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saphirered · 3 years ago

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I Don’t Hate You (Vagrant pt3.)

The lady at the front desk gives you a dirty look as you come straggling in, leaving a wet trail behind you, boots sopping with an equally disgruntled expression on your face. You toss her a coin, if only to be done with it all and go back up the stairs. There you see, Fjord is no longer sitting in the hallway and probably either has gotten himself a room of his own or Molly’s taken mercy upon the half-orc and let him sleep peacefully and undisturbed in their shared room. A sense of dread still lingers as you approach your door and you take a sip from the opened bottle in your hand, hoping to find some courage to push you over the edge and just get it over with. You can see the hint of orange light bleeding through the small gap.

When the door opens Caleb looks up from his book, or well, your book. You look like an absolute mess and he knows you know you do. It’s an unspoken agreement to not comment on this fact made in that brief moment of eye contact, for both of your sakes.

“Do not question my terrible life’s choices, Widogast.” You grumble as you let yourself fall backwards on your bed. You don’t even have the energy to magic away the remainders of the rain that kept you company from your soaked person. Well, that or the fact that the droplets rolling down your skin hid the tears from the panic attack and brief existential crisis you had on that rooftop before you came down.

Caleb puts down the book, gets up from the bed and slowly and carefully inches over to your side of the room. He hesitantly sits down on the edge. You have half the mind to kick him off just because but can’t find the energy to do so. Despite your distaste for magic users like him, being alone after your mental breakdown you just experienced, really sucks. Caleb pats your knee awkwardly in an attempt to comfort but not wanting to cross any boundaries. It’s pathetic, he knows because one can hardly fix a stab wound by slapping on a bandaid. His own past experiences have left him a tad bit at a loss when it comes to comforting a person in pain, especially one so stubborn and crass as you have been towards him.

Still, Caleb has figured out your hatred isn’t directed at him personally. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s people with abilities like him that have played a part in your past causing you pain and suffering and the wound is still very fresh, hence your trauma being reflected onto him, despite his complete lack of involvement in your before the moment you met. It may not have helped that your hostility towards him hasn’t exactly encouraged him to try and build a proper relationship with you. He hardly even knows you yet still he feels as if he knows your tells, the things you go through and why you act like you do. He may not know the details of your life but he feels safe to say he knows you better than any of the others.

It’s not his lack of knowledge and insight into your life beyond what’s surface and what he can read off you that holds him back. It’s the fear of what he might find within you that will tear open wounds of his own he’s worked so hard to cover up. It’s the fear you might be one step ahead of him in a similar story and there is no hope for people like you and him after all. It’s the fear those you run from are the same people he has tried so hard to escape. It’s the fear of you, that you might be each others’ salvation, or undoing because he knows what he has the capability to become, what you could become.

But here you lie, upon your bed curled up, traces of tears long since fallen, possibly even ran out, tightness in your throat, indents of your nails in your palms from clenching too much, frustration and anger in your eyes is still overwhelmed by pain and hopelessness and a wish the void would just come and claim you, where you no longer fear the consequences of running and will be able to obliterate those who caused you so much hurt, or die trying in the process. Caleb is reminded of himself in that cell of his own, for years, a broken mind piecing itself together from the shambles it was left in, barely a shell of what it used to be.

When he promised himself he would do anything and everything in his power to take down these tormentors and their accomplices so no one would ever have to suffer like he had, still is suffering, Caleb didn’t expect to find you. He still remembers himself begging, praying, screaming just to not be alone, to have someone tell him there is still hope and not all is lost. There’s still good in this wretched world and if the world turns bleak, it’s up to you to be that good despite everything. Those were the pretty words and empty promises of a dreamer but does that make them a lie?

“Don’t patronise me. I’m not some fragile broken child in need of mothering.” Caleb retreats his hand, clasping them together in his lap as he studies your face. Your eyes are cold, your expression matching. A mask, he knows. A way to protect yourself.

“Good. Because I have no intention of doing so. I want you to be blunt and truthful and I don’t want you to hold back. I want you to humour me and answer some questions.” You raise an eyebrow expecting there to be something behind Caleb’s request but his stare is unreadable, like a practiced mask of his own.

“You want me to be blunt and give you a peace of my mind?” You humour. You’ll tell the asshole okay. You’ll bicker and fight and quarrel if that’s what he wants no problem. Maybe a battle of wits and words will get you back into your groove.

Little do you know that is in fact not what Caleb is looking for. Not exactly. He isn’t looking for a fight. He’s looking for answers, how to help you despite your differences because no one deserves to go through this, especially not alone. So because of that, he will not humour you in turn with his usual reply to your attempts to push him. He doesn’t intend this to end in another futile empty argument. Not now. So he’ll drop the game and go straight for the jugular.

“Why do you hate me?” You freeze at the abrupt and sudden question. Caleb knows you don’t really hate him personally but coddling you won’t work and some things you’ll have to realise by yourself first. Finding the strength to lean up on your elbows you tilt your head at him as a half smirk creeps upon your lips.

“Because you’re an egotistical self-serving bastard who cares for nothing but himself and the people useful to him, until they outlive their usefulness.” The words are meant to cut like knives and usually you’d get a rise out of Caleb by such a statement but when you don’t see any response to your words, nothing but those blue eyes staring into yours so… unbothered, it feels as if those knives are turned onto you instead. You’re not quick enough to get rid of that tiny hint of guilt slithering across your features.

“Why do you hate me?” Caleb asks again, voice still calm like it’s the most unremarkable question ever. He could have asked you about the weather with that tone.

“Because you’re an asshole.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“Seriously? I already gave you an answer. Was I not clear the first time?” That guilt in your stomach starts growing, festering. There’s something in your mind pushing through but you try to fight it off, not liking the thought of being faced with those emotions. You’ve worked too hard to push them away.

“Just answer the question. Why do you hate me?” Caleb sees you struggle. Your first answers where in the blink of an eye, a defence mechanism slipping into place. That works, for a while, until it doesn’t, until you start questioning it and give yourself a moment to think.

“Because…” Because you’re a coward. Because you run from your problems. Because you leave other people to swipe up the mess for you. Because you’re a monster to blame for the pain of others. Because you’re to blame for your own pain. Because you couldn’t save them. Because. Because. Because. Those are not reasons you hate Caleb. You take in a sharp breath, clenching your jaw in anger, nose scrunching holding at bay the curses from passing your lips and the threat of all your emotions from spilling out like a breaking dam.

“Why do you hate me?” The words now, do not sound void of emotion, but instead are filled with a warmth and pity. Damn him! Damn him to the hells and abyss! When you don’t answer he repeats it again. Caleb gives you amicable time to answer, leaving a long silence to give your mind the time and space to think for itself, analyse and process and you hate every second of it because you can’t stop it. The cracks in the walls you’ve tried to hard to build become more apparent by the second. He asks again.

“I don’t bloody hate you!” You shout, pretty sure you may just have woken up the entire floor. The silence after the words leave your lips is deafening.

“Then what do you hate about me that causes you to act the way you do?” Your hands clench back into fists, your nails pressing down again in the still tender skin from but minutes ago. You don’t want to say it. You really don’t but that pain raging through your body wants to get out and you feel the floodgates opening inch by inch despite your efforts to fight it. Then there’s that voice in the back of your mind; maybe speaking the unspoken will give you some peace.

“I don’t hate you! I just hate what your remind me of. It’s like you’re here to personally torture me so please just leave me alone to suffer, get over it and move on.” You don’t want to remember the last time you pleaded for something, and had hoped to never plead for anything again yet here you are.

“I am going to give you a choice and I’ll only offer it once, so listen very carefully.” You’ve never seen Caleb look so intense, so genuine, and so determined. You can’t do anything but listen so you nod, signalling him to continue and that you’re paying attention to his every word and not to twist them for your own amusement for once. Whatever previous relation, or rather lack thereof you’ve had is gone now. There’s only you two, in a place of vulnerability and without judgement.

“You’ve got two options. One; you tell me to piss off, like you usually do. I’ll go back to bed, back to sleep and leave you alone. We will never speak of this again, never mention this and go our separate ways. We will remain cordial when interacting and won’t let our own grievances get in the way of the others.” You take in the words, nodding to confirm you understand.

“Or two; you and I are going to talk. You are going to tell me what you wish, and can tell me provided it’s the truth and I will listen. If you wish to tell me your life story I will listen. If you wish to tell me all your troubles I will listen. If you wish to share your pain, I will listen. And know that I will help you if you’ll allow me to. Because if you keep doing this on your own, let the guilt and grief and pain swallow you whole, I know exactly where it will lead. Do not allow it to be your undoing, or turn you into a person beyond your recognition.” Midway through his offer your eyes have closed and your brow furrows. You bit your lip and that combined with the movement of your eyes behind your eyelids are the only indication to Caleb you’re still listening to him.

Caleb gives you time. He doesn’t expect an answer right away. That’s not how this works but he does study you, attempting to get an inkling of what’s going through your mind. He feels warmth wrap around his wrist, glancing down to notice your fingers have wrapped around it and hold on tightly. You’re holding onto a lifeline and he knows it.

“Why?” Your, words a pained choke, you don’t dare open your eyes, don’t trust the look in Caleb’s eyes to tear down what last defences you had up and turning you into even more of a broken mess.

“Because despite what people might have you believe, there is still good in this world.” You’re unable to stifle a sob, feeling a tear slide down your cheek.

