling-- was feeling … guilty. The last time I saw you.. I h-hit you...  pretty hard. So, you win. I guess I am here to tell you I'm sorry." You brushed your fingers softly over the bruise that adorned his prominent, proud cheekbone. "I… I just wanted you to be okay. Because I think you were just trying to help. And that's stupid. It's stupid. I'm sorry," you hurriedly stammered. 

Diego relinquished his grip on your arm, allowing his hand to travel down your side until it met your waist. He cocked his head and studied your eyes with his own mercurial ones-- searching for any hint of mistruth in your confession, but seemingly finding none. 

After all, he too knew the honesty behind words that struggled to come out.

"You were… worried about me? You?"

"Let's not make a big thing of this, big boy. You're obviously fine. I shouldn't have come… An honest mistake. Won’t happen again," you started to turn your head, breaking his gaze. 

But Diego's grip on your chin firmed, forcing you to look at him again before surging forward and crushing his lips to yours. 

And, oh, this was bliss-- you were just sure of it. Your yearning manifested itself in the hand you had placed on Diego's cheek, cupping your hands to the sides of his face before dragging them back to thread through the closely-cropped hair at the nape of his neck, then passing your hands up through his longer hair toward the top of his head and tugging. You took advantage of the gasp Diego elicited at that sensation, sweeping your tongue into his mouth. 

Your shared lust bled through your connected skin, hands on faces and elsewhere…  washing over you both like warm static, a pleasant buzz akin to drinking just a little too much champagne. 

Diego’s hands tugged at the hem of your rain-dampened hoodie, tugging it over your head. Your newly-exposed skin prickled with goosebumps at the sudden chill. You had run over here in the rain, after all. Diego’s darkened, honeyed gaze reverently took in your form. 

Never one to waste an opportunity, you took the break in action as your chance to respond in kind-- peeling his skin-tight black crewneck shirt from his own gloriously-sculpted body. 

The two of you stood, staring at each other’s exposed torsos, ragged breaths dragging through the air of passion so-stifling the room like incense you’ve left burning for too long. 

Diego stared at your chest, breasts heaving from behind the scrap of lace that constituted your bralette-- were those piercings that made your nipples poke so prominently through the lace? WIth this realization, Diego felt himself harden. He lunged for you with a growl, scooping you by the waist and dropping you with a bounce onto his bed. 

His mouth latched onto your throat, sucking insistently while his powerful hands rested at the edges of the delicate lace trim of your bra, passing almost reverently across your ribcage. 

You gasped as he brushed a thumb over your nipple, feeling yourself growing wet beneath your leggings. You hmm’d a whine as Diego’s mouth found that spot on your throat, his thumb still rolling circles over your nipple. 

“D-Diego,” you gasped, sucking in air like you’d never properly breathed before.

“Yeah, baby?” 

“Take it off,” you glanced down at the scrap of lace that adorned your chest. “Please,” you intoned, sweetly. 

“Since you asked so nicely,” Diego said,” creeping his fingers beneath the lace to lift it off your skin. Suddenly, with that preternatural speed he’d come to recognize as a gift of those who were enhanced, like himself, you seized his wrist and squeezed. 

“It wasn’t meant to be nice,” you ground out. “Take. It. Off. Now.” 

With that, you released his wrist, and Diego gripped the lace where it rested beneath your breasts with this two hands and tugged, ripping your bralette cleanly in two, exposing your tits to his roving gaze. 

“There you go, Big Deal,” you preened in satisfaction, taking your own hands from where they had previously been resting along his strong abdomen, trailing them down to the top of his jeans. You popped the button on his fly and began tugging his zipper down, before Diego caught your hand as quickly as you had just done to him. 

“I’ve got this, baby,” Diego assured. 

With that, he brought his mouth down to your left breast, swirling his tongue around your nipple, taking the hand still clutching your wrist and planting it above your head. He released your wrist, trailing his hand, down your side until it met the waistband of your leggings. He pressed his fingers beneath the waistband, raking his fingers under your panties, to where you wanted him most. 

As he dragged a finger through your wetness, you gasped out a keening sigh. Diego’s long fingers working magic against your center, rubbing up and down your slit before pressing one, long finger inside. He lifted his mouth from your breast, pressing it to yours to swallow your moan with a searing kiss.

