Paper Wasp

There's more than one way to build a castle. 

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

It was a dark and stormy night.

The weather was fucking balls. Margot had called off sick for the third night shift in a row. Bill slipped in a mud pile and wrecked his back. Eugene, the fucker, had gotten into an embarrassment of an incident involving a power washer and six bags of mustard seeds.

So that left Larry, once again, as the only night janitor on an island the size of a city. In the midst of yet another fucking hurricane. Because why would his bosses account for weather and injury and hire more people. When they could just.

"Hey there, Larry, bud. Need you to come do Building 6. Yeah, she's still out. No, there's no one else. Great, knew we could count on you, sport."

When Larry had taken this shitshow of a job, he'd expected a reasonable amount of nonsense. The pay was good, and shoveling dinosaur shit wasn't all that different from horses, really. There was just a lot more of it.

He'd expected, reasonably, that if you had a tropical island full of dinosaurs that you had opened to tourists, that you might have made. Possibly. The slightest amount of an effort to make sure they didn't eat anyone.

Larry's bosses had not made that effort. They also had not put much thought into containment in the event of a hurricane knocking out the fencing.

But it was fine! Completely fine, see? Look, the tree falling was a fluke. The dinosaurs would be naturally afraid of the thunder and they'd all stay put right where they were.

Larry considered, not for the first time, the benefits of strangling a man half again his weight and with far fewer scruples.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

It was a dark and stormy night.

The rain was fucking shit again. Which Larry was kind of used to, being that it rained nearly half the week. Big pelting globs of water pummeling into his drenched coveralls.

thwackthwackthwackthwack

He adjusted his grip on the mop unhappily. Not that mopping would do any good in this weather, but another hurricane had knocked down another tree and now another fucking dinosaur had gotten loose and eaten a guy.

Well, most of a guy.

"Hi Lar-Bear, need ya to come do Building 4 real quick. Yeah, no, no one's hurt. No, yeah, well, it's the darndest thing. Nellie, you know. She got out and uh. Well, you know how it is, bit of a mess. Thanks, bud, you're a real champ!"

Larry considered, not for the last time, the benefits of biting a human spine until it snapped.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

It was a dark and stormy night.

It was one fuckup of a disaster after another with these fucking people.

Margot was dead. Tripped and fell into a pile of stegosaurus shit and suffocated. Stupid fuck. Bill had finally recovered enough to work, only to have four too many beers at the company hockey game and go careening down the ice, shattering his pelvis. Eugene had gotten into a real fuck of an incident involving a pack of feral chickens and an industrial riding lawnmower.

His useless bosses still hadn't hired anyone else.

So it was, once again, just Larry.

And what was Larry doing with his one night off in four months?

Was he watching the game? Calling his son? Resting his back? Perhaps even cooking up a relishing dinner?

No. Of course not. Larry was here.

He was going to get pneumonia with how often he had to work in the rain.

"Evening, Larry-Merry. Yeah, I need you in Hangar 7. No, it's. Uh. Yes, Larry-Boy, it's very important. Well. Hold on there. Yes, I know what day it is. Well, you should have thought of that before you took the job. Don't start with me, Larry. Hangar 7. Now."

Of course it was another fucking body. An intern.

"Sir," Larry grunted, "what the fuck is this?"

All three of his bosses had turned up to the Hangar to gossip and gawk at the corpse hanging from a railing.

"Lar-Bear!" said Drew, smarmily. "Just the guy we were looking for, sport!"

Larry's eye twitched. He gripped his mop moodily.

His second boss, Mark, was only slightly more helpful.

"Larry-Berry, baby, there's a mess up there. Can you. You know." Mark mimed mopping.

A rumbling roar echoed up from deeper into the building, where the latest escaped dinosaur was presumably contained.

Larry treated the third boss, Darcy, to a deadpan stare.

She fumbled a little. "It's not something that needs a lot of explaining, Mr. Gert. Get rid of it."

The three of them shuffled back to chatter uselessly. Larry bit back the snarl and got to work.

He considered, perhaps for the first time, the benefits of leaving the body there.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

It was a dark and stormy night.

That was normal enough.

They'd had Margot cremated and her ashes sent to her family. There had been a polite, company-wide email asking for thoughts and prayers. There hadn't been a funeral notice.

Bill turned up at Larry's door anyway, of course, tequila in hand. Eugene couldn't make it, there'd been an incident at one of the hothouses. With a feather duster and a saber-tooth tiger. Forty eight stitches. Bill and Larry made do without him. They passed the night, curled together on Larry's ratty couch, knowing eachother as old friends do.

Margot probably would have wanted to watch.

After, once the liquor had run out and Bill slept bonelessly on the tiny table in Larry's grubby kitchenette, he sat back on the couch and watched the tv listlessly.

Larry's work phone began to ring. He didn't answer.

Bill's phone vibrated from somewhere in his discarded pants. He didn't answer that, either.

Larry's phone rang again, insistently.

A quick glance out the only window revealed how bad the storm had gotten. Larry knew, with a weighty dread pooling in his gut, what his bosses were going to say.

He answered the call four rings later, cursing under his breath.

"Larry-Sherry, my boy! You have any idea how long we've been trying to get ahold of you? Yeah. Well, yeah. You know how these things go. Totally out of my hands, Larry-lad. Well. I mean, that's not really fair of you to say. Of course we care! Well, no, we still can't avoid these little accidents. I'm sure if it could be done someone would have done it by now. Larry. That's not true, Larry. That's not right, either. Absolutely not, you can't pull that! I don't think you realize how you're affecting the team, Larry-love. Don't you make me come over there, you little shit. Get your ass to Pasture 4 and fix the damn fence before Fuckzilla eats another researcher."

Larry decided then and there that Fuckzilla could eat all the researchers if she wanted. She deserved a little treat. It can't be easy, being the approximate size of a 747 with all the brains of an underpowered lamp.

Maybe he could teach her tricks and reward her with parts of his bosses.

Sit, Fuckzilla. Good girl! Roll over! Good! Now open wide for Larry, he's got your favorite!

Larry grabbed his coat and trudged out into the storm, cursing the weather and his bosses and every god he knew.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

Nells crashes awake with a scream threatening to tear out of his throat. That it emerges closer to a startled yelp is perhaps his greatest achievement.

Blearily, he looks around at the tiny slumbering family he's built for himself. Zakurr is sprawled bonelessly across two couches, snoring deeply. Jaanta and Falk are tangled together in a pile of lanky limbs and affection. Owlsby sleeps huddled beneath the wagon outside, unbothered by the light rain. Morrin is leaned against the wall closest to the door, her monstrous axe at rest in her hands.

She is awake.

Slowly, silently, Nells creeps out from his nest of blankets and pads over to her. He sits beside her and lets his head fall with a soft thunk against her shoulder.

Wordlessly, she reaches one heavy arm around his shoulder and tangles her thick, calloused fingers in his hair. She scratches him idly.

"I suppose you must lack for company indeed, terrible thing, if you're seeking me out," she says quietly, but there's no heat to it.

Nells smiles, pressing a kiss to her arm. "And have your hands, chapped and graceless, such a lack for work that they must twist in my fine hair?"

He's teasing her, but she withdraws her hand immediately. Too close, then, he thinks. He'll give her something obnoxious to distract her from unwanted thoughts.

He slides a hand beneath her chin and tilts her head up, just so, gives her half a second to push him away if she doesn't want it. And then he kisses her, slow and easy and soft.