“I’ve not known much kindness in my life but I feel confident in saying this is the kindest thing anyone has ever offered me. It’s why my pervious actions and words towards you make me feel like an absolute ass even more. I hope you find it in yourself to forgive me.” You release Caleb’s wrist, feeling grounded once more despite the buzzing in your head and twiddle with your fingers awaiting a response, the tense air slowly lifting as you sit in peace and silence.

You nod, wiping at the corners of your eyes before you open them, a bit more red and puffy than they were before you entered the room. You finally look at the wizard and take in a deep breath before nodding again. If it were anyone else, any other moment you might have said no. You’d even have laughed at whoever tried this emotional shit on you. But it’s time. You’re not getting any better nor can you repress everything forever. It’s time to face some of these troubles head on. Luckily you won’t have to do it on your own. It will take time and effort and it’s going to hurt like hell but it has to be done. You have to move on and learn how to live. You owe it to yourself, if not the people you’ve left behind.

“Now this doesn’t mean we’re going to be best friends from now on. You’re still an asshole and so am I so don’t think I’ll let you off easy for your comments and the trouble you cause.” The corner of Caleb’s lips turns up slightly as he speaks and you mimic his expression.

“I don’t think anyone else could handle it, so I’m sorry to disappoint but you’re definitely stuck with me, Widogast.” You muster a smile, exhausted. It’s mutually understood the conversation as per your agreement won’t happen right here, right now but instead when you’re both ready. For now, at least you won’t pretend to hate each other anymore and start over.

“Hey, Caleb?” You ask.

“Yes?” He answers but before he knows it your arms wrap around him and pull him into your embrace. Caleb’s form goes rigid shocked by not only the gesture but by the physical touch itself. After a good few moments he finds himself ease just a little, enough to return the embrace lightly.

“Thank you.” You whisper.

#critical role x reader #critrole x reader #mighty nein x reader #caleb widogast x reader #caleb x reader

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how-masterful · 4 years ago

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Remastered

Dhawan!Master x Reader

Chapter 4: The Pandorica Opens

Summary: Roman Centurions. Pandora's Box. Together you and the Master find yourselves exploring the depths of the cavern below Stonehenge and what mysteries lay within. Legend speaks of a box, an ancient god trapped inside its walls. Why does the rest of the universe want it so badly? And what can the Master do when he finally finds out what’s waiting inside the Pandorica is not what it seems?...

Notes: Welcome back to Remastered! Its been a long time coming! I know I promised an update a while ago, but sometimes these things just don’t work out the way you want them to. If we had a dedicated Master show my job would be so much easier! I finally managed to beat my writers block and found an episode i’d like to masterfy, so i hope you all enjoy!

(You know the drill by now. @plethora-of-imagines, my beloved hat and master lover, this one is for you. just like the other ones. and all the ones coming. because who else would they be for?)

All around the Master, ever so slowly, the world he’d found himself in was suddenly starting to make sense. Dangerous, deadly, foreboding sense. On any other day, the renegade Time Lord would see that as a good thing. But that evening, underneath the ancient ruins of Stonehenge, the Master knew the dark was not on his side.

The communicator had crashed out a mere few seconds ago, fizzing and hissing against his ear. He’d thrown the device to the floor with a frustrated yell, gritting his teeth as his fingers returned to rub at his beard in thought. The same hand ran over his cheek and through his tangled fringe that hung over his eye, fingers gripping at the hair as his feet scuffed and disrupted the old dust upon the floor. He was pacing back and forth. This was not good. The high pitched ringing was deafening, his fingers plugging his ears as he stared down as the communicator. Its corner was dented, dust flying into the small cracks that had crawled up the edge of the glass. The screen still flickers with your face and name, the giant red letters of ‘COMMUNICATION LINE DISRUPTED' beneath it not failing to make his stomach churn.

You were both in grave danger. But it seemed like his was getting even worse.

“Master, it's not real!”

You’d yelled down the communicator line. Behind your plea, the Master had heard the Tardis creaking. Her engines were metal upon metal, screeching and groaning as it hurtled through the Time Vortex.

“What the hell does that mean, it's not real? Where are you?”

“Listen to me! All of it, everything’s a lie! The Romans, they’re right here.”

The Master was getting impatient. But you sounded almost terrified. The Roman platoon was hurrying around him carrying weapons and ammunition throughout the Underhenge. Almost like clockwork. At least they’d forgiven your lie about your identities- Emperor Nero and Pharaoh Cleopatra had seemed like clever aliases at the time. The Master sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“What are you talking about, what's all that noise-”

“In the book!”

“You’d better not be breaking my Tardis!”

“Master just listen to me, please!”

You let out a sudden scream. The Tardis jolted forward, sending you slamming into the console. The cloister bells had begun to toll, sparks and shocks of electricity and flame spurting from the central console of the type 41 machine.

All around the Master, the Roman soldiers had slumped forward. Knees locked into position, life drained from their eyes. Weapons, spears and swords clattered to the floor with ricochetting bangs. The Master blew onto the screen of the communicator, banishing the dust from its surface. Every attempt to reopen the communication line was met with an electronic buzz, denying him access. Preoccupied, with one finger plugged in his ear and his shoulder pushed up against the other, he failed to hear the marching footsteps of the platoon behind him.

A unified electronic whirr permeated the room, with all of the soldiers' hands snapping open and small, cylindrical cannons pushing through the exposed middle of their palms. All around the Master, the soldiers were following their commands and drawing closer and closer.

“What was that bang?!”

The Master pulled the com from his ear, before pulling it back closer to his mouth. A Roman had turned to face him, sending him a quirked eyebrow. In return the Master sent a fake smile, before ducking behind the corner of the large box in the center of the room. It would be best if he wasn't seen during this conversation.

“Y/N, talk to me, can you hear me?”

The Master half whispered.

“The Romans are in this book! The Tardis took me back to my house, i don't know why-”

“Your house?”

“When I was a kid. Something else had been there, the grass had these weird scorch patterns and the readings on that thing you gave me were going off the scale. The book on my nightstand, Roman history, i’d studied it at school-”

“You’d said it was your favorite subject, yes.”

Part of you wanted to mull over the fact the Master had remembered your favorite subject, enjoying the fact the hardened criminal had taken the time and care to recall such a trivial fact about his ��not’ companion. He often mused how preferred to call you his partner. You treasured its double meaning to no end. But you also knew that favouritism was what had led you to visit this Roman colony. You felt slightly responsible over the ensuing chaos.

“I knew I recognized them from somewhere- The Romans, in the book, they’re the exact ones that are with you right now.”

“That's impossible- they’re DRAWINGS, love!”

“I swear! Something has copied the book from my house!”

The Master smacked the side of the communicator, shaking even more dust free from the device. It was only after that he raised his head, suddenly aware of the silence surrounding him. The Romans, or whatever they were, had stood themselves in flank formation, lined up against the edges of the chamber. Blocking his only way out. Beyond the boundary the other soldiers stood side by side in perfect position, surrounding the Time Lord in the purple tweed jacket. Cornering him in front of the Pandorica. Finally, the ringing had dissolved into white noise. Now the Master could think. Almost.

Before he could even begin to spew out a threat, of which he had many planned and ready at the tip of his tongue, the room began to shake with a gargantuan rumble. Lit torches, hung on the walls in metal cages, rattled in their confinements as dust fell from the ceiling like snowfall. The Master's attention was yanked from the Romans, his head whipping behind him as the corner of the Pandorica slowly began to split along its seam. The rumble grew stronger as the stone walls shifted along their mechanisms, the green glow drowned by the emerging, blinding white light.

“Oh, good. You’re ready to come out now?”

Sarcasm and wit had recently become a favorite of the Master. His new body seemed to enjoy plastering on a smug grin and a growled one liner when facing certain doom. He was universally known as indestructible, as his previous faces had bragged. But it seemed this was rapidly misplaced in the current situation.

“I promise you!”

You yelled in protest, slamming hard on a lever and frantically tapping on the interface as you argued.

“They’re the exact same! So is the box!”

The Master reared his head to look at the box he’d pressed his back against.

“What do you mean, the box?”

The legendary Pandorica loomed down at him, the intricate detailing carved into its side glowing with an ominous green light that burnt from within. History had spoken of it, the mystery that lay beneath stonehenge, but to earthly historians, in their ignorant and self aggrandizing ways, it was just that. A mystery. Humanity had chalked the box up to being a folk tale, to ignore the mortifying idea of the supposedly supernatural being… natural: That aliens were anything beyond little green men in flying saucers, and human science simply couldn't, or more likely refused, to explain what had fallen from the stars.

“The Pandorica, I'd said it was like Pandora's box, right?”

You’d clapped with delight, unable to hide your excitement when the Tardis had materialised atop that hill hours before. You’d mentioned how similar the structure seemed to you, even down to the name: Pandora's box…

Your favourite book as a child. He could remember you mentioning it.

The Master did not like where this was going.

“Well?” he asked hesitantly, possibly for the first time in his life.

“It's here, on the cover of the book, my copy of the book, it's the same box.”

The Time Lord could see something peeking through the bright white, the silhouette of something existing within the box. He’d try again with the communicator in a moment, he supposed, slipping it into his endlessly deep inside pocket. He lent forward, peering into the glow, ever curious. Was this the so-called trickster, the universe destroying monster that had dwelled inside that box for millennia? The possibility of an answer was suddenly snatched away, however, when two strong arms punched through the gap between his torso and his arms, sliding under his shoulders and yanking him towards his feet.