After a few more moments, Diego slid his finger from your center, retracting his hand from your pants, his other hand coming to meet it, peeling your leggings and panties from you in one fluid motion. You lifted and wiggled your hips to assist him. As soon as the leggings were free from your legs, you wasted no time in wrapping your bare legs around Diego’s waist, locking your ankles behind him and pulling him to you, dragging your hands up his neck and into his hair, hissing in pained pleasure as you rolled your hips against Diego’s still denim-clad hardness. 

Diego groaned as he felt your hardened nipples press against his chest, the microscopic bite of cold from your piercings as they touched his warm skin made him sigh.

The room felt like it was bordering on a hundred degrees, the previously champagne-drunk feeling of your shared lust now replaced with a frantic urge to taste and mark every inch of the other as their own. 

As you continued to grind your hips into Diego, he kissed you deeply, tongue sliding into your mouth, running along your own tongue and teeth, tasting every bit of your want for him as he succumbed to the heated buzz of the room. 

Your power had its benefits, he reasoned, if it meant this would feel so… resplendent. 

The mutuality of your shared passion was enough to do you in. You couldn’t be imagining that Diego wanted you as much as you wanted him. If that wasn’t the case, you both wouldn’t be burning like this, writhing atop his bed with pent-up passion and aggression. 

Diego broke his hands from where they had previously been digging bruises into your hips, coming up onto his knees to start shucking his own jeans and underwear off. 

And oh, he thought, you were a vision. As he looked at you while he stripped himself, he was overcome. Your half-lidded gaze swimming with hazy, unfulfilled promises, swirling lazily like the drizzle of sinfully sweet syrup over something forbidden. Your lips were flushed, swollen and lightly bruised from the punishing pace of your shared kisses. Your wickedly luscious curves and the glimmering slick between your thighs on display for only him. In this moment, he felt he could die under whatever your power would dish out, if it meant he died feeling like this. 

Now bared to you in his entirety, Diego positioned himself once more between your legs, his impressive length sliding to where he had guided it along your opening. 

You tossed your head back, eyes closed at the glorious feeling of his skin finally meeting yours where you wanted it most… but, still, it wasn’t enough. 

“Di- eh - go,” you panted, your glimmering gaze meeting his lustrously darkened one. “P-please, I need it. I need you,” you cried piteously, clutching his shoulders and grinding your hips once more against him.

Diego chuckled, only to happy to oblige. With a guiding hand and a smooth flex-and-thrust of his hips, Diego entered you with a powerful, needed thrust. You cried out, sound going straight to his cock, twitching from its rightful place inside of you. 

“There, now, baby,” Diego crooned, bringing his mouth back to yours and humming into your open lips. “Doesn’t that feel ... So. Much. Better?” He punctuated each of his last few words with hard, firm thrusts of his hips. 

You nodded, eagerly fusing your mouths together, rolling your hips in kind to meet Diego’s sweet, but punishing thrusts. 

“After all that shit you pulled with me,” DIego ground out, “It’s nice to know-- this is what you really wanted. Fuck--” he broke off as you clenched around him just right. “This is what you needed.” 

You whined your assent, keening and high-pitched. 

“Mmmm, I want y-you, as much as you want me,” you gasped out, Diego’s brutal thrusting brushing your clit with his pubic bone, bringing you ever closer, closer, closer to that teetering edge. You lifted yourself up to balance on one hand and meet Diego’s face where he was hovering above you, your sweat-slicked bodies pressing into one another with a delicious, filthy heat. You looked into his eyes, your jaw slack with the stupidly good feeling of everything he was doing to you. 

You turned your head to face his sculpted shoulder, and grazed your teeth there, biting into the apex of his arm. Diego hissed, obviously pleased with the feeling, bringing his hand to your neck, fingers wrapping around your throat and tearing your teeth away from his shoulder, guiding your mouth back to his with the pads of his fingers lightly pressing into your airway.

You gasped, the combined feeling of his kiss, his pressing, insistent touch, and his cock inside you brushing repeatedly against that spot of your inner walls causing you to clench, crying out your sudden, gushing release. 

Diego guided your head back to his pillow, clenching his fist, the same battered-knuckled boxer’s fist that had previously clutched your throat, now clutched around his bedframe as he hammered his final thrusts, pounding into you until he met his release, groaning as he came down from his sudden, bursting high. 

He sighed into your neck, the lovingly sticky heat of your sweaty bodies pressed together as he eased himself from you, pulling you into his side.

You sighed in contentment. 

Was everything Diego Hargreeves did punctuated with such beautiful, forthright power?

---

You both lie in the after, bodies pressed firmly together. It would have been romantically intimate had the primary motivator not been the lack of space on Diego's too-small mattress squeezed along the wall in his room. 