When she doesn't immediately bluster and shove him off, he takes it further. He slides his other hand along the outside of her mighty thigh, up to her hip, and keeps it there. He opens his mouth against her yielding lips and eases his long tongue in.

She tolerates it for a few minutes, much longer than he thought she would, but then her fist curls in his shirt and Nells finds himself thrown roughly to the floor. Her face is flushed and embarrassed but so, so open.

"That," she spits, giving a glare she doesn't mean, "was uncalled for."

"Was it?" Nells rolls onto his belly, completely relaxed, looking adoringly up at her and wagging his tail. "You looked so deep in thought, I didn't want you to forget about me."

She doesn't reach up to touch her lips, but it's a near thing. Her hand stutters uncertainly at her side. Nells grins at her wolfishly, unrepentant.

"What reason did you have to sit up in your armor and watch us? The inn is safe enough."

She sits back with a sigh. "It's nothing important," she lies.

"Morrin."

"Really, it's not anything. I was up." She's talking a little fast. "What about you?"

Nells pretends to be convinced, for her sake. Just for a moment. "I woke up and realized my Morrin Meter was getting dangerously low. I think I need to be held about it. At the very least."

Morrin snorts.

"It's completely true," he lies cheerfully. "I shall simply expire this very moment if my horrible and beautiful menace doesn't pull me into her lap."

She raises an eyebrow.

"This. Very. Moment," Nells emphasizes.

The eyebrow sits even higher.

He wags his tail again and rolls, tossing his head into Morrin's lap and nuzzling her skirt beneath the chainmail. He plants kisses against the fabric, sighing contentedly.

She rolls her eyes at his antics, but she finally cracks a smile.

"Would it please you to know that I woke in the night?" she finally says. "I felt unsettled. Unmoored."

"Restless?"

She nods quietly. "I wish to confess to you a truth I guard in my heart, though you must speak of it to no one."

Nells agrees easily. At his prompting, she flushes scarlet again and stumbles through the words.

"After that night, in the fortress. When we. When I. It was too much, afterward. It was too much and so I pushed you away even as I saw that you suffered as I did. And when it settled down I felt. Different."

Nells pushes himself up just slightly, so that his arms are resting across her legs and his eyes are level with her generous bosom. He takes a moment to appreciate the view. Just a moment.

"Different?"

"I didn't care about. Things. Before. You know."

Nells did know. And right now, for her sake, he pretended he didn't. "Things?"

Morrin blushed, red as anything, nearly purple. "When we. Met carnally. I never cared before, if anyone did. With you. Never interested. And then. With you. Suddenly I was. Interested."

He felt the tips of his ears darken, flushing with sensitivity. Her calloused fingers fiddled idly with one, rubbing and tugging.

Nells was not wholly convinced she was fondling his ears on purpose. He was even less convinced he wanted her to stop.

"And now I'm thinking about. All of us, in that way. Even at once. And you. I am. You..."

She trailed off, mumbling, so he bit her fingers until she focused again. He'd pay for it later, probably.

"Stop that, you pest! As if you don't know."

Her fingers were still in his mouth. His ear, stiff and proud and standing at attention, was still being played with. Nells found himself, quite abruptly, more aroused than the conversation probably warranted.

He bit her again, this time to focus himself. "You're allowed to want people, Morrin," he manages, heart in his throat.

"It leads to ruin, wanting too much what you can't have."

Her fingers leave his ear to trail across his shoulder and he heaves a breathy sigh of relief.

He almost doesn't hear it when she says, "I'm nearly ruined as it is."

[wonderful-prompts]

Prompt #1325

An older android must repair itself lest its body be taken apart for scrap metal.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

Shepard-Commander was dead.

Legion had refused to believe it, at first. It was. Impossible. Irrational. Shepard-Commander was invincible. Indestructible. Larger than life.

And Shepard-Commander was dead. The ship had crashed and the body was in pieces. Strewn for miles. Legion could not identify the emotion flickering across the Collective. Geth were not capable of emotion.

His Shepard-Commander was gone. Legion could feel. Could not. His body was being torn apart. Fluid ran freely from a new hole in his chestplate. This was not. Distantly, he heard a wailing.

Legion snapped back to himself after a time. Half of his chestplate (half of his heart, his being) lay shredded on the ground. His hand damningly stained. It was.

Legion did not allow himself to consider what it was. His Shepard-Commander was dead. He had nothing. He was adrift.

The Collective urged him to get up and leave. He was listless because he lacked a task. Geth were meant to have tasks. Shepard-Commander could not help him now. Shepard-Commander was dead.

Legion felt something crumble inside him.

He could not stay here. Scrappers would see the wreck soon enough. Too many would think a lone geth an easy mark. He would be destroyed if he did not leave.

Shepard-Commander was dead. He was destroyed already.

Legion could not take the body with him.

Legion could not take the greatness.

Legion could take very little.

He removed a portion of Shepard-Commander's chestplate. It had blackened and cracked. It would offer him sub-optimal protection. He could not carry Shepard-Commander with him.

He could not even take the body.

He placed the battered armor plate alongside his own, covering the new hole. It was. Sub-optimal. There would be gaps. Brittleness.

One could not replace greatness. One could not replace Shepard-Commander. Legion could not expect to carry a ghost with scrapped armor fastened to his heart.

A human concept. Geth did not possess hearts. Geth were not meant to possess emotions. Souls.

Shepard-Commander was dead. Shepard-Commander was dead. Shepard-Commander was dead. Shepard-Commander was. Was. Was.

Sentiment was not something geth valued. Geth did not require humans to stand beside. They did not require great leaders in too-soft bodies. They had the Collective. Geth needed other geth.

Legion needed Shepard-Commander.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

"You're terribly beautiful," Falk said, smirking.

Nells lay pliant and boneless in their lap, mouthing lazily at their hip. "It's my curse to bear," he joked. Half joked. He was terribly beautiful, after all. Couldn't be helped.

Falk tugged at one of his unkempt braids and Nells let his eyes roll back in bliss. Falk's smirk turned mischievous.

"I learned the most interesting thing this morning," they said, lips playing along Nells' long ear. "That Morrin, our stubborn old girl, knows you carnally."

Nells freezes in place, half anxious and half drunk from Falk's teeth on his ear. "She was keeping it to her chest, I thought."

"She was," Falk agrees. "Wasn't going to tell me at all. But I'm persuasive."

Nells jolts when Falk bites down sharply. "Persuasive?" There's a horrible lump in his throat.

"She could never keep a secret from me," Falk murmurs into the bite. Their eyes are bright, bright gold.

Nells finds it just a bit harder to breathe. Falk's spidery hand roams up his chest while the other palms Nells' oversensitive cock just shy of painfully. He's losing his mind in the sensation.

Falk works him over mercilessly. He sees stars. His orgasm is sudden, painful, and blinding. He can feel the steady thrum of his own magic warming in his chest.

"See," Falk says, "Morrin knows how it's supposed to go. She's gonna waffle about for a while, and when she's ready she'll come to me. She's known that forever."

They do not stop touching and groping and biting and pinching and Nells is not built for this kind of grueling pleasure-pain. He can't help but arch into it. He's never been more desperate to stop.

"So it'd be real nice," they drawl, smiling unkindly, "if you didn't go and confuse her like that. She doesn't need any complications. You understand, don't you?"

Nells bites his lip and tries to think of anything but how horrible and wonderful this feels. The tiny chimes in his hair jingle as he writhes.

"I said, do you understand?"

A murmured spell and Nells feels another orgasm tear through him, intense and all consuming.