The Master let out a shocked sound not unlike a bark, gritting his teeth as the soldiers clutched the man tight between them. His hair flipped madly as he turned to look at his wardens- the familiar, glassy look in their eyes turning the cogs in his brain. He tugged on their grasp, snarling as they dragged him through the dark and dusty cavern. His fingers scrambled to grab onto their own, to try and pry them from his form. Until he saw their fingers were no longer there. Replaced with small blasters in place of their palms. Their living plastic palms.

A sight all too familiar for the Master.

“How can they be the same, where even are you?”

The Master pinched the bridge of his nose once more, giving a disgruntled huff as his head fell back against the side of the Pandorica. Thoughts and possibilities were scrambling around inside his brains, like matadors trying to tame the most frightful of bulls in the ring.

“Master, these are my memories. Why did they go to my house, whatever it is?”

“Most likely, god, mimicry? They needed something that would peak our interest, make us come here-”

The Tardis jolted and screeched once more, her engines whining like a startled parakeet. Sparks and rumbles rocked the floor. You lost your footing, falling to your knees while clutching tight to the edge of the console. The Master pushed himself from the side of the box with a growl.

“What the hell are you doing to my Tardis, Y/n?”

“I don't know!”

You protested, heaving yourself up against the console. You continued to move along the screens, following the rhythm the Master had taught you. It was almost like a dance, especially the way his hands had wandered to your hips while he introduced you to the console.

“Its like something else is controlling it, the controls aren't responding-”

Another bang of sparks. The Master rolled his eyes.

“All those flying lessons I gave you- try and land her, wherever you are. The Tardis has protocols in place to keep you safe. You have to get out of there.”

“I’m trying!”

“The Nestene consciousness, I'd like to say it's pleasant to see you again.”

The Master grunted, trying to yank his shoulder free and almost losing his footing against his own force.

“Romans, a step up from shop dummies and plastic flowers, I'm impressed.”

He truly couldn't tell if his teasing was to intimidate or calm his own racing heartbeats. The Romans whirred and stomped, oblivious to his protests. Also oblivious to his remarks.

“Listen, I'm ordering you to let me go, there's bigger things for me to deal with here-”

Still no reply. The Master grit his teeth, yanking himself backwards in a feeble attempt at escape. He tried to thrash, to worm his way out of their grasp. But it was fruitless. The Autons were just as obnoxiously durable as the first time he’d met them, all those years ago.

“I COMMAND YOU TO LET ME GO!”

Further screams pierced through the communicator line, the timelord wincing as he once more pulled the device from his ear. You sounded terrified, the Tardis spiralling further out of control.

“Y/n? Love, talk to me!”

“Master, I can't control her! Whatever's out there with you, it has to be connected. The same box, the same Romans, the same night, that CAN'T be a coincidence! Master, everything out there with you, It's a trap. It has to be. They wanted us to come here, Please just trust me, you have to get out of there-”

Crash. Hiss. Bang. The Tardis was screaming as it hurtled through the Vortex. The Master was beginning to worry. This time he wasn't going to deny it.

“Y/N! SHUT HER DOWN!”

“MASTER, I CAN'T! PLEASE!”

The world round the Master began to ring with a high pitched shriek. A piercing ring that echoed throughout the underhenge. The timelord winced, scrunching up his face and baring his teeth as he shrunk away from the din. Beside his ear he could hear your screams, the Tardis hurtling towards the unknown. Until suddenly, zap. Crackle. Nothing.

“Y/n, can you hear me!?”

The communicator line went dead.

The Master was growing more tense by the second. And even angrier still.

“I order you to obey! Why do you want me, why do you want my Y/n’s memories-”

The Roman soldier to his left gave a grim admittance, staring forwards at the growing light shining from within the Pandorica. It was almost hypnotic to the lumps of plastic surrounding him, something he’d consider himself a seasoned expert of. But this was different. This still stunk of betrayal and subterfuge. And also a slight loss of pride.

“The Pandorica is ready.”

The Master should have been excited. Ready to meet this mythical creature, a ghost in time, a legend. But now he felt slightly sick. He leered up at the soldier, antagonizing the guard.

“Ready for what, eh? What other big bads have you around their pinkie this time?”

The plethora of Romans did not speak. They simply continued to stare.

“I’m going to tell you again, let me go. You took your orders from me, once- you should know who I am! I am the Master!”

“Correct. Subject has self identified.”

The Master's face practically drained of all color. He daren't move his head to look, knowing exactly what scum of the universe was waiting behind him. The sound of the Daleks still sent a quiver of tangible fear down his spine. It had been years since the time war, centuries since the destruction of Skaro. Of Gallifrey. But the Daleks had not only destroyed his people, they had executed him personally. And in the twisted sense of poetry, were the reason he was brought back from the dead. A soldier to fight in the universal war- the only time he decided to be like the Doctor, running away to the end of the universe to escape the carnage that gave the blood red skies and grass of home a brand new meaning.

He wouldn't say he feared them. But a dead Dalek was much more preferable than a living one.

Just like his old face had said. Stupid tin boxes.

“The subject has identified himself. Scan complete. You are the Master.”

“Well, you lot look different. Fancied an upgrade?”

He watched the Daleks, three in a crow, creep towards his line of vision. They were bulky things now, taller than before, each with a garishly bright color scheme that he almost wanted to shield his eyes from. An ugly design for an ugly creature.

“Or is that a poor turn of phrase?”

“YOUR LIMITS, CAPACITIES AND WEAKNESSES HAVE BEEN EXTRAPOLATED. YOU HAVE BEEN CONFIRMED”

Oh great. More Cybermen. If you were here, you’d tease him relentlessly for the reunion. You had earlier, suggesting he take the Cyber parts home and build his own. With a flash of white and a digital blue haze, the Cyber leader phased into vision, followed by two further Cybermen. All carrying large black weapons, much like what he’d found earlier.

“Oh, I was waiting for you to show up. Just can't stay away from me, can you?”

“Your arrogance is continued!”

Sontarans. Fabulous. In another flash, the squadron of Sontarans had appeared in the Underhenge, proudly brandishing their blasters. Before the Master could even calculate a response, the whole room seemed to glow in fire. The Pandorica was still slowly creaking open, the beam of light shining brighter and brighter. The Master, who stood right in its glow, had to shrink away and squint from its brightness.

Teleportation fields, transfer rays, dimensionally transcendental movement corridors, it seemed the world and his wife were cramming themselves into the cavern below the rocks. The Master, now adapting to the light, was met with an endless sea of familiar faces.

Draconians, Ogrons, Juddoon, Kasaavin, Axonites, Cheetah Warriors, Sea Devils, and even their silurian cousins. Even some faces he’d never seen before littered the crowd, some other foes he’d briefly met but never spared a thought to. Sycorax, Hoix, Zygons, members of the Trickster Brigade, Clockwork Droids- and tall, slender men in black suits with a name he couldn't quite remember. He even struggled to remember they were there, looming in the background behind the busying crowd.

The great monsters of the universe had gathered at the Pandorica.

“The Pandorica is ready!”

The Sontaran leader cried. Hesitantly, the Master dared to ask.

“Ready for what?”

The white Dalek, the new supreme, slowly moved closer.

“Ready. For. you.”

The sides of the Pandorica finally slid into position, the blinding shroud of light dissipating. Finally, the Master could see what was before him in the darkness of the cavern. The box had split open to reveal a mechanised chair, almost like a throne. Callous and black, the metal chair was embedded deep into the heart of the Pandorica. Its exterior was fitted with several restraints, the square shaped shackles glowing the same green as the exterior patterns. Two ankles, two wrists, and over the shoulders- any being within would be unable to break free. Or even attempt to escape.

Slowly, the puzzle, not unlike the box in the fairy tale of Pandora, was beginning to slot together. The Master turned to look at the aliens surrounding him- co conspirators, enemies, allies. All had stood to the sides of the room, leaving a walkway between himself and the Pandorica. They stood, watching intently, as the realisation began to appear upon the renegade Time Lords face.

The path was clear. The restraints on the chair had retracted outwards, unlocking themselves. The Pandorica was empty.

But the Master knew.

Not for long.

“Wait, you can't-”

But they already had. The Nestenes began to walk forwards, dragging the Master along with them by his armpits. The timelord kicked and fought their grasp, his grey shoes kicking up dust as he scrambled to find resistance in his footing. The surrounding monsters watched on as the Master fought for his freedom, desperately trying to pull away from the plastic men. He shouted, grunted, bared his teeth, but no amount of tugging and shouting could break the Master free. The Silurians tilted their heads, hissing. The Draconians stood with poised disapproval. The Daleks and Cybermen stood proudly at the front of the line, the Judoon watching silently with the authority of the shadow proclamation. All those creatures, lit by the roaring fire of the flickering torches on the wall.

The Roman imposters dragged the Master to the empty chair, their strength unmatched as they heaved the Time Lord into the waiting seat. He let out a furious yell as the restraints snapped shut around him, his body yanked backwards into the chair. First his wrists, then his ankles, then his shoulders. The entrapments of the Pandorica had shackled him down to his seat. A last set of restraints emerged from within the structure itself, entangling themselves around the Master's waist and stomach, pressing tight against his torso and locking him firmly into the chair. A single light shone from above, acting as a spotlight over the Master’s head. All eyes could see the Time Lord struggle and fight. All eyes knew it was useless. Exactly how they’d designed it to be.

“No, you can't do this to me!”

The Master was visibly rippling with rage.

“All those times I've helped you all!”

“YOUR ASSISTANCE HAS BEEN A SCOURGE ON THE CYBER RACE.”

The Cyberman with black handles spoke, as monotone and electronic as ever. The Master widened his eyes.