Nevertheless, you lie there in complete contentment, basking in the afterglow and Diego's delightfully even, rhythmic breathing.

Said lothario had his head turned into your cheek, nose brushing against your hair. His arm around you, curling you to him and trailing his fingers up and down your side at a slow, steady pace.

Why couldn't it always be like this? 

After all, fire doused with water still burns brightly at one time, but loses its penchant for destruction, tampered in cool, calming depths and leaving behind cooling steam. So, too, had you and Diego drawn a peaceable, but joyfully sweaty truce. 

In that moment, you could see yourself loving him. You know he'd let you, if you gave him enough time and enough of yourself. The man had not had enough love given to him in his life-- he fought for it, tooth and nail. And had come up woefully empty, like clutching at soft sand that slips through your fingers. He'd had the love of his siblings, sure. But this was -- understandably-- different. You recognized a chasm in him that you often thought you'd never mend within yourself. 

But he was so deserving of love. Whereas you? Well, the jury was still out. 

When you think of Diego, you couldn't help but think of strength. Assuredness. Agility. His aura burned red in your deeper sentiments. Power. You do associate his memory with annoyance, sure, but also a biting wit that he so-oft concealed. And an endearing sentimentality. And an iron will suffused with stubbornness.  

You had gleaned some of this from your foray into exploring his emotions, sure. But you don't use your power at every turn. The rest of it was every impression Diego had devastatingly left you with. You had learned so much of him, you yearned to share a piece of yourself, similarly eager for acceptance. Which then prompted you to share--

“You know,” you piped up in the dark, “You remind me a bit of the main character of my favorite books series-- Ever hear of ‘The Dark Tower?’ You know, the legendary Gunslinger?” 

Diego scoffed at that.

“Guns are for pussies, real men throw knives,” he stated primly, but still unable to conceal the smile in his voice.

“That sounds a little rehearsed, Big Deal. But I’ll let it slide. Besides, you don’t know what you’re missing,” you acquiesced, turning your head to face him, your noses brushing.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m not into all that bookworm stuff. Cuz, ya know, I’m not a fuckin’ virgin,” he chuckled. Obviously pleased with his middle school-grade burn. 

You met his eyes, yours widening in mock surprise. “Oh no?” you gasped. “Well, then why do you dress like one?”

Honestly, it had to be some kind of world record, how fast Diego’s face fell.

"I'm kidding, big boy. You know I dig the black leather," you crooned. Ever eager to smooth the waters of this moment, of his now furrowed brow, back to the placid lake it had been.

"You're goddamn right, you do," Diego chuffed, his grin now prominent in his voice.

You looked at him, your eyes travelling between his shining, ochre eyes and his full lips.

"I do not aim with my hand; he who aims with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. 

“I do not shoot with my hand; he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father. I shoot with my mind.

"I do not kill with my gun; he who kills with his gun has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart," you recited.

Diego regarded you for a moment before brushing his lips across yours, kissing you warmly.

"What was that?" He asked.

"'The Dark Tower,'" you replied. "What? I like to read. You really do remind me of him. Surly, but just. Lost, but ever-searching. Pinpoint accuracy. Deadly. But hasn't lost hope." 

Diego kissed you again, running his hand down your body beneath the covers to grip your bum and roll your body over his, urging you to tarry with him on another burning exploration of one another's bodies.

Yes, you think, sighing as Diego's teeth graze that spot on your neck, his warm palm on your breast. You could easily fall in love with him… if you let yourself. You were probably more than halfway in love with him already.

Oh, no.

---

You awoke to the early-morning sun peeking weakly behind the remnants of fat, overstuffed rainclouds from the night before, purpling the sky as sunlight met grey. 

You took in Diego’s, sweet sleeping form-- his long lashes fringing his sweetly-closed eyes, his cropped hair mussed from a night of tugging, rolling, writhing. He breathed deeply, evenly, peaceably, as evidenced by the repetitive motion of his muscled torso, his long-fingered hands resting along his stomach. 

You couldn’t do this. Couldn’t taint someone so noble and beautiful with your special brand of poisonous manipulation. 

You couldn’t stop yourself as you spoke softly to the sleeping man beside you, coming to sit on the edge of his bed and brushing one hand through his soft hair. 

“You wanted to know about my power? It’s a curse. You think I want this? This? It’s isolation, Diego-- it’s eternal damnation. I shouldn’t be able to do what I can do …  No one should. It’s not a gift, it’s a curse. And it dooms me to a life alone,” your voice cracks as your breath catches in your throat, hitching over tears that were now, suddenly pooling in your eyes. “There’s no trust. It’s what I … It’s what I deserve.” 