He manages the tiniest nod in the entire ashing universe.

"Good boy!" Falk chirps, kissing his cheek. They get up to leave, straightening their clothes. The shine of powerful magic hasn't left their eyes.

Nells stays on the floor. He doesn't get up until morning.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

Posting a snippet of a smut scene later today. Tags to block are: lemon, dubcon, and forced orgasm.

[kulluto]

a moment of silence for all the anime girls who are victims of being in a shonen series

[wonderful-prompts]

Prompt #848

A villain that would burn down the entire world just to save their one and only nemesis.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

Calypso couldn’t say for sure when she’d switched sides. If she had. If Astre had. All she knew was that despite her popularity, despite her immense power, despite all the awards and talk shows and keys to the city, there was one person on earth who loved her. And they were sitting in this building, possibly dying, certainly hurt.

The decision to save Astre had been as easy as breathing.

She heard a noise to her left and sulfur-green flame flared out. Three bodies dropped. A shout. A gurgle. Calypso tuned it out and kept moving. Astre was here, somewhere. The endless go-go-go-go thudded in her chest in time with her pounding heart. She had to find them.

A wall of metal slammed down in front of her, just barely missing her nose. So these assholes knew she was here. Fuck.

It hardly mattered. If they wanted to live, they shouldn’t have taken her Astre.

Calypso’s fire shifted to the pink-orange-violet of dawn. The wall melted away with a hiss. So did the next six walls in her path. So did the next eighteen people.

She let the heat of it bleed off until there was barely anything at all. The screen on her bracer beeped a few times before solidifying into an arrow. Left. And down. The basement.

I’m coming.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

Pars-Nip was cold. It wasn't a common problem, in his old home. Thri-kreen were built for deserts. His plated exoskeleton kept him cool under the merciless twin suns and his two hearts kept him warm and energized and thriving. Pars-Nip, in his old den with his old pack on his old planet, would never have had to deal with this.

But Pars-Nip was not there. Pars-Nip was not anywhere he was built to be. Instead he was on a derelict ghost ship in the middle of a radioactive asteroid belt in a forgotten pit of a solar system thirty krillion light-years from the places that raised him. Pars-Nip did not want to be here. He wanted to be home, even if home was another ship with no lizards to catch and a pack that merely tolerated him at best. 

Pars-Nip was here, alone, at the behest of his pack. They needed any supplies that could be found. But their weak, fleshy bodies couldn't survive the trip. But Pars-Nip could.

Pars-Nip was strong, and quick, and clever. He could survive anything, probably. His pack was counting on him to survive anything.

It was so terribly, bitterly cold.

Pars-Nip could not even feel the ache of the blade that had cut through the thick armor of his arm. Nor the burn of the poison it had left behind. Pars-Nip could only feel the cold.

A figure drifted into the room behind him as Pars-Nip was emptying a cabinet into his bag. It moved in a way that was and was not natural. It wore a cloak made of countless shimmering needles and spoke with a voice that Pars-Nip could only half perceive.

"You won't make it, you know," it said. “They never wanted you to.”

Pars-Nip did not stop loading up his bag, but he did set one of his secondary hands on the blade at his hip in a clear threat.

The figure did not attack. Instead, it made a slow, telegraphed walk to a corner of the room Pars-Nip could see and sat down. "You don't have much time left to you. Why not take it easy?"

Pars-Nip did not answer. He was a warrior, and his pack could not hunt for themselves or defend their ship from pirates or even get themselves out of an air vent. They were all horrible at being thri-kreen, which was probably because none of them were thri-kreen. Pars-Nip could not afford to take it easy.

"I didn't mean to offend," it said, placatingly. Pars-Nip hadn't spoken aloud. Perhaps he didn't need to. That was always nice. There was only so much one could say with words. None of his pack spoke thri-kreen, and their own tongues were difficult on his mandibles. 

"You needn't be so bothered," it said, as if it could hear him. "You're on your way out, anyway. You don't need to speak aloud with me."

Pars-Nip leveled the figure with a flat stare of open disinterest. He clicked his mandibles together. His long tongue eased out to lap at the blood leaking from the plates of his shoulder.

It was cold.

"What do you want?" Pars-Nip finally asked, his throat choking with effort. He wasn't built for the tongues he spoke most. But he had no other thri-kreen to speak to.

"For you to come with me," it answered. "It's over for you. Quickly, now. It's time to let go and move on to the next place."

The only place Pars-Nip was going, when he was done here, was back to his den on the ship. It lately had begun to stink of illness. He'd need to ensure it only smelled of Pars-Nip.

"You can't just go back," it spat incredulously. "Don't you get it? You're dead. Done. Over with. It's time to go. Now, before the portal closes!"

He twitched an antenna. Dead? Strange, then, that he was still moving. He was cold, too cold, and could not feel the endless, pounding beat of his hearts. But he moved. He breathed.

Pars-Nip simply could not be dead. 

"Don't start with that," the figure warned. "You're tough." It was a compliment, he thinks. "And stubborn." But that wasn't.

Pars-Nip finished filling the bag and zipped it. He'd parked the speeder somewhere, once he found it he could get back to his pack. Dead. Pah! As if anything was going to kill Pars-Nip before he was good and ready. That was almost as impossible as finding another thri-kreen out in this endless star-specked abyss.

"Is that all it would take for you? To believe me?"

The figure unbuttoned its cloak. The spiny, sparkling fabric piled to the floor, and from its confines emerged a being.

She was the largest thri-kreen Pars-Nip had ever seen. Larger even than Mother, than Grandmother. Larger than Kaa-Rot, leader of his old pack. And Kaa-Rot had been massive. 

The thri-kreen before him was covered in scars. Her chitin was cracked, deeply. Her thorax was missing chunks of spiny armor. She leaned heavily on a staff and held her leg in a way that spoke of pain.

Part of him wanted to launch himself at her. Someone so beaten, so weathered, had to be easy prey. She couldn't be faster than him.

The other part of him wanted to bare his neck. Thri-kreen that survived so well were beyond rare. It was an honor to be near her. She was clearly old, clearly weary. She needed a pack to protect her. Hunt for her. Learn what lessons she might teach.

"Do you believe me now, little one?" she asked. 

Right. The dead thing. He had forgotten about that.

She smiled at him, thin and brittle, and Pars-Nip wasn't quite so cold as before.

He clicked his mandibles. He grunted and croaked. He struggled to pull from his haggard throat the language of his people, unheard these last eight years.

Pars-Nip is very strong. And quick. And clever. Pars-Nip would hunt for her, if this elder came to his pack.

She smiled again, fondly this time, and Pars-Nip felt one of his hearts stutter back to beating. You know that cannot be, she insists. That poison has killed you. You cannot hunt, for you are dead.

As if death could stop someone like Pars-Nip.

And she didn't.

It had been too long. The window had closed. Already Pars-Nip's body was warming. His hearts beat unevenly, but beat nonetheless. He felt his blood as it fell dripping out of his shoulder in rivulets. 

Death had come for Pars-Nip, but she had not taken him in time, and Pars-Nip lived. He would eat, and he would molt, and he would hunt again.

He roamed from room to room until he found his speeder. Are you coming? he called back to the last thri-kreen he'd ever see.

She didn't answer.

He went back to find her in the first room, mute and angry. Defeated.

He picked up her cloak, lighter than it looked to be. He took one of her huge hands in two of his. Elder?