“No-”

“Your presence within the universe has caused vital damage to Dalek strategy.”

“All our plans, every time you step in, have failed to reach fruition! The glory of the Sontaran empire is threatened by your hand!”

The Master turned to look at every monster surrounding the box. The pathway had closed, the races and creatures surging forwards, cornering him even more within the machine. Their faces, if they had one, were full of hatred and disdain. Even the robots among the crowd were seemingly glaring. And those without faces watched on with agreement. The Master glared between them, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

“So, what? You blame me for everything? Want to lock me in a box because you blame me for all your problems!?”

“Incorrect.”

The Daleks' voice was scratchy and mutilated. Much like the creature inside the casing.

“The Pandorica was constructed to provide safety for the Alliance. You have aligned yourself with the Doctor.”

The Master paused for a moment, staring down at the supreme Dalek. How it stood there, with all its pride and might, and accused him of such a thing. He couldn't help but laugh. And so he did. The Master barked out a laugh, teeth bared and head falling back as he sat shackled to the Pandorica.

“Me? With her? Who told you that?”

“CYBER DATA HAS CONFIRMED. YOUR PREVIOUS INCARNATION ASSISTED THE DOCTOR IN CYBER DESTRUCTION.”

“Missy? Really? A five foot four mistress of evil scared you so much you had to put me in a box?”

“Your identity as the Mistress has been confirmed to stand in allegiance with the Doctor. It's a well known fact you chose to stand alongside them. Who knows what chaos you could harbour with your… track record of derailment.”

The Draconian leader stood proud among his council. The Master sent him a scowl, his laughter dying out.

“You think I'm the Doctor's little helper? Her weapon against you all, the crazy old Master, happy to do her dirty work? News flash, I've tried to kill her! Yeah, she's a she now, it's her turn! Some of you I've even worked with! I helped YOU with the Cyberium!”

“The evidence shows otherwise. You simply can no longer be trusted.”

The Kasaavin leader dared to talk against him. The Master questioned how he could even be here, after the Doctor's exile of their race from the planet. Their hatred for him must be strong enough to transcend dimensions. It was almost romantic.

“I’m nothing like the Doctor! I don't even LIKE the Doctor! Sure, I had a bit of a wobble in morals, tried to be good..ish… but I'm back!”

The Master was positively exasperated. His messy hair and wide eyes making him look manic.

“So can somebody, anybody: any man, woman, robot… fish thing. I don't care. Can somebody tell me, what do you all think makes me like the Doctor?”

There was silence across the room. The Master's outburst had made them think. The Master watched them, eyes begging for an acceptable reply. Finally, the Cyberman spoke.

“YOU HAVE GROWN SENTIMENTAL. YOU HAVE TAKEN A COMPANION.”

You. Oh, you. This couldn't just be about you.

The variables began to bubble and clash within the Master's brains. Everything seemed to come back to you. Your choice in trip, your favorite subject, favorite book, you attack from the guard, your fake identity as a queen. And your current fate... However unknown it was.

Surely this couldn't be about you.

“The memories of your companion were extrapolated. A scenario was formed as a test of your intentions.”

“Mercy for a human! Defence over a fleshy girl, instead of the opportunity for universal destruction! Your allegiance cannot be guaranteed, your newfound kindness poses a threat to us all!”

The Master huffed, his hearts fighting within his chest. This couldn't be happening.

“It was you, wasn't it? You took took control of my Tardis-”

“YOUR COMPANION WILL BE DISPOSED OF. YOUR IMPRISONMENT IS A RESULT OF YOUR MERCY.”

“You fell into a trap that you simply could not resist. The draconian empire condemns you.”

“You’re going to kill her, and imprison me, just because you can't trust me to not be good!?”

“The safety of the alliance is paramount. Your history of meddling in Dalek affairs, your part in the destruction of Skarro and our creator, the data cannot be ignored.”

The Master couldn't breathe. The surrounding forces were drawing closer and closer, surrounding him and his line of vision. The walls of the chamber had disappeared within the bodies of the alliance. They were really going to turn on him. They really intended to kill you.

“We will save our universe. From you!”

His mouth was dry. His palms were sweating, his breathing shallow, his rage burning like the brightest of suns. The Master glared upon the alliance, eyes twitching with inconsolable rage. This day had been long. He’d been tested far too much, pushed way too far. This morning he was lying in bed, embracing the warmth of the Tardis and your body against his own. But now his world was being stripped away from him.

Angry didn't begin to cover it.

“Now you listen to me- you bring her back, you know for a fact the destruction of a Tardis in the Vortex will ripple through this universe. And then you’ll have me to deal with.”

“NEGATIVE. YOUR IMPRISONMENT CANNOT BE AVOIDED.”

“Your companion will perish. Your isolation will be permanent. This is confirmed.”

The Master let out a furious scream, a bitter yell that ripped harshly against the back of his throat. The tribe of Silurians hissed and stepped backwards, raising their weapons.

“LISTEN TO ME! If she dies, if my ship burns, I will rip this box apart inch by inch and I will destroy every single one of your ugly little races!”

His shoulders were heaving, spit flying from his mouth as he spat between gritted teeth.

“I will bring down destruction on every one of your stupid little planets and your silly little spaceships. I’m a Time Lord, my people have made a mockery of you since the days you formed on your tiny little rocks, floating through space. I’ll show you how merciful I can truly be as I kill you all slowly, one by one, so you can watch what happens when you think you can destroy me. I am the Master, and you will all pay for this!”

The Cyber leader stepped forwards, clenching a fist to its chest. It looked deep into the Master's eyes, its soulless black pits of metal mesh showing no humanity nor hesitation.

“SEAL THE PANDORICA.”

“Listen to me, you will obey me! The Tardis will implode, your worlds are in so much more danger than you could possibly realise!”

The heavy walls of the Pandorica began to slide shut. The Master was frantic, tugging and yanking against his bonds. Nothing. The metal locks were clasped tight, his body imprisoned and trapped against the seat. His eyes were enormous, his hair flopping from side to side as he continued to fight against the seat. Still, there was no way of escape. No amount of fighting would work. That didn't stop him from trying his best.

“The universe will rot and perish if you harm her! Everything you know will be nothing but ash, I promise you! All your suns, your moons, your hopes, I will destroy each and every one of them! You can't do this to me! I am the Master! You will obey me!”

The Master's words echoed through the Underhenge, bouncing off every wall and dissolving into the gathered crowd. The alliance watched on as the timelord begged for his freedom, promising destruction in his wake. But these were songs they had heard before. Plans ruined by opportune chance, and disappointing failure at the hands of his old friend.

“YOU WILL OBEY ME!”

The Master screamed, as the walls of the Pandorica finally snapped shut. With a hiss the edges of the box sealed together, the mechanical insides ticking away as the glowing green sides twisted and interlocked. As the box gave its last rumble, the Pandorica was finally sealed. The legendary trickster, the mischief maker that had destroyed worlds and brought down civilisations, finally locked within.

The Tardis hurtled through the Vortex, crashing against the walls of time, its engines phasing and crying out as the cloister bell rang from within. You crawled across the floor, scrambling back towards the console, fingers grasping onto anything they could purchase. Sparks flew beside your head, the cables linked to the belly of the console fizzing and pulsating as you begged the console to calm down. You’d been with her for years now, you knew how the Tardis would normally fly. This definitely wasn't her doing. This definitely wasn't her in control.

Your hand smacked hard against the side of the communicator, the line still ringing out every time. You’d tried to call the Master several times, each instance ringing and ringing with no return. He never refused to reply. You clutched on tight as another wave of turbulence hit the flight deck, the trinkets and knick-knacks you’d gathered on your travels tumbling from every shelf and crashing into nothingness against the floor.

“Please, Master, answer me!”

Nothing. He simply wasn't there.

You couldn't cry yet, there was still hope. Or at least, you tried to convince yourself. You hoped for a miracle, for something that would help you regain control of the Tardis. You didn't want to die.

“Master, please! I’ve not got much time!”

Your calls were falling on deaf ears. Nothing was going to save you. A rogue spark suddenly flew from the console, knocking you backwards as the Tardis collided with the Vortex once more. You flung back towards the floor, head colliding with the hardwood as you fell. You felt the impact through your whole body, all strength slipping through your fingers as your eyelids felt heavy. From your position on the floor you could see out the window, the reflection of the flaming Tardis console bathing the Vortex in deep orange.

“Master, I love you, I'm sorry…”

You whispered, your vision beginning to fade. You gazed deeper into space, watching as the world shook and disappeared around you.

And as you blacked out, every star began to fade from the sky.

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efkgirldetective · 4 years ago

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~part IV~ of this little prompt series { part I & part II & part III }

much love&thanks to @shaniso90 for this adjusted prompt !!! your noun/color/place worked so so well with my imposed emotion ✨

(ps highly recommend listening to tell me you love me by sufjan stevens—irrefutably/canonically jily—whilst reading)

sweater + lavender+ library + apprehension

Lily pauses, lazy with sleep, in the cusp of the hall—glimpsing round the corner James and Sirius stood in the kitchen, bent together, talking in quiet tones. She leans her head to the wall, watches James smile and laugh. He looks well-rested. He’s wearing the sweater she gave him for Christmas, lavender and woolen. One elbow already rethreaded with magic.