With that, you left Diego’s room. Leaving him to wake alone to a cold one-half of his bed, fingers clutching over air and the warm memories of the night before. He blinked in confusion, the sting of your rejection settling beneath his skin. 

---

When you saw Diego again, it was nearly a month after your last… encounter. The sharp knife of anxiety and longing you so regularly felt in yourself since that day, you recognized immediately as emanating from Diego as you watched him limp away from what you assumed was a particularly nasty fight. 

“Big Deal!” You shouted across the street and through the darkness. 

Diego’s head whipped up, head turning to the direction of your voice, before meeting your gaze. He shook his head, looked away, and kept walking. Away from you. 

Ouch. 

Honestly, you could understand why he would. You had done the same to him a month ago. Walked away. But the pinging sting of his rejection dug at you, like glass into the thin skin between your knuckles. 

All you had ever wanted was for other people to understand. But mostly, now, you realized… You really only cared that Diego understood. 

You took off after him, enhanced speed helping you catch up to his limping form outside of a boarded-up, long-closed bar. 

“Diego!” You called, stopping in front of him, causing him to halt.

“What could you possibly want with me, after all this time?” Diego spit.

“I.. I deserve that, Big Deal. I do,” you glanced at your boots, scuffing the toe into the pavement. “Please, just… hear me out?” 

You looked up at Diego. Really looked at him. His beautiful, tawny skin damp with sweat from a fight, his usually bright and mischievous eyes sunken under the weight of tired bags that sat beneath them. He looked drawn, more exhausted than you remember. You caught sight of a particularly nasty, jagged cut on the side of his neck that had clearly only recently stopped bleeding, the splotching clot like a raised, splintering cut from a large cat’s claws. A particularly nasty bruise was already forming around his left eye and onto his beautifully-sculpted, prominent cheek. 

You rushed to meet him, your fingers coming to brush along his cheeks, mindful of the bruise. He closed his eyes at your touch, lashes fanning downward in defeat. 

“Who hurt you? What did they do, Big Deal? Who the fuck did this? If anyone hurt you, I would make them hurt. I’ll make them pay”

Diego dropped the knife you now noticed was previously-clutched in his right hand, bringing his hand to meet your wrist. 

“Don’t do that,” he whispered.

“Don’t do what? Kill the fucker who hurt you? Fine, I’ll just break their knees--” you started, before Diego shushed you.

“No,” he said, “Shut the fuck up. D- Don’t act like you give a shit. Someone who gives a shit wouldn’t bounce for a fuckin’ month. Not after a night like that.” 

Your hand left Diego’s face. 

“I… I deserve that,” you said. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” And with that, you plopped yourself onto the pavement, sitting on the sidewalk at Diego’s feet. Annoying? Sure. Dramatic? Sure. But if something is stupid and it works, then it isn’t stupid. 

Diego sighed at you, rolling his eyes before coming to sit beside you, gasping out in pain and clutching an obviously bruised rib or two on his way down. 

“Fine. Tell me what the fuck happened. Why’d you go?”

“Diego--” you started… “I-- I can’t be with someone when I’m like this. It never works,” you confessed. 

“Like what?” He pressed, bringing his hand to your knee. 

“I’m-- I’m a monster,” you cried. “Adler knew it. Everyone I meet knows it. It’s only a matter of time before you know it too. I just… I don’t know how to stop.” The tears you thought you could hold at bay were now creeping up and causing your throat to close around your words of contrition. 

“You’re not--” Diego began, but you silenced him with a harsh wave of your hand. 

“You don't understand. You wanted to know how it works? I’ll tell you. The power works based on the other's emotion, sure. I amplify what they feel. Cripple them with it, even. But that's not all… it only works, really works, if it's something I can draw on. They feel what I want them to feel-- because I feel it too …" you admitted. “Everything I ever do to someone else I can only do because I know how it feels. If I want someone to hurt, they’ll hurt… I -- I don’t want to do that to you, too.” 

“You won’t. Not with me,” Diego pressed. 

“And how can you be sure? Even now, I feel how pissed you are at me for leaving. It’s humming beneath your skin. I can feel it.” 

Diego nodded, picking up the knife he had previously dropped and beginning to spin it around in his hand. 

“I know it because I felt it. When we were together,” he sighed. “We both, we both can do these things. Anyone else would piss themselves if it was turned against them. But you look the danger of what I am in the face, and you laugh. When we’re together, we’re matched. The way that room felt? I know what that was.” 