"You took too long," she snarled. She would say no more in his native tongue. "You took too long, so now you get to live. You even hold my cloak. Go," she growled. "I cannot take you now."

"Where is your ship?" he asked. One of the common trade languages. He reaches back into the cabinet and begins filling a second bag.

"Leave me," she spat back.

He still held her cloak. "Where is your ship?" he asked again. "Pars-Nip will take you there, if you will not come home with him."

"You can't get there from here," she said. 

"Then come home with Pars-Nip."

She gave him a look, then. Rueful and bitter. "Fine, then." She sniffed, and he turned around to lead the way back to his speeder.

She climbs on behind him and he drives home. He does not look back at her. Her weight behind him is solid and comforting. He takes it slow for her. She does not speak.

.

His pack is shocked to see him return. He turns to introduce the Elder, but she is gone without a trace that she had ever existed. Her cloak hangs limply from his shoulder and it smells of old blood and pain and decay and a sense of home that sends Pars-Nip nearly to his knees.

He wraps himself in it when he returns to his quarters. He molts. He wishes he was capable of weeping.

Days later, he is run through by a pirate in a skirmish. He gets back up and ruthlessly protects his pack. He goes numb and cold and bleeds freely, and yet he does not die. 

Pars-Nip does not die no matter how many times he is stabbed or shot or crushed or cleaved through. He gets up. He is cold. He hurts. And his hearts continue beating and his wounds knit together and Pars-Nip lives.

He lives far, far longer than any thri-kreen he’s ever met. Longer than his pack. Longer, perhaps, than stars. He does not see her again.

[origamicrow]

take a break while watching this little bunny cross your dash

[writingpromptsbot]

A man searches for a scarf in Israel.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

It was the woman, he told himself. The woman could change, could look like anyone and anything. But the scarf was the same. The scarf was always the same.

So he resigned himself to looking for it, chasing the phantom flashes of red down alleyways and through train cars. Every time, it was a different country, a different heist. But she was there.

She was there, and he could see her.

"La femme rouge!" he barked. His shoes pounded on the cobbles as he gave chase, again and again and again. Where was Julia?

Where was she? Had she left him forever? Was it because he had been so nasty to her?

Chase Devineaux knew you could lose a woman by forgetting to cherish her, and he had. Julia was right to leave him. She was right to forget him and be happy at her new job and have her heart stolen by her.

He didn't think he even hated this Carmen Sandiego as much as he wanted to. She broke the law and seduced his Julia away from him and taunted him at every turn and what was he doing with that?

Chasing down a scarf in Israel. He was a mess. Chase Devineaux was a shambling disaster. He was never going to catch this thief. He was never going to be better than this. Julia was lost to him forever.

He stopped running.

Chase leaned against the side of a building. He took a deep breath. One more. Two more. Easy.

He slumped to the ground. Deep breaths. Just breathe. Just breathe it out, Devineaux!

Julia was gone.

He felt the panic and the loathing rise up and wash over him. He wept, openly. Julia, Julia, Julia!

When he was finished weeping, he made himself stand up. Remember what you've been doing in therapy. Mourn, but keep moving. He dried his eyes. He walked the energy off. There was a café down the street, so he picked up a muffin. He walked back to his hotel.

He ate the muffin. And then, in the privacy of his room, he broke down again.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

He's already given up on finding her when the red devil herself appears at his table at the café. She offers him a muffin. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asks.

"Go away," he hisses. "Just keep my Julia and vanish. You always do."

Carmen tilts her head and frowns. "She misses you. You should visit for dinner."

He blinks and she's gone, leaving the muffin behind. There's a card in the wrapper. A phone number.

She misses you.

He goes back to his hotel and cries again.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

It takes him three days before he is brave enough to call her. Julia. His Julia. He doesn't know what to say.

“Chase?”

He hangs up without saying a word.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

He hunts for a red scarf in Istanbul. She tells him to call. Visit. She kisses his cheek and presses a diamond into his hands. It takes twelve days this time before he can call her. He hangs up when he hears his Juila’s voice. 

He doesn’t call after that. He doesn’t look for the scarf again.

[wasp-that-never-misses]

Happy Storyteller Saturday! Have you ever written collaboratively? If so, how was it? If not, how would you hope it would be like?

I have! I used to do it with my wife, way back when! She doesn't write much anymore, but she still likes to throw ideas at me for me to write for her.

It can definitely be a lot of fun and I'm very open to doing it again!

[druzydabbles]

Storyteller Saturday

Once again, Saturday has struck! And once again, I want to attempt to revive this lovely event! (It was a whole lot of fun last week!)

Reblog this post if you want people to send you asks about your writing, wip, or characters today! For each ask you get, try and send one back in return!

This event was originally started by @lonely-pages-of-ink and @drist-n-dither, and was a huge, incredibly fun writeblr event when I first joined this community, but has since fallen in participation and awareness. You can read the original info post here!

And don’t feel shy about sending asks to writeblrs you know nothing about—this is a wonderful way to get to know new stories, and make new friends!

[wonderful-prompts]

Prompt #799

Your main character has woken up to the smell of cold pancakes for the past few weeks. It seems as though someone breaks in each day to make them pancakes at unholy hours of the morning.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

Morrin cracked an eye open. It was scarcely dawn, and yet, that familiar scent filled the rooms of her apartment.

She allowed herself a resigned sigh. Someone had broken in and made pancakes. Again.

She scowled to herself as she went through her morning stretches. It wasn't as if there was a long list of suspects. Zakurr. Nells. Falk. Jaanta.

Morrin slowly went from room to room. Nothing stolen. Nothing broken. A shawl left in a pile on her couch, that was new. But the only thing it could prove was that it didn't belong to Zakurr. He might still have been in her kitchen.

When she got to her kitchen table, she found the pancakes. Already cold, as usual. She heated them and chewed absentmindedly, flipping through her book.

Morrin wasn't a heavy sleeper. Whichever one of them it was, they had to be stealthy enough to not wake her. So that excluded Zakurr. Nine feet tall and a wonderful husband, but not a drop of stealth to be found.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

Her mystery pancake fiend had left her some blueberries. Morrin's opinion of them just skyrocketed. Blueberry pancakes. Mmm.

After she ate and washed the dishes(because the pancake vandal never, ever did), Morrin walked out the door to begin her day.

First was the library. Jaanta was there already, pouring over a text in a language Morrin didn't recognize. "What are you reading?" she asked, taking a sip from her tea.

Jaanta broke into a grin upon seeing her. "Good morning, my love! It's a parenting book. I had some sent over from my hometown, since I'm due soon and there isn't a local clan of lizardfolk to help."

Morrin choked on her tea for a moment. "Sent over? Since when does the postal service deliver here? Owlsby keeps scaring them off!"

"He is pretty frightening, isn't he?" Jaanta agrees. "But you remember those singing kobolds in the next bog over?"

"Jaanta," Morrin breathes. "You didn't make those poor souls run all the way to your hometown for you."

"Of course not!" she laughs. "But you know the song. 'Toss a coin to your kobolds, please, the gig economy is awful!' So I'll sometimes send Owlsby to their village with coin and a note, and one of them will go to town and fetch my packages."

Morrin blinked. It hadn't occurred to her to take advantage of the kobolds' eagerness for pay. Hmm. "Do you think they have a weight limit? I have some things back home I'd like to see again."

"You could ask. I'm sure Owlsby could use the exercise; he's getting fatter."