She presses a hand to her ribs. Afraid if she doesn’t hold her heart inside, it will spill out. Sirius leans back against the counter and flicks his wand at a simmering pan, at the toaster; she can smell eggs and nearly-burnt bread; the lingering scent of James, head heavy on his morning pillow. His fluttering lashes as he woke, slowly, culled his fingers to her neck, kissed her through halfsleep; whispered I’m here, sweetheart. I’m here.

Lily lets the fingers shift down; rest on her belly. Tender and soft. She steps into the kitchen.

“Morning, sleepy,” James murmurs when she tucks herself into his side, feeling the sweater between her fingers, feeling his warmth and his being here, being alive. Gripping at the loops of his jeans. Unwilling to let go.

“Toast, Evans?” Sirius asks, slipping past them. “Eggs?”

They share slow breakfast. Peter joins not long after and steeps tea just the way they all like. They laugh when Remus finally emerges, disgruntled and bedheaded, shoving at Sirius lightheartedly as he’s pulled in for a kiss; hands touching necks. Lily keeps herself connected to James; hand on his leg as it bounces under the table; mouth pressed into his shoulder when he refills her juice; fingers moving up through his hair, still damp from a shower. As if he’ll stay, just here, if she can keep him steady. As if touch could save him—any of them.

“Come with me to the library?” Lily wonders as the table breaks up— Remus fully awake and talking aloud through his list of Saturday chores, Sirius groaning that they ought to just go back to bed and loiter, Peter insisting on clearing the dishes, jostling a kind and gentle hand at James’ shoulder—“I’ve got books to return.”

They pile on their corduroy coats and cast warming charms and walk down the street through late November leaves, sunlight yellow and cold. Lily concentrates on the feeling of their hands, entwined. Hefts her tote of books higher on her shoulder. Feels his thumb rubbing her thumb.

“Okay?” he asks and in response, she brings the thumb up to her lips.

The Muggle library is scarce with patrons. Lily returns her books and chats for a moment with sweet, silver-haired Fran. “You’re quite glowing, love,” the librarian says as Lily shuffles a stack of new books into the tote. “Has that tall handsome mister gone and given you a ring?”

Lily smiles—and it bursts in jest as much in sadness. “Not yet, Fran, no ring.”

“He’s a right plonker should he not be ring shopping, at least. Tell him I said that, would you now?”

Lily finds James in the back of the library, flipping through a book on car mechanics, muttering on about how bloody impossible it all is, sans spellwork. The glass-ceilinged atrium above scatters gold light over the floor, over the stacks; catches in his dark hair. Lily feels the heart-spill, tenfold. Fits herself to his back and wraps her arms around his body; buries her face in his coat.

“Lils?” he asks, spreading his hands over hers.

“I love you,” she tells his coat.

He twists around fully and cradles her jaw and the library feels immense—but, still, too small. She chokes on the weight of her nerves, on the weight of the future. “You’re pale,” he murmurs, and she shuts her eyes. “Really, is everything okay?”

“Let’s walk,” she diverts, eager for someplace else to breathe.

They walk to a nearby park. The sun has dimmed behind clouds. Lily feels her footsteps very intentionally. Tucked into the crook of his body, she knows this is before. The after, unknowable. They will never be the same.

They meander to a bench with a nice view of a small pond, catered in late autumn by dreary clouded algae, birds splashing their wings in the water.

James doesn’t push—knowing, perhaps, that the words are glomming in her throat, that her fear and panic and wrong time wrong time wrong time are fraught enough to bury any thrill; affection; growth.

She asks, to stall, “your leg?”

He gives her a small smile. “Aches, just a little.”

“Good,” she nods, breathing out, running her hand down his arm; feeling his eyes on her. She looks out over the water. “Good.”

A family teeters down the path behind them. The babbling child throws the skin of an orange into the grass. Lily concentrates, very hard, on the way an orange smells when its skin is peeled off; the pleasant, stinging sweet. She remembers like her own breath the day she and James shared an orange under summer sun, eighteen years old, besotted; juice dripping between fingers. I love you shimmering between them for the very first time. “Can you feel it?” he wondered, hair moved through with wind. She held his eyes and cupped his hand in hers; gave over the last slice of fruit. “I’m full of it.” She tasted the orange on his lips. Amended, “overflowing.”

“I don’t know," she whispers, now, on the cold bench, "how you’ll react.”

James squeezes her hand. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “Anything, Lils. I’m here.”

“It’s...” she smooths a hand down her wool skirt, the thick stockings beneath. Looking for something to ground. “These last weeks have been—tumultuous,” she begins, “with the Order, and the moon, and the—with you, your—”

Out in the pond, a pair of ducks submerge their heads underwater. Lily reels in the tight knot of breath in her throat; tries to swallow past.

“Love,” James says, eyebrows pressed together, shifting himself sideways, arm reaching out under her back, round her waist. “What’s happened?”

Her lips quiver. How stupid it is—how reckless. “I missed my period, fully, last month,” she whispers, toying compulsively with the hem of her skirt. “And...I’m late on my charm, I missed the appointment. In the middle of—” she cuts her head away from him; can’t bear to see his face, falling. “I didn’t go. I forgot.”

There are birds in distant trees, calling out; anxious. The memory of the child, the orange peel, and the summer sun are blurring, too much the same thing. A love without home.

A sprawl of fingers on her cheek; she lets her face turn. His eyes gone soft. “You’re—” he clears his throat and runs a thumb over her chin. “Are you—?”

No chance of swallowing this lump, now. She lets it lump. Lets herself nod, slowly.

James goes still, save the stroke of his thumb. She feels frantic to move—to gasp—to scream. But she stays in his stillness and watches for signs of life. For signs of annoyance, of anger, of this is not our time.

None of it comes.

“I know,” she says, to fill the quiet, without much of a voice, “we’re too young, and there’s—so much wrong with it, and no time for—I know I’ve fucked up, I know there’s no place for such—such irresponsible—”

“Lily,” James chokes, flattening any further defense. “Lily,” he repeats, and his eyes are wet and his hand on her chin is shaking, shaking entirely.

“Are you...upset?”

“Upset? How could I—” James searches her eyes, frantically. “Are you upset?”

She bites her lips. Finds a swell of heat, in the space of their bodies—shakes her head, suddenly certain. “No. Scared, yes, but....no,” she breathes in. “I’m not upset.”

His breath seems to rush out all at once. He hiccups on a laugh, and pulls her in desperately, arms wrapping around; she lets herself burrow. Safe and warm. His lips press into her neck without aim. His smile presses, too. “Lily,” he whispers, and even her name is safe, tucked under his tongue. “When did you—” he pulls back, wet-cheeked. She scatters it away with her thumbs. “How long have you known?”

“Only yesterday. St. Mungos sent an owl and...” she feels herself blushing. “When Mags was in, wrapping up your spells...I went to the corner shop for a Muggle test and took it in their loo.”

James blows air out through his lips. “The Muggle tests...they’re accurate?...I mean,” he restarts, deliberately, brow knit in careful concentration. “You’re—you’re absolutely sure?”

“A Healer will be able to confirm, but...” Lily extracts one of his hands and folds it over her stomach; hears his quick inhaling breath. She covers the hand with her own. “I feel...full.”

“Oh my god, Evans,” he laughs, looking up at her; voice faltering, split in two; eyes overfull with wonder. “We’re having a baby?”

To be growing something that belongs to them both; to watch him transform with the knowledge, blinking, and teary, and happy. Lily’s heart pushes hard at her ribs. The birds are calling out in the trees. In among the this is not our time: something flowering, something organic—we will make this our time.

“Yes, Potter,” she smiles, chasing his sparkling laugh; her body a home to such love. “We’re having a baby.”

#jily #fic #drabble #marauders #tag yourself im woflstar touching each others necks at breakfast #i am also the ducks in the autumn pond #and the discarded orange peel #honorable mention is fran the silver-haired librarian

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deiliamedlini · 3 years ago

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Whumptober 2021- The Darkness I Know

Chapter 1

Note: So, I decided to do the same thing I did last year, which is to turn the whumptober prompts into one continuous fic! This first chapter heading info up here is a mess! I’ll fix the next post! Also will be posted on Ao3 (the link will only be on the chapter index page so I don’t keep forgetting to do that). These chapters are typically on the shorter side just because I am writing a chapter daily and haven’t written ahead more than the first two chapters!

Fic Summary: After the world as she knew it was destroyed by the corruption of Malice, Zelda allies herself with her saviors from captivity: a disgruntled former governor, an alert paramedic, a cocky pilot, an excessively overt optimist, and a blind strategist. While the corrupted, malice-filled Yiga Clan looks for revenge on them, Zelda has to learn how important it is to find family in others... and how much more dangerous the stakes become if she fails to protect them.

No. 1 - ALL TRUSSED UP AND STILL NOWHERE TO GO

“You have to let go” | barbed wire | bound

Chapter Index/ Next

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

“What do you mean you don’t have a ruler?”

“I don’t need one.”

“What are you doing—… no!”

Never had there been a more malicious offence in Zelda’s eyes. Rulers were the key to life: they kept things straight, and they made things balanced. There was equality in every precise and calculated movement, and a delicate hand was required to hold the simple mechanism steady.

So, watching Dorian take the scissors and cut three strands of paper was like cutting straight through the muscle of Zelda’s heart.

“Why would you do that!” she screeched, more an accusation than a question. “Now they’re uneven, and they’re crooked! You’re insane!”

“It’s just a stencil, Zelda. If you want to cut the wood with a ruler, go ahead, but now we have an idea of how much we need.”

“We need to redo that. It’s not accurate.”

“I’ve been doing this since before you were born. It’s accurate enough. I can eyeball it. Do you want to fix the fence today, or no?”