You sat, stunned at Diego’s read of the situation. 

“I take back what I said the first night we met,” you said. At the question in his eyes, you continued, “You’re not dumb. That was… that was… something. But I know how to flex my power. I know what fells all men. Fear is a powerful emotion." 

Diego smiled at you. 

“I hate to break it to you, princess, but I’m not scared of you. I know you think I am, but I’m not. And you know what's even stronger than fear? Love."

You looked at Diego, blinked. He blinked back. You then turned your head with a mocking, retching, gag.

"Jesus, Big Deal. They teach you ‘Hokey Catchphrases 101’ at Dysfunctional Superhero Camp?"

“Hey,” he jostled your shoulder with his. “You know I’m right.” 

You stood, offering Diego your hand.

“Come on, big boy. Walk me home?” 

Diego acquiesced, coming to stand with a stifled grunt. 

“You’re lucky I heal quickly.” 

With that, the two of you walked down the street. You matched Diego’s stride, mindful of his injuries. As you walked side-by-side, your fingers brushed. Before you could stop yourself or think better of it, you took Diego’s hand. 

When you reached your door, you turned to Diego, fiddling with your keys. 

“Everyone’s distinct, you know? Everyone feels differently. Wears their hearts on their sleeve, so to speak. But with everyone, it’s a different emotion. Some flaunt pride. Some are more passive. Do you want to know what I feel when I see you?” 

Diego glanced down to where your hands were still joined. He brought them up to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. 

“I want whatever you’ll tell me. You’re such an open book,” he admitted sarcastically. You rolled your eyes.

“Come on, I’m being serious here. You feel... you feel...” 

At Diego’s urging look, you continued. 

"You feel like warmth. Like I could wrap myself in you and never feel the biting cold of my heart again. And when you're not around? The absence of you is worse than any feeling I could ever exploit. I hate it when you aren't here."

Diego stared at you in silence for a moment, before he spoke, “I really think you should open the door now and let me take you inside.” 

You smiled, pleased that your honest confession had gone over well, the smile morphing into a smirk. 

“As you wish, Big Deal.”

And in the morning? Well, In the morning, you and Diego were still wrapped up in one another. 

You looked into Diego’s swimming, honey-and-tar eyes, tracing your palms down the sides of his jaw and cupping his cheeks as you told him, “You have my whole heart. It’s yours -- crush it, hold it, bury it in whatever you feel ... Do whatever you want with it, I don’t care. Just say you want it-- that you want me.” 

“I want you.” With that, he kissed you deeply.

---

You were a master of emotional manipulation. To do that, you had to have a decent handle on your own emotions. For years, you’d rested on your own laurels of your mastery of self, indulging only in the most passing of forays into others’ feelings for the sake of your own.

So why on Earth were you so fucking nervous? Why couldn’t you get it under control?

Yet, here you were, hand in Diego’s, fingers laced, on your way to Hargreeves Manor to meet his siblings, months after your mutual confessions of want. The two of you had been inseparable. 

Diego clearly sensed your unease, because he turned to you, squeezing your fingers in his own, planting a sweet kiss to your forehead. 

“They’ll like you,” he promised. 

“How can you be so sure?” You worried, trying to keep all of them straight in your mind based on Diego’s stories, anecdotes and descriptions. 

“Because I like you, and they love to annoy me. So they’ll definitely want to buddy up,” he chuckled with a shrug. “Baby, you’ll be fine.”

With that, you found yourself standing in the ornate living room with five nonplussed persons who introduced themselves to you one by one.

As the largest of the group approached you, you beat him to the punch.

“You must be Luther,” you said, pumping your arm in a handshake where his hand comically dwarfed yours. 

Luther blinked. “How did you know?” 

"Easy,” you said, “You look like a 'Number One.’ " 

Luther straightened, obviously pleased. "Important?" he asked.

"Self-important."

This caused the lithe one with the smudged eyeliner who had introduced himself with a wink as, “Klaus, darling,” to howl with laughter. 

“She’s fuckin’ got your number, Luther,” he gasped out between his chuckles. He turned to the seemingly-empty air beside himself and said, “I know! She is fun!” 

The group found itself sitting around the living room on the various, overstuffed furnishings, in a fun little Q-and-A circle, which was only getting easier all the time, as you found the Hargreeves siblings’ obvious bond to be so endearing. The glamorous one you knew to be Allison had queried about your power, curious as to how you and Diego had met. 