Morrin read in companionable silence with her wife for a few hours, and then it was time for her next errand. She dropped a kiss to Jaanta's cheek and set out for another part of the old castle.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

She found Zakurr in the ruins of a tower that had crumbled in the draw of time. Her largest husband was holding a beam steady while Nells, her most foolish husband, hammered it into place. She tapped Zakurr’s leg, waiting for him to look at her.

“What did you need, dearest?” she asked, when he did so. 

“More stone!” he boomed. Broken glass rattled in in bent frames. “We need this tower to be sound and sturdy when Jaanta delivers. I’ll need to shore up the east side and put in new floors.”

“Then more stone you shall have,” Morrin said. Owlsby needed the exercise anyway; he could haul a cart of stone out of a mountain and through a bog. “Is Falk available today? Their magic would be a boon.”

“Check the roof!” Nells shouted down.

That was another four flights of stairs. Morrin was going to need more tea.

“Falk?” she asked, when she got there, two mugs of steaming tea in hand.

Falk was meditating. They opened their eyes to her, dripping with power. 

“Can you come with me to the mountain today?” She passed them a mug. “Zakurr needs more stone for the tower. He wants to finish before Jaanta lays her eggs.”

The warmth of the mug pressing into Falk’s hands is what finally breaks their concentration. They power down. 

Morrin watches the magic fade from their eyes, leaving behind the familiar bright gold, dancing with stars. She blushed.

Oh, candlesticks.

Falk noticed her staring. “Are you well, my hearthfire?”

She shook her head to clear it. It didn’t do to still be so nervous around her oldest friend, after all the time they’ve had together, and all that’s happened. It didn’t do at all. But there she was.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Can you come to the mountain?”

“Of course, I’ll be down in ten minutes. Where’s the cart?”

“I’ll fetch it,” she said, and then she was down the stairs again, harness in hand, with a third cup of tea.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Owlsby was in a mood today. He struggled with her, fighting the harness and the cart she was trying to hitch him to. “What’s gotten into you?” she demanded. “We do this run every week, and you always tolerate it. Is it because you know you’ll be hauling stone instead of vegetables?”

Owlsby only grunted and growled at her, which was the only answer Morrin was likely to get.

“Be that way, then,” she scoffed, frustrated. “But we’re still going.”

Falk chose that moment to teleport into the cart, setting down a few bags and a book as thick as Morrin’s arm. “Figured we might find some onions along the way,” they explained, holding up one of the bags. 

The distraction was enough for Morrin to muscle their agitated spider into place. She yanked the straps tight and swung up to the bench to drive. It wasn’t easy. Owlsby was getting to be long enough that he kept bumping the cart with his spinnerets and wide enough to knock the poles with his legs. She’d have to ask Zakurr to work on it. Then again, this was a bog. Perhaps a new design altogether would work better.

And then they on the road to the hole Morrin had been digging into the mountain face. 

“Have anything good for breakfast?” Falk asked, after a while.

“Some pancakes,” she said, absentmindedly. 

“Really? How were they?”

“They were nice,” she said. “There were blueberries, and--” she stopped herself. Falk was watching her. Very, very intently.

“IT WAS YOU!” she bellowed, startling several birds. “You’re the lout what keeps breaking into my apartment! Ashes and smoke, Falk!”

Falk gave a grin that could swallow the world. Unrepentant, as always. “Is it really breaking in, my heart? We’ve wed. You don’t even lock your door.”

I ashing well will now, she thought to herself. “Falk,” she hissed, scowling.

“What was I supposed to do?” they fired back. “You stay in there all alone when all your spouses love you and miss you. You won’t eat with us in the mornings. You won’t sleep with us at night. Jaanta’s starting to think you don’t want to raise the eggs with her. What was I supposed to do? Was I meant to just watch you waste away by yourself? No! So I made you some ashing pancakes, like a good spouse, and if you’re going to carry on and tell me I was wrong, I’ve got a long, fat candle you can sit on.”

Falk turned away from her in a huff. Well. She could give it right back.

“Is it a crime, that I have my own space? Smoke on the wind, I do all this running around, hunting, fishing, keeping everyone fed. All my free time, I spend with you. I bring Jaanta tea and I help Zakurr fix the castle and I help Nells learn new words so he doesn’t feel like an idiot with Runis. I help Melundii cook and I mend her childrens’ clothes. Last month, you half-spent knot of wax, I went three towns over to fetch a book because you said you wanted it. So I have my own space in the castle. So I like to have time alone, in this big huge place that I share with ten other people, three of whom are children and one of whom is about to lay.” She took a breath. And then another. Easy. “Thank you for the pancakes. I liked them and they were very thoughtful. But I’m not apologizing for not spending every waking minute with my spouses because I need space and time to myself.”

Falk’s eyes narrowed. Copper sparks fizzled at their fingertips. “Fine,” they spat, and then neither of them said anything.

They worked the rock in silence. Morrin hacked and hammered at the walls and Falk levitated the stone out of the tiny cave and into the cart. Owlsby was still fidgety. Very fidgety. “What’s the problem, then?” they called out. 

“Is he raising a fuss again?” Morrin answered. “He was fighting me before we left. I figured he’d have burned the energy off by now.”

Owlsby had most definitely not burned off the energy. If anything, he was fighting harder, desperate to get out of his harness. “Maybe there’s a deer? I don’t know if he’s been fed today.”

“Could be,” she said. “I’ll let him loose, he’ll come back when he’s ready.” He always did.

Morrin leaned her tools against the wall and walked over. “Hold still, you ashing trollop,” she hissed, tugging his straps loose and then off of his struggling body. She gave his abdomen a swat. “Go on, then. Get the deer.”

Owlsby tore away from her before she could blink, skittering down the mountain and into the woods, disappearing completely. “Bye, then,” she said.

But Morrin had been so focused on Owlsby that she hadn’t noticed the troll behind her, reaching out to crush her.

“Morrin!” Falk screamed.

She turned and stumbled in fright. A troll. A great, huge, enormous, hungry ashing mountain troll. Candles. Wax on a stick. Smoke and ash and piss. A troll.

She wasn't even wearing armor. She didn't even have her axe.

A bolt of lightning shot past her face and grazed the troll. Falk. Ashes and shit on a cold hearth. The troll barely acknowledged the hit. It reached for her again.

"Morrin, move!" Falk screamed. They fired again, hitting the troll in the shoulder. Then they were tearing out of the cave, fire on their fingers and a curse on their lips.

Morrin ran. She shot back down to Falk, ducking behind them. They smiled and threw the biggest fireball she'd ever seen.

The troll kept coming.

Soon enough, Falk was running out of power. Their magic was extremely versatile, but Falk had never been able to generate much of it on their own. And their spells had been draining what little of it their was.

Panting, Morrin took Falk by the hand. She had power to spare. Morrin would never be a master of it, but power, she had.

"I'd grant a boon to you, if you asked it," she whispered. Her chest thrummed with magic at the invocation.

Falk caught on quickly. "I crave such a boon, beloved. Would you lend me your faith? Your love?"

Morrin tasted blood, felt a weight in her hand from a sword she didn't hold, a hundred lifetimes in a blink.

She pressed her lips to Falk's, and let the magic sing. She tastes honey and wine and blood again. The Morrin that could kill her beloved was a Morrin she knew only in dreams and here, now, she felt her.

Falk whispers a spell against her mouth, drawing on her reserves as Jaanta drew a bow. She shut her eyes tight against the sudden light.

And then the troll was gone, soot-blackened earth where it stood.

"I love you," she breathes. She's trembling.

"A hundred lifetimes," Falk recites, looking very far away.

After that, she returns to her task with a vengeance. Falk loads up the stone and they pull up a few vegetables while they wait for Owlsby to come back.

Falk manages to find a flock of wild chickens. Morrin steals several chicks and fills a bag with as many eggs as they can find.

By the time Owlsby returns with a deer over his back and another dangling from his mouth, it's nearing dark. They load up the deer and drive home.

When Morrin wakes up the next morning, there are pancakes on the table. Falk is still in her kitchen, washing dishes. They smile at her. "I love you," Falk says. "I was an ass and I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have yelled at you like that."

Falk passes her a mug of her favorite tea and they linger, just barely touching her hands. She kisses them softly.

It was nice.

[caffeinewitchcraft]

Everybody is born with seven lives, each one tallied on your wrist. It’s not uncommon to lose one or two in childhood, falling off things or getting into accidents. You’ve made it until 21 without losing a single one of your lives, but, after a night out, you wake up with no lives on your wrist at all. What happened last night? How can you be alive with no lives?

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

I always joked that I was hard to kill. And it was true, to a degree.

That time I stuck a wet razorblade in an outlet and shorted all of them out with a pop and a lot of smoke. Or that time I cleaned a convection oven with bleach. We had to get a new one. And the outlets never worked again, but I refused to fess up to it.

I kept my lines. I counted them, each morning. One, two three. Four five. Six. Seven. All there. Still alive. Somehow.

And then I got a little older, a little dumber, a little bolder. I got into a car with a man twice my age because I was sort of friends with his girlfriend. She leaves the car to get snacks and he pulls his dick out and says he wants to see me fuck her, says she wants to try girls and he trusts, me, right? No one else would do.

I had a week-long fling with her friend before I met her. He introduced us the week after he dumped me. I never met her boyfriend until now.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. I count them off again. Dating the mafia guy. Drinking in college with a cute guy and a torch in my hands.

Being sober in college when that grinder jumps and it takes two people to pull it out of my stomach. Sitting on the table, topless, as the teacher that regularly came onto me and the teacher that kept locking me in the supply closet clean me up and bandage the holes and send me home for the day. I'm lucky, they tell me, so lucky, and it takes four hours to get my shirt out of the motor.

I'm a good noodle. I come right back the next day, fix my grinder, and keep working. I'm harder to kill than that.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. I take a job at a factory to make ends meet. I work overnights, so I have to drink a lot of caffeine. It hurts my heart. I watch a girl lose her arm in a machine. I keep working. The next day I'm inside it, fixing it, cleaning it. I'm the only one small enough, my boss says. I'm hard to kill, I laugh. I'm a good noodle. I'm dutiful. It never breaks like that again while I'm there, spending an hour inside it, every week.

My mom bullies me into buying a car. It's objectively a piece of shit. It's falling apart. The brakes aren't reliable. Antifreeze pools in front of the seats, filling the car with the sick-sweet scent. It overheats. The head gasket is bad. Water leaks in through the doors whenever it rains and freezes in winter. This car will kill me.

I fall in love with her. Her name is Martha. It's tradition, my mom says, that your first car be a piece of shit. That way, you don't have to worry about your shitty driving fucking up something nice. She teaches me to drive by taking me out on the ice and hills. I can barely see over the dashboard and my feet are struggling to reach the pedals.

To this day, I still can't drive without panicking. To this day, my wife drives and I'm strapped in, one hand on the bar, the other braced against the dashboard. She brakes hard. I hit the dashboard more than I'd like. It's really hard on my knees. Seven. Seven. Seven.

Then the drinking, the poisoning, the falls(my knees aren't put together right, did you know?). Trying to build up a caffeine tolerance so it isn't quite so drastic when I have some accidentally. I have one cup of tea every day with lots of water and after four days I can taste my heartbeat and after four weeks low light makes me want to throw up.

I'm hard to kill, I repeat to myself. I'm hard to kill, hard, hard, hard, but I think I'm not. Seven little lines. I should have lost some by now.

I'm harder to kill than that.

Then the fire happens, and gods, oh gods, that nearly killed me. I watched my body boil. My tits boiled off. Oh gods. My boss doesn't want me to go to the hospital. He hides me from the ambulance that was called by the guy who put me out. He hands me a packet of burn cream and tells me to clean myself up. My tits are melted.

I'll probably die in a fire before I'm 25, I used to joke. Such certainty in it, but I was joking, wasn't I? I was 23.

You're harder to kill than that, he says, and I look down at my seven little lines.

I don't think I want to be harder to kill than that.

He has to be threatened with legal action before he takes me to the hospital. He claims I'm his daughter and wants to be in the room when they cut my clothes off. He tells everyone, including my mother, it's not a big deal, I'll get a bandaid and go home on my own.

I'm in the hospital for a week with a skin graft and I'm bedridden for months. Breathing is agony. But my tits grow back, bigger and heavier and all my friends tell me how jealous they are, how soft and nice they look. My mom stares at them constantly. I never talk about how much they still hurt today.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven. I'm harder to kill than that. I want very badly to die.

I read a story about a man that becomes immortal. He can't be killed by anything, anything at all, until a certain event comes to pass. He pulls arrows out of his eyes and watches his insides knit themselves back together.

You look so much younger than you are, people tell me. Perhaps you're some kind of immortal. I tell them that's just how my family ages, we all look twenty years too young, but they don't hear it.

I don't want to be immortal.

It's a rough few years after that. I never say why. I keep all my little tally marks. My bones ache with the tiny cracks of a thousand what-could-have-beens.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

I'll be dead before I'm thirty, I think to myself. I'm certain. I drink too much and I'm not careful enough and now I have a checklist with what was I wearing at the very top because I don't know how to stop blaming myself yet. I don't fear death, I think, but I'm terrified of what it's going to take to finally kill me.

I stop drinking. I start again. I stop. I start again. All the adults around me are alcoholics, and my mom always taught me to keep up, don't be a quitter. I'm a hell of a lightweight but I ignore it and keep going, keep up, keep up. Maybe this is it, I think to myself. Maybe I'll get lucky and this will kill me. I'll wake up with six marks and then I'll finally know how much it takes. I fall again. My knees keep dislocating. I get hit by a car.

And I keep waking up with seven.

And then one day I wake up with none, and I don't remember the night before. I don't remember. I don't remember. Fuck, gods, shit, I don't remember.

I wear long sleeves after that. People assume I'm hiding self-harm scars, and I let them. I don't explain that mine never left a scar behind. My friend tells me I'm the toughest person he's ever known and I spend an evening crying into my cat because it hurts, it hurts so bad and every day is pain and I don't even know how I lost all my marks. I didn't know how I was alive before and I don't know anyone alive with no marks at all.

I think I still want to die. I don't tell anyone.

.

It's really, really hard to stop being self-destructive. I don't know how.

I steal a tattoo gun and bite down through the pain and give myself one tally. It's fake, it's stupid, I know, but looking at a fake mark is easier than waking up and seeing nothing. I can wear short sleeves again. I just have to lie through my teeth. My friends don't notice. They never do.

How am I alive how am I alive how am I alive howamIalive

I'm harder to kill than that.

[writing-prompt-s]

Your soulmate just sold their soul to a demon. Well, technically they sold a soul…. Actually, it’s yours. They sold your soul.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

"Respectfully, Your Horribleness, sir, I must refuse."

The demon sputtered. "Refuse?! You can't do that! It's your soul!"

"It is! And, being my soul, wouldn't I be the one to decide whether or not to sell it?"

The demon, Great Ignoble Lord Waspzlebub of the Sulfuric Plains, had known this girl for all of two minutes, and he already hated her. Resolutely.

He Summoned the contract. "You would think," he told her, "but you aren't. Your soulmate, Raza Scorpionplates, sold it to me. In exchange for the ability to pet anything they see."

He expected her to cry, maybe fall to her knees. She didn't. She snatched the contract out of his hands and read furiously.

"Absolutely not," she declared.

"You must," he purred.

"Where is the notary?" she demanded. "The witnesses? All this says is that Raza agreed to sell something that wasn't theirs. I don't owe you any soul!"

She proceeded to tear the thing to pieces. He Summoned another one. She tore that, too. Eventually, she demanded he come home with her to speak with her parents on the matter.

He relented. Strictly to humor her, of course. He was still going to get her soul.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Everyone in the palace knew Raza Scorpionplates. Bookish. Tall. Slew giant scorpions and wore their exoskeletons for armor. Liked cats.

Everyone knew, of course, gossips, about their soulmark. Displayed plainly on their arm. The princess, they whispered. The match was the princess.

Raza had nothing against the princess, of course. Nothing beyond the usual complaints that the working class typically had of royalty. Raza had a room in the castle. They knew they had it pretty good.

The real complaint, the real reason Raza hadn't begun courting her like a proper knight, had been her parents. Her father, in particular.

King Arbornaut had nine spouses. Nine. That was a ludicrous number of people to be married to. He hadn't even gone the way of most kings, marrying one princess and keeping the rest as concubines. No! He'd gone the way of his father, King Drag.

Courting Princess Nettlebrush meant the possibility of marriage. It meant Arbornaut's aide, who he also married, would draw up a contract. It meant the clear expectation that Raza would not be her only spouse, that they ought to hurry up and figure out which of their friends were the cutest, which ones could they live with forever.

Raza didn't have a lot of friends. They had cats. They had their sword, the best sword, the sword that slew their first scorpion. They had a horse. They had a tenuous acquaintanceship with a librarian.

What if Raza wasn't enough?

What if Princess Nettlebrush already had her own harem? What if she asked Raza to join it? What if she issued a royal command that Raza turn over their friends as harem candidates? What if the royal painter wanted in?

Raza, like most sensible knights, did not like the royal painter.

And there was that other thing. Tiny, insignificant, really. Nothing to get worked up over. But they may just so happened to have maybe possibly sold their soul. Or Princess Nettlebrush's. It was kind of unclear, actually, what "the soul belonging to you" referred to in the context of soulmarks.

And it wasn't like Raza sold it for something stupid, like immortality, or futuresight. The ability to pet anything they came across was invaluable.

But Arbornaut's aide-spouse probably wouldn't see it that way, and they were the one who arranged the marriages.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

"Papa."

Sir Absalot looked up from his book to find his daughter scowling. "Yes, sweetling?"

"This weirdo says Raza sold my soul. Where's Zaza Darling? I need them to yell at him."

His Ignoble Horribleness, Waspzlebub, snorted. "You can't get out of this, Princess."

Sir Absalot looked the terrible demon up and down. "Nettle, precious, you know Dearest is busy running Papa Arbornaut's kingdom. They may not have time to deal with this for you." To Waspzlebub, he added, "Let me just call my husband, won't you? We'll get this figured out."

Sir Absalot turned and walked to a corridor, before squaring his stance and bellowing into it with all his might. Stone rattled. Horses whinnied. Babies wept for fear of it.

A shorter, portly man in armor emerged from a room and jogged over. He had the most beautiful posterior Waspzlebub had ever seen. "Absalot! My love, did you bring us a guest?"

He turned to Lord Waspzlebub. "We haven't been introduced! I am Sir Maximus Glute, and of course you've met Nettle and my husband, Sir Absalot. What brings a being such as yourself to our home?"

The demon Waspzlebub had little prepared in the face of such beauty and politeness. "I'm, erm," he mumbled. "The soul. Nettlebrush owes me her soul."

Sir Maximus Glute, and the golden bottom for which he must have been named, looked thoughtful. Nettlebrush handed him the contract.

Sir Maximus Glute frowned. "This looks a little outside our laws. Let me call my husband, he's better at these than I am."

Sir Maximus Glute stomped over to the corridor and bellowed into it, which prompted a heavy, ominous clanking behind the many doors.

One door swung open to reveal a towering knight in gleaming black armor. Waspzlebub felt almost threatened by his bulging shoulders.

"Greetings," rumbled the frightening paragon of manliness. Why was he so beautiful. "I am Sir Deltoidia. And you've met my husband, Sir Absalot, and my husband, Sir Maximus Glute, and of course dear Nettle. Why have my daughter and my husband and my husband called for me?"

"Have a look, Papa," Nettlebrush said. "Papa Absalot and Papa Maximus Glute can't figure it out."

Waspzlebub saw the deepening frown on Sir Deltoidia's unsettlingly gorgeous face. "Are you going to call another husband?" he scoffed.

Sir Deltoidia rolled his eyes beneath his helm. "Of course not. My other husband, Sir Bicepiron, is out of the country on business. I'm going to call the rest of the family."

And with that, the frightening and uncomfortably gorgeous knight disappeared through the front door. A minute later, the family heard a howl that shook the earth and bent the sky.

Sir Deltoidia was calling.

A short while later, the knight returned, followed by a small procession of spouses and children.

King Arbornaut glanced around at the room. "Demon, why are we here? I've an important trading card game to return to."

Sir Deltoidia handed him the contract. He looked at it, frowned, and said, "Darling?"

His aide sidled up to him, calmly dragging Raza Scorpionplates themself by the ear.

They read through it. Exhaled. Read through it again. They slapped Raza hard enough to knock them to the floor. Then, they stormed up to Lord Waspzlebub and yanked him down by his beard.

"You must be Dearest," he starts, smiling.

"That's not my name," they spit. "You're trying to take advantage of my daughter. I'm feeling generous today, so I'm going to give you two options."

Waspzlebub, privately, starts to feel a little afraid of the diminutive person before him.

"Option one, Raza keeps their perks, everyone keeps their souls, and I don't tear your liver out through your ass and make you eat it. This is the better option. You want this option."

He was not convinced that that was the case.

"Option two," they continued, ignoring his displeasure, "you sign a contract with me. You surrender every soul you've ever taken. You become my servant. You waste away to nothing under my boot, and I pull you apart in pieces to wipe my ass. You don't want this option."

He didn't.

But he refused to be outdone by a mortal in a simple contest of wills. "Tell you what," he purrs. "I'll be magnanimous, even though you've been rude to be. If you can argue, convincingly, that I should so as you ask, I will. Little Raza can keep petting things, and precious Nettlebrush gets to keep her soul, and I won't even kill you for your disrespect. If you can't, however..."

He should have been more wary of that smile.

The aide verbally tore him to pieces, up, down, and sideways, all over the room. They cited every wrong he had ever done, called into question his honor, his health, the size of his cock, his ability to perform in any fashion. They gutted him brutally.

Their wife, Marion, served snacks to the rest of the family. None of them worried. None of them could be bothered to care that their beloved spouse could die horribly, could be subjected to unspeakable horrors if they lost. The thought of the aide losing had never crossed their minds, and so they behaved as if victory was absolute.

The demon Lord Waspzlebub lay defeated on the floor.

"It was a poor choice for you, my dear," they said. "I've been running my husband's kingdom for years. You don't get to be as good as me without learning how to be convincing."

Sir Deltoidia blushed beneath his helm. He had the best spouse ever.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

In the end, Raza Scorpionplates presented Princess Nettlebrush with the pincers of an enormous scorpion, having used most of the carapace to reinforce their armor. It was a courting gift.

Her parent, the terrifying aide, gave Raza a soft pat on the head. And then they went on to explain marriage law.

Nettle could only accept a proposal from another royal family. Raza would likely be part of that marriage, as the favored knight often was, but they would not be her only spouse.

Nettle was later betrothed to Princess Markendassa in a bordering country. Raza liked her. They also really, really liked her dog, which may have been the entire reason Raza agreed to the marriage.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

"And I'm telling you, Johnny, there ain't no such thing as Space Canada. It never happened."

Eight-Arms Johnny scratched idly at his ear. "But Sal," he said, "we gots a Space Atlantis, not three planets out. Why not a Canada?"

Sally Sweet-Jesus frowned at him. "Because, Johnny, Atlantis strapped rockets to a whole pod of squids and launched itself off the planet. It was an Earth city before. Canada ain't done that. And you know why?"

He had a feeling he wasn't going to like her answer. "Why, Sal?"

"'Cause there never was an Earth Canada. It's a myth."

"Hold on a minute, Sally," he argued. "There had to have been a Canada back on Earth. There's pictures."

"Can anyone prove it, though?" she asked. "I mean, how do we know those aren't some other wasteland? You know how many frozen planets there are? No. I don't believe it. Earth Canada was just a myth."

"Well," he said, "well, what about mooses? An' geeses and mounties? They're all in museums, ain't they?"

"And what about them?" Sally asked, dryly.

"So they had to have come from somewhere, right? Somewhere cold, and, and Canadian. It's got to be true, Sal."

Sally spits. "First of all, mooses died with the rest of the dinosaurs, when that Great Freeze took out all the power plants. The ones in the museum? Fake. Second? Mounties are like Bigfoots, or empanadas. What's the word. Cryptid. Jesus, Johnny, next you're gonna tell me humans can drink milk."

He thinks, very hard, before deciding against telling her about The Milkman. That freak tore Timmy Twelve-Eyes to pieces. Drinking milk.

He shuddered.

[ten-thousand-paper-wasps]

"Astre, please, don't be like this. Come back home. Back to me. "

Astre regarded the beautiful woman in front of them. Her hair was singed off in places, and there was blood flowing freely from a cut on her cheek. Their stomach turned at the sight, even now, but Astre had always had a hard time with blood. And this was Calypso.

"I can't," they finally said. "You know I can't." It was hard to keep their voice from breaking. It fell harsh and discordant from their lips.

"Because we're on opposite sides, now, right?" Calypso snapped. "Because I wanted a little recognition, and you wanted...this."

"Calypso, you know damn well this isn't what either of us wanted. You can't expect me to believe you're happy like this. You never needed to be a hero for a whole damn city."

Because you were always happy when it was just for me.

"Do you ever miss it?" she asked. "Just, you know, being together?"

Only with every breath. "I think we needed different things. But I never stopped missing us. You," they confessed.

They shared a soft look. It was nice, to just be together. It was okay to miss it. Calypso was, for better or worse, Astre's other half.

Astre reached out for her hand, rubbing their thumb over all her little scars.

They will never forget the roughness of her hands. Her power bit and blistered, leaving angry ruins behind. Astre knew them like they knew the night sky. Her hands, and her mouth, and her laugh.

She leaned in, lips just barely brushing against theirs. "Astre, I..." she whispered.

Astre quieted her with a slip of their tongue. "What if we just stopped? All this. Let someone new guard the city. Just be us again."

They didn't need to be The UnMaker. They didn't need to be Endless. They could just be Astre, with her.

The ground rumbled under their feet. Astre's knee gave a sharp hiss of displeasure.

Ashwinder was in town, and she was looking for a fight. Astre couldn't afford a few more moments with the only person that mattered. They needed to get Calypso out of there.

So Astre breathed out, held their power in their chest, and became Endless again.

"Get behind me!" they shouted. Their voice had already split into its broken layers. Bright, crackling energy surged down the wiring in their arms to erupt from their hands. Beneath them, the rebar rattled violently.

White-hot fire blazed past their ear. Calypso was fighting, too.

One of the power cores in their chest thrummed. The energy in their hands gave a shriek. Endless pulled, and thick steel cables rose from the ground at their command. They threw them at Ashwinder, knocking her down.

Calypso grabbed their wrist. "Run!" she screamed. Endless darted away, throwing up barrier after barrier. They had to keep Calypso safe. Ashwinder would kill her. Ashwinder would kill them both.

They led Calypso through a subway. Sharp right, left, left, straight, left again, right. Down the maintenance tunnels. Down a twisting maze they only barely remembered. She was so scared.

Finally, they reached it. Astre's secret bunker. "I reinforced everything myself," Endless said. "Even Ashwinder couldn't break it."

They smiled, but Calypso stepped back, unsettled. "Power down," she demanded.

So Endless held their power in their chest. The plating on their arms began to tuck back in. Their power cores dimmed from a harsh buzz to a low whine to nearly silent. Their eyes lost the white smoke they'd been bleeding.

Slowly, haltingly, Endless became Astre again. Human, or as close to it as Astre knew how to be.

They smiled at Calypso again, this time without displaying Endless' rows of needle-sharp teeth. She smiled back, and allowed Astre to lead her inside the bunker proper and close the door.

"I guess I always figured it would be different," she said. "Being a hero. I get all the praise and adoration I could ever want, and no one ever wants to just talk. Like people."

"I get that," Astre replies. "The sidekick gig seems pretty nice, though. Teaching a new generation of heroes and all that."

"Pfft, sure, if they survive. You know how many sidekicks I've had since we split? Six years, and I've gone through twelve of them. Twelve! I don't even know where my newest one is, he disappeared after we had an argument. Fuck. He's probably dead."

"What was his name?"

"Simon. Psychic type, he can compel people. His folks won't stop calling me about him, and there's only so many times you can tell them it's classified before they try to break into your house. Again."

She doesn't care about you, they'd told him. They could at least take him back to his parents tonight. Being with other humans had to be better for his recovery than...whatever Endless was.

"I think I want to stop. I can't keep doing this. I can't risk hurting you."

Calypso lit up. "You mean it? You'll come home, please, tell me you will."

Home is wherever you are.

"Give me a month. Let me wrap some things up. And then I'll come. I'll come home."

She kissed them again, soft and earnest.

"Wait," they said. "There's something I have to tell you. Your kid, Simon. He's been hiding out at my place. I didn't know he never told you."

"You have Simon? He's okay, isn't he?"

"I had to build him back," Astre confesses. "But I plan to send him home tonight. You can figure out what to tell his folks."

"Astre...I can't even tell you how thankful I am. Jesus. I didn't kill this one. I didn't kill him. Astre, thank you. God."

You're useless to her, they'd told him.

"Whatever you need," they tell her.

"I love you."

Something inside them bolts alive. Something else breaks. "I love you too.

.

The city rumbles above them. Astre pulls a laptop from a drawer and watches the city cameras until they can confirm that Ashwinder's gone. Until it's safe. They lead Calypso out of the tunnels.

"You'll call me if anything changes, won't you?" she asks. "My number hasn't changed."

"Always. See you in a month," they said, and kissed her cheek.

.

A month later, Endless wishes they had killed Simon when they had the chance.