Zelda grabbed their tools off the table and sulked behind Dorian as he left without waiting for her answer.

There were some battles Zelda knew she had to lose to win the war. This was one of them,

The fence was a priority to keep out anything that might have been affected with Malice from entering Mabe Village. There were so few survivors as it was.

Before the Malice had invaded Hyrule, Zelda had thought that her student loans were the biggest problem she’d have to tackle. She’d thought the money she’d spent on an apartment outside Castle Town was worth it, despite being far from her family back in Akkala. She thought there was a bright future waiting for her behind the years she’d spent in academia, trapped behind computers writing term papers and researching and experimenting and playing by others’ rules with the dream of one day making her own.

Then, the Malice spread: a thick purple substance that oozed from a seemingly endless source; a vile smell that reeked of rotting food in a broken refrigerator, and a gaseous haze that followed that made it near impossible to breathe. Worse, it corrupted any who came into direct physical contact with it for too long, and most of those affected were now dead for one reason or another.

She remembered when her car stopped working on the highway as the purple smoke filled the air on that first day four years ago. She’d stayed inside the metal hull, watching in awed horror as it engulfed her in an endless stream of fog. She ducked down below the steering wheel and listened to the crashes of other cars on the road that didn’t manage to slow down before their sight was stolen by it all. The constant ring of a jammed horn had her blocking her ears after too long.

Three days in the car, officially parched and hungry, no one had come for her. No phones worked; no drivers dared leave their vehicles. But it had become too much, and Zelda decided it was worth risking a venture outside, even amidst the lingering smoke. Her tongue was dried out and every breath of air came out in a wheezing hiss. But she’d done it.

The haze had been unpleasant and burned her eyes a fair bit, but when she stumbled into a water cooler that had fallen from a shattered car’s backseat and chugged every drink inside, she found other survivors along the side of the highway doing the same, and they all stayed together until they could reach safety.

Enter Mabe Village, four years later.

Zelda and her group had scavenged on the side of the road for almost a full year before they’d found the refuge. It was safe from the crazed bokoblins who once lived peacefully in their own territories. It had walls to prevent any of the fast-but-grounded lizalfos from scaling over. And each creature came at them with a vengeance, each fueled by contact with the Malice.

For a while, Zelda was the only engineer who could fix the solar panel garden and keep the power running. She developed as many mechanical skills as she could, fixing tools and maintaining the plumbing. She even began to learn carpentry to keep the houses upright.

Then, Dorian came in: someone with far more experience than her to help lighten her load. She slept more with him around, and he was full of energy to work through the nights when Zelda couldn’t.

“Would your mom ever let you do this?” Dorian joked as they made it to the wall and set their tools down.

Zelda, now in her mid-twenties, hadn’t seen her mom in years, but she’d learned everything from her. She thought about the blonde woman with blue eyes who used to sneak Zelda dangerous tools when she was too young to comprehend the danger. The woman who had her daughter assist her with live wires because she needed a third hand. Zelda knew how to hold a soldering pen before holding a real one.

“No,” Zelda snorted, always careful about her mother’s carelessness. “She’d let me watch, but she’d definitely be too worried about my hands.”

“Always the hands,” Dorian repeated with a joking smile.

“Always the hands.”

The two set out to fix a gaping hole in their fence, and while Dorian took the outside, the barbed wire that was laid over the wood planks to discourage any creatures from ramming into it, Zelda took the wooden boards inside.

When they were all in place, Zelda examined some of the old wood, intrigued by a perfect set of bite marks.

“Dorian! Was this Ms. Maple’s dog who did all this damage?”

She turned it over in her hand and set it down with half a mind to stride right over to the only dog owner in Mabe Village, but when she heard silence from the other side of the fence, Zelda stopped herself.

“Dorian?” When it was still silent, Zelda turned and grabbed the closest tool she could reach: a screwdriver. She glanced down to see if there was anything better, but there was only her ruler, a hammer, nails, and a second flathead.

Looking behind her, she tucked the flathead into her belt and gripped the hammer as tightly as she could before heading around the gate to check on Dorian.

He wasn’t there.

There was barely a moment to think that something might have happened to him before she was face first in the grass with a heavy pressure holding her down.

Zelda tried to buck them off of her, but they were too heavy. There was a sound of metal scraping against something, and Zelda let out a muffled scream into the grass, still trying to free herself.

“No, wait! Wait!”

Zelda’s head whipped up and she saw a large group walking towards her, each dressed in red bodysuits with a strange mask concealing their faces. The voice though… the voice was…

“Dorian!” she screamed, trying to move again. “Get help!”

His face contorted, and he bent down in front of her, but his words were addressed to whoever was behind her. “She’s useful. She’s smart, handy, talented. We need her. And she’ll understand why we did this. She smart,” he said again, nodding to her.

The man behind her hesitated. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. Positive. I’ve seen her work. I know her.”

A chill shot down Zelda’s spine, and she felt herself tugged upwards until she was sitting on her knees, face-to-face with Dorian in his red suit and a white mask atop his grey hair.

“Fine. Bring her with us. Tie her up.”

“Don’t fight, Zelda. I promise, this is just a precaution.”

She couldn’t help her body from struggling a bit, and she watched Dorian slide his mask into place.

“What’s happening? What’s happening?” Her wrists were tugged hard behind her back, and the rope was frayed enough to cut into her skin a bit.

Dorian held out his hand, and Zelda, now bound, was handed off. “You’re with the Yiga Clan now.”

And with that, every other member of the group drew out their weapons and headed into Mabe Village while Dorian held Zelda still through her sobs for all the friends she’d never see again.

#legend of zelda #breath of the wild #botw au #modern au #post apocalyptic #link #zelda #zelink #whumptober #whumptober 2021 #whumptober2021 #no.1 #barbed wire #bound #whump #dorian #yiga clan #malice #writing

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boop-le-snoot · 4 years ago

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skin starving

tony stark x f!reader fluff. no warnings, just a few f-bombs. touch starved tony’s third person pov. words: 2,5k. no beta because i just really needed to get this off my chest.

recommended music to go with the story: two feet - 'love is a bitch' & 'quick musical doodles'. Or any lo-fi hip-hop radio really.

It started as an itch. At first, a small but bothersome thing, that kept him up at night, steering the already unreasonable hours of wakefulness into dangerous territory. The cold of his bed was unappealing and more often than not, he’d started passing out on the flat surfaces nearest to him: workshop, lab, common room couch, the lazy boy in Bruce’s apartment.

The team noticed, of course, they weren’t blind. They all had been on edge the first few months after Pepper left him. They expected him to act out, lock himself up in his lab or go back to his old habits of boozing and bringing home a different girl every night. And he had tried that, once or twice, but airheaded twenty-somethings weren’t appealing anymore. Most of the time their ass kissing and blatantly flattery annoyed him further into self-loathing abyss. He simply couldn’t step up to be the kind of man they described him to be - it seemed as if every woman on planet Earth had a whole list of expectations he specifically could not meet.

With Thor off planet, not one remaining person on the team was particularly touchy-feely. And that was the thing with Tony Stark: as an engineer, as a mechanic, he made his way through the world hands-first, every approach he had was hands-on. During late nights and early mornings, he laid in bed, sleepless and dreamless, desperately refusing to admit his own touch starvation.

Whenever Rogers threw an arm around his shoulders during a particularly successful team bonding activity, it took every ounce of willpower Tony had to not lean into it and purr like a cat. He hadn’t truly forgiven Steve for his cold, cruel words of criticism shortly after Pepper’s departing. He wasn’t going to chummy up to a man who thought him selfish, opportunistic and self-absorbed.

Tony became irritable and withdrawn. He simultaneously craved and avoided even the casual, friendlier attention his teammates gave him on a daily basis. His usual snark became that much more biting, having caused several people to storm out of team meetings.

On a cold autumn morning, Tony had found his way at the tower’s Starbucks on the employee floor. He had squeezed a generous five hours of restless sleep and he was sick of the plain black coffee in his kitchen. A spontaneous desire for something sweet and creamy and caffeinated led him to the place in line at the cafeteria, only a few early birds ahead of him.

Tony’s brain was hazy as it had been past few weeks, dull from the lack of rest and the hyperfixation of his own skin feeling alien to him. For once, he wasn’t typing away on his StarkPhone as he usually did to avoid being bothered; Tony stared straight ahead, unseeing, nothing but white noise in his usually racing brain.

Two women stood in front of him and he couldn’t help but overhear a part of their conversation.

“… Are you really horny or just lonely or touch-starved, though? I mean, Tinder? It’s not really your style.”

“Eh, I dunno. Probably the second but it’s not like men go on Tinder to find a cuddle buddy.”

“Well, maybe? I’ve heard about arrangements like that.”

“No offense, babe, but it’s probably kids in their early twenties. Those gen-z’s, babe, are weird. I’m not really up to date on all of that.”

The topic of the conversation was what piqued Tony’s interest; the world liked rubbing salt into his wounds and hysterically laugh at his misfortune. Bleary-eyed, he briefly scanned the two women: both appeared to be interns or junior techs in his company, evident by the purple employee badges hanging from their bags.

“So what are you going to do?” One woman asked the other as their turn to order took Tony one step closer to obtaining his desired caffeine.

“Unless someone normal magically appears with an offer of no-strings-attached, good ole’ snuggle fest, I guess I’m getting dicked down on Saturday,” The other replied with a teasing tone. The lack of excitement in the last part of the sentence was obvious.

“Gross,” The first one shook her head and hurriedly rattled off her order to the barista who looked about as disgruntled as Tony felt.

Hours and three coffees later, Tony’s overactive brain was still stuck on that woman from the cafeteria. Her back, her purse stuffed full of colorful manila folders, her neatly gathered hair - Tony Stark had nearly perfect memory and he remembered every single detail despite his brain fog. Objectively, she was attractive, no more no less than a different dozen of women he’d seen at any point in his life before. So why was he hung up on her?

It didn’t take him a long time to find her file, faster than he’d liked to admit. Manually sorting through hundreds of interns, lab technicians and various second-tier employees wasn’t exactly considered productive but with Pepper and her nagging out of the picture, Tony could afford to slack off a little bit.

So he found her name and her e-mail address, skimmed over her performance report with satisfaction, finding her to be a busy bee in the 90-th percentile. Her superiors considered her trustworthy, hard-working and communicative, all good traits.

Pepper’s absence meant he’d have no one to cover his ass should he get slapped with a harassment suit; however, he was the Tony Stark after all. He had more money that he’d cared to count and an army of lawyers at his disposal 24/7.

Amidst the jumbled mess of wires, circuit boards, tablets, empty coffee cups and the occasional piece of paper, Tony typed up an e-mail to the woman sharing his… Condition.

“I heard you and your friend talking at Starbucks. I could use a cuddle buddy. Wine and Netflix at my place? What’s your takeout preference?”

No. That came off way too creepy, like he was some kind of a dirty eavesdropper.

He contemplated some more, typing up and erasing multiple e-mails with various proposals: his penthouse, her place, a three Michelin star restaurant, a walk in the park. Almost all of it screamed ‘date’, like he’d drag her off to bed the very moment an opportunity wouldn’t present itself. It wasn’t so: Tony Stark, the playboy genius, had his dick firmly tucked into his pants. The thought of fucking her crossed his mind only briefly, quickly being chased away by the thought of her fingers running through his hair. Her warm, soft body in his arms. Just laying on his couch, eyes closed, reveling in each other’s arms.

Tony hit send on the least obnoxious option. He baited his breath, clicking his fingers in anticipation as the message showed itself to having been delivered.

“Mary, is this you trying to be funny? Stark is going to fire you if he finds out you’re impersonating him to stop your friend from going on a questionable date. Grow up.” Came the very prompt reply, ending with a short string of angry emojis. Tony could totally trust a person who used emojis unironically and generously.

“For the record, I wouldn’t be mad if somebody pretended to be me for the sake of saving their cute friend from a creep. The problem would be making it look credible.” Tony typed up the answer without thinking, quickly snapping a picture of himself holding the Starbucks cup with his name written on it, throwing his usual sloppy peace sign. He attached it to the email and hit send.

“WTF” Came the reply not a minute afterwards. He let it sink in, giving the woman some time to gather her wits. She did not disappoint. “Okay, even if we pretend this is real - which I doubt - what’s in it for you? If you heard our conversation, you surely know my stance on the matter.”

“I’m always glad to prove you wrong. I’m a genius - comes with the territory.” Tony simply couldn’t resist adding a generous dose of snark. “You’re welcome to meet me after clocking out. Use the private elevator, my AI will beam you up.”

The reply took a considerably long amount of time, seeing as previously, she typed back rather quickly. “Please don’t be a creepy rapist, Scotty. Fingers crossed.” Tony managed to almost break his stylus twice. His hands shook, and he had to tell himself to breathe - still, he laughed at the clever way she replied.

Several more hours later, during which Tony had nearly paced a hole through various floors on the residential side of the tower, he took a quick shower, dressed in a flattering but comfortable designer sweatpants and polo combo and made himself at home on the obscenely large living room sofa on his own, private penthouse floor.

He was up and running towards the elevator when Friday’s voice notified him of the woman entering the elevator on the employee floor. Tony tousled his hair, adjusted his glasses, fiddled with the drawstring of his pants.

The woman was wearing casual office wear, pants and a loose blouse, a lab coat loosely draped over her arm and her purse hanging off the shoulder on a thin strap. Her hair was loose now, a little frizzy as if she continuously ran her hands through it. Tony quietly rejoiced at not being the only nervous one.

Clever eyes scanned the room with unhurried interest before finally landing on him. “Not too shabby, if I say so myself,” The corners of her mouth tilted in an attempt at a smile, it was obvious she was studying him.

“Thanks, I try my best,” Tony smirked. Humble he was not. “So, how do you want to do this?”

“I see a comfortable couch,” She looked to be grateful for being given the opportunity to lead this interaction. “Let’s park our behinds on it, bicker for ten minutes about a movie choice and settle on one none of us really like. Then we can tell each other our no-no zones and, well, yeah,” She started out confidently. Probably practiced in the elevator. But towards the end, her shyness took over.

For Tony, it was kind of cute. A nice change from suck-ups that flocked him at every social gathering in hopes of getting something out of him. The woman that had tossed her bag carelessly on the far end of the couch and untucked her blouse looked and felt like the exact opposite of those people. She looked willing to give.

Tony sat next to her, keeping a couple of inches of free space between them. “Food preferences? Food allergies?” He asked, tapping the food delivery application.

“Nope, and I will eat just about anything.” He felt more than saw her side-eyeing him. Both of them were jittery. So uncharacteristic for Tony, to be blushing and stammering like a high school boy. Sex was easy, but intimacy? Complex. It was addictive and eventually, painful.

Movie decisions were surprisingly easy and she said so. They settled on a Tarantino classic, an old flick neither of them had watched in a long time. As the discussion progressed, Tony used his wits to find out more about her without making it seem like an interrogation. He had run a background check on the woman and her family but those only went that far, besides, it was a great opportunity to practice the tips Natasha had shared with him at one point or another. Being friends with spies had it’s perks.

They ate their food until their bellies were full. A comfortable, relaxing stupor, being warm from the inside out.

Tony noticed when the woman spoke, she spoke with her hands. She had caught herself grasping his forearm multiple times when they’d got more passionate about their discussion. And what Tony loved the most was that she refused to apologize. He saw a kindred soul in the woman; quiet until something struck her fancy. Then, she became a whirlwind of ideas and opinions.

In no time, it became a natural action to extend his arm and wrap it around her shoulders, reclining backwards. There was little grace in laying belly-up like a dead fish but the woman didn’t seem to mind. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she laid down sideways, throwing a leg over one of his own.

Her palm traced the outline of his arc reactor when something on the screen caught her in a moment of intense interest. Tony preferred to avoid the cursed thing - scars around it definitely did not do any favour to his aging, marked body - but he found himself exhaling the tension when it was obvious the woman really did not care. An occasional quiet hum of satisfaction was the only noise that came from her: he noticed the sound escaped her lips every time his thumb began fiddling with the sleeve of her blouse and rubbed against her arm.

He was quite content. It was warm, he was surrounded by so much warmth.

The hug was mutual when she left home, both of them comfortable with the gesture for people who had met in a rather unconventional way.

She started coming over a couple of times a week, a quiet evening of the best takeout in NYC and (mostly) interesting movies. A solace, always a single e-mail away.

Tony saw her in the cafeteria once or twice; he appreciated the brief, tiny secretive grin she gave him out of her friend’s eyesight. She never approached him. He was grateful for that. He didn’t want to deal with all the drama and all the fuss surrounding incidents between him and his employees. It was nobody’s business what any of them did after clocking out - and him and his cuddle buddy, they weren’t even fucking, for Thor’s sake.

Maybe they would get there someday. Or maybe they won’t. It was only now for Tony. The rare free Saturday night he had, he truly took a vacation from all the bullshit and lured her in with promises of very expensive wine, her favourite New York style pizza and the willingness to entertain watching a few of those funny YouTube videos she liked.

They did watch them and Tony didn’t mind. He stepped over the irrational fear and the initial discomfort and curled up around her, hiding his face in the soft cotton of her worn hoodie, his own breath tickling his face in warm puffs. The hand running through his hair was tender like it never was with Pepper - his ex was far too preoccupied to baby her grown-up boyfriend. But the woman moulded to his body like an extension of himself was happy to do so. Tony’s hair was longer now and it glided perfectly along the woman’s palms.

His heart was steady, thumping in his ears, overshadowing the noises coming from the TV. He exhaled and felt her other hand begin tracing circles on his back, as if she saw the stress and the bitterness leave his body with every caress, every brush of their bodies. Maybe she did?

He held onto her, held her back like she’d held him. Safekeeping the warmth inside of him. Guarding his peace.

#tony stark x reader #tony stark x y/n #tony stark fluff #tony stark feels #bun writes #bun writes: drabbles

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greenninjagal-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Deja Vu pt 5

Heyyy guys! whos ready for 24 pages of hurt and comfort and then plot? If you’re new around you can find the first chapter [here] and if you need a refresher, the previous chapter is [here]!

Summary: Remus can see the future. Sometimes too much. Dee is there to pick up the pieces.

Word Count: 10283

TW: mentions of suicide in detail, temporary character death, blood,

Read on Ao3 || My general Writing masterlist

Its three AM and there’s something wrong.

Its three AM and he’s standing on the balcony of a hotel in a city he doesn’t remember the name of and he hasn’t slept in a day and a half. His head hurts, and his throat is dry, and he’s having a hard time keeping his hands from shaking.

The air smells, like smog and like grime and earth and rain, like something so familiar and worldly that he should be grounded in it and not just floating over everything. Any yet here he is, floating, drifting, hovering and haunting and utterly untouchable by anything.

The sky is heavy and hard and dark, grumbling and threatening with its load so much so that one couldn’t tell where one cloud started and another ended. It was reminiscent of the gritty asphalt of a highway, of black snow piled on the sides of the roads, of endless piles of ashes.

There’s something wrong.

With him.

Its the fourth floor, and the balcony framed by a blackmetal fence. A few doors down another guest has left a flag up for some sports team and it flaps in a breeze that one wouldn’t be able to feel on his arms. Actually he can’t feel his arms at all anymore. He can’t feel anything, anymore.

Down below there’s nothing but a parking lot: concrete sidewalks and empty vehicles and a couple lamps that bring just enough light that phantom people don’t trip over the sidewalk on their drowsie attempts to get inside before the skies crack open again. Its quiet.

Too quiet, he thinks. Like the whole world was holding its breath.

Its makes the sounds of sirens and broken glass and a car alarm screech in his head. His fingers curl around the railing, stiff and cold and white knuckled. He feels….mechanical, with his joints frozen solid and his breath so even he forgets its there. Like his body isn’t his own even though its the only one he’s ever known, and someone else is holding the controls. He’s stuck.

But he’s not really. He knows he’s not. At any point he can make a choice.

He just hasn’t yet. He’s holding his breath along with the world, with the sky, with the night and the shadows and the future.

And because he’s holding his breath, he’s stuck here, seeing, watching, feeling, thinking, floating.

--He stays, and its as easy as breathing, as lonely as it is too. The air is cool, the rain starts in thirty minutes, chilling to the touch and turning his body to stone. There’s nothing to watch, but he does it anyway: stare into the emptiness around him and forget everything he’s ever been. Time drip, drip, drips away and the sky is still crying and Dee is too when he finds him for some reason.---

--He stays, and its as hard as breathing, as lonely as it is too. The air is cool and the rain starts in thirty minutes but by that time he’s sitting on the railing with his legs between the rungs waiting for a whisper to knock him off. Time drip, drip, drips away, and the sky is still crying by the time Dee breaks down the door to his room in a frantic desperate frenzy--

--He leaves, turns, heads back inside without a fuss. There’s a complimentary water bottle on the desk and the remains of Wendy’s frosty that he never finished thats an accurate representation of what his insides look like. It's funny going down his throat, like drinking warm swamp water and tasting each tadpole egg as it goes down his throat. It makes him want to laugh, makes him want to feel something, makes him so tired and he shuffles over to the Queen sized bed and face plants into the torn and shredded comforter. He doesn’t sleep, can’t sleep, won’t sleep and his headache makes him wish the comforter suffocated him.--

Its three am.

--He leaves, turns, goes without even stopping to grab his room keycard. His head is sudsy, fuzzy, buzzy and the complementary lights make his eyes ache in a way beyond being physical. He avoids tripping on the fourth step on the staircase. The air feels like static, like his thoughts, like everything and anything and nothing at all. There’s no one outside, not at this hour, not in this section of the city when the sky is so finicky like this. There’s a 24hour diner, and he knows its there because he and Dee ate there earlier and the music was shit but it was louder than his thoughts right?

“Uh,” The waiter says, when he shows up. “We have a no shoes-no shirt- no service policy?” Like its a question. And its funny in a way that makes everything around him feel like cotton. He didn’t even realize he wasn’t wearing shoes.--

--He leaves, turns, goes without even stopping to grab his room keycard. His head is sudsy, fuzzy, buzzy and the complementary lights make his eyes ache in a way beyond being physical. He avoids tripping on the fourth step on the staircase. The air feels like static, like his thoughts, like everything and anything and nothing at all. He walks in a direction, any direction, this direction, that direction until he’s as lost as he feels and the sky cracks open and drowns him--

Its Three AM.

--He goes, slowly, lethargically, but determined. He collects his things, his memories, his presence, and stuffs them back in his travel bag and zips it shut with more force than is necessary. Shoes, shirt, jacket, soap. His head is sudsy, fuzzy, buzzy and the complementary lights make his eyes ache in a way beyond being physical. He avoids tripping on the fourth step on the staircase. The air feels like static, like his thoughts, like everything and anything and nothing at all. He stops, stands, breathes like his lungs are on fire and he has so many regrets but nothing hurts more than when he thinks about how Dee is gonna hate him when he wakes up in a few hours and finds himself all alone again--

--He goes, quickly, chaotically, but reluctantly. He collects his things, his mistakes, his presence, and stuffs them in his bag zipping it closed. Shoes, shirt, key card. His head is sudsy, fuzzy, buzzy and the complementary lights make his eyes ache in a way beyond being physical. He stops outside the door across the hall and he’s just enough of an asshole to unball his jacket and gently hook it over the door handle for Dee to find in the morning and hate him for. The air feels like static, and its buzzes under his skin breaking through the numbness as he walks to that stupid 24 hour bus station and disappears forev--

--He goes, quickly, chaotically, but reluctantly. He collects his things, his mistakes, his presence, and stuffs them in his bag zipping it closed. Shoes, shirt, jacket, soap. His head is sudsy, fuzzy, buzzy and the complementary lights make his eyes ache in a way beyond being physical. He stops outside the door across the hall and before he knows what he’s doing his knuckles are rapping on the wood so hard, so loudly, so desperately that he can feel the shockwaves all the way to his elbow.

Dee opens the door, looking disgruntled and like he just woke up (he did, he has, he will) but not upset and really thats all he needs to see isn’t it? He doesn’t really think because the second that the door is open far enough, he’s launching himself into Dee’s arms and they both stumble backwards into the room. Dee should tell him to get lost because its too early to be anything other than insane but he doesn’t and then his lips are colliding with any part of Dee he can get to and--

ITS THREE AM.

--He throws his head back and scREAMS. As loudly as he can, as long as he can, as much as he can until he can’t breathe, until the silence of the morning shatters like the glass facade it is, until the echoes of his voice are ringing in his ears and he can’t possibly hope to hear anything else. Until the lights of the surrounding buildings flicker on and the other visitors are frantically looking out to find the source and the banging on his door matches timing with the pounding in his own brain. He screams until he can’t anymore because he’s too busy laughing.--

--The TV is on and then its not because his fist is going through the screen in a mess of blood and knuckles and laughter--

--His bag is in his hands and then its not because he’s throwing it over the railing to see if it sets off the car alarms when it smashes the windshield of the car on the street.--

--He’s on the railing, balancing like a tightrope walker and then he’s not because he bent his knees and jum--

Its strange, He thinks, watching his crumpled body dent the front of an SUV and feeling each shard of the windshield going through his spine and flesh and setting off all the fun dazzling alarms that can be set off.

Its strange because this is not the first time he’s seen his life snuffed out. Its not even the hundredth time. Tonight alone he’s seen his body go into a freefall at least three hundred times.

Its strange, he thinks, its weird. Its three AM and there’s something wrong with him.

It takes a whole minute for the receptionist running the front desk to come running out of the building because she hadn’t been looking and the car alarm was the first thing that warned her anything was wrong. It takes thirty seconds for someone else to react to her screaming. Another minute for someone to open out their doors and come running to her aid. At three minutes, there’s a man standing over his body, yelling.

Then the vision cuts off because he can only see three minutes after his death and not a millisecond more.

He’s stuck watching again and again.

A million possible futures, a billion different endings, a trillion things that could be tweaked ever-so-slightly that change the outcomes, and he can see them all. It doesn’t make sense-- shouldn’t if he thinks too much about it. Because time should be passing while he stands here watching his death, but instead the whole world halts while he flickers in and out of reality and he can’t-- won’t-- isn’t--

There’s no what ifs. There’s the facts: this will happen when he jumps, when he falls, when he dies, when he goes back to bed, when he runs away.

Something warm hits his hand, practically igniting his whole arm. Suddenly he snaps out of the loop, blinking three times and the world returns to him as the present moment. He blinks slowly looking down at his hand where the shadow of a dark liquid is splattered just below his index finger knuckle, rolling over the side of his hand, and pooling on the flat of the railing he was gripping. Laughter rumbles in his chest, crawling up his throat like a hundred beetles trying to find their ways out by any means possible.

His legs buckle and his knees hit the concrete at the same time his giggles start exploding between his lips into the silent morning. He clings to the railing and presses his forehead into the slim bars, as his chest heaves for oxygen that doesn’t quite taste right. He gulps in so much he can’t imagine why he feels lightheaded, his mouth tastes like blood, and his palms itch where the cold metal is cutting to the flesh.

He’s twenty one, richer than he ever dreamed of being, and there is something wrong with him.

Why is there something wrong with him?

Dee doesn’t have this problem. Dee changes into other people, animals, hybrids all the time; how come he doesn’t get stuck? Why doesn’t he wander around with a head full of golden curls and horns? Why don’t his legs morph into a fishtail without warning sometimes? Why doesn’t Dee wake up in a fit because he can't remember who he is or who he’s pretending to be?

Why is he the only one who can’t get a grip on himself as he floats in the air like the coming rain and then goes crashing to the street below again and again and again?

Why can’t--

Why--

Why is there always blood trailing down his face? Why does his head hurt so much and why does his mouth taste so bad? Why is he stuck staring at the congealed blobs on the concrete underneath him and why does he feel so numb about it? Why can’t he just--

-- The windshield shatters underneath him, his head slams against the roof, so hard everything bends and breaks and his soul is forcibly ejected from his body and that alarm screeches into the sky and the girl at the front desk comes running out, screams, and then the guy is over him, yelling nonsense and climbing on the hood with him, reaching out, fingers