Diego had recounted your first meeting to the group, and proffered an explanation of your powers with, "She takes the idea of 'wrapped up in your emotions' and makes it literal."

“And how did this come about?” Klaus queried, gesturing his long fingers between you and Diego. “It’s not like that first meeting was full of warm-and fuzzies.”

“I don’t know … We’ve …  run into each other a few times,” you offer with a shrug and a shy grin. 

Klaus clapped his hands, a large grin adorning his face.

“Oh-ho! I like this. Diego’s girlfriend beats the shit out of him on the regular!” Klaus happily sang to the massive living room. “Or is that how you two, you know, keep it exciting?” he intoned to Diego in what must have been the world’s loudest and worst attempt at a whisper.

“She does not beat the shit out of me,” Diego protested, rolling his eyes at his brother’s swaggering antics.

“Right, right, you beat the shit out of each other. Honestly, I get it. Kinda hot. No judgment from me, you crazy kids,” Klaus smiled and held up his hands in surrender, flashing you the “Hello” and “Goodbye” on his palms. “Diego told me about you the day after you first met. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about it myself when I’m ever-so-alone at night,” he added with a wink. 

All you could do was chuckle. Who couldn’t love Klaus Hargreeves? 

After that, the questioning from the gathered siblings dissipated into a casual little party, with people pairing off to speak in groups of just them, and with drinks from the open bar being passed around amongst the siblings. Even Five. If you were honest, it was strange to see a thirteen-year-old boy drink frozen margaritas. But you’d had to remind yourself that he was actually older than all of you. Honestly, you’d tried not to think about it too hard. 

In between drinks, you found yourself engaged in silly banter with Klaus and Vanya, laughing at Klaus’s stories of eating bagels from dumpsters and his bantering memories with their brother Ben. You responded in kind with stories of your own-- making your elementary school teachers believe they’d had crushes on one another by exploiting their repressed desires, making your classmates piss themselves every Halloween with some prank or another ...

While Vanya was a bit more reserved with her amusement, you’d caught a smile playing at her lips. Klaus outright howled. 

“Oh, you truly belong here, don’t you? Reggie would’ve haaaated you,” he gestured at the stern portrait of their father. “Which means you’re absolutely perfect for our dear Diego,” Klaus proclaimed, lacing his fingers through your own. 

With that, Klaus turned to you with a conspiratorial giggle and hmm'd into your ear, "You know what they say, peaches. 'A scrub is a guy who thinks he's fly.' And if we're being honest, Diego deeeeeeefinitely thinks he's fly." 

You laughed, choking on your sip of margarita. You’d never felt a kind of discordant unity like this one. 

With Diego’s family… with Diego, you felt like you truly did belong.

As you and Diego lay together in bed after the day with his family, he’d asked if you felt comfortable.

“Of course, love.” You pressed a small kiss to the tip of Diego’s nose, nuzzling your own against his. “They were wonderful. You’re wonderful. Thank you for sharing all of this with me.”

Diego gazed lovingly at you, eyes, a deep, endless pit of an eclipse, brimming with golden honey streaks of mischief. 

“I can’t wait to share everything with you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into your shoulder and settling beside you comfortably. 

Ah. So that’s what that warm, soft, cotton-y, cloud-like feeling you had begun to experience since you’d began your relationship with Diego was ... Comfort. Funny how it blended so seamlessly into the burning, cinnamon-tinged, blooming one you’d come to recognize as his love.

---

Tagging: @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa @winters-buck @qveenbvtch @forever-rogue @ali-cide @fleetwoodmactshirt @stellarkyun @zeldasayer @ayeayecaptaingally @nappingtopknot @holographic-carmen @mandaloriane @pascalplease @phoenixhalliwell @white-wolf-buckaroo @melon-eyes @pancakepike @noturjacky @johnc0nstantine @amarachoren @outrebanx @yespolkadotkitty @agentpike @cryptkeepersoul @netflixandzayn @deadpoolcouldshootme @manchuria @flhorah @halerune @spideymanreads @athousandbuckys @imagining-constantly @dovesgrangers @ravenoussss @pyrosag @rzrcrst​ 

#diego hargreeves #diego hargreeves fic #diego hargreeves x reader #diego hargreeves x you #diego hargreeves imagine #diego hargreeves smut #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy fic #the umbrella academy imagines #tua fic #tua #tua imagines #david castañeda #david castaneda smut #my writing #rachel writes #umbrella academy #diego fic #diego x you #diego x reader #diego x oc #diego hargreeves x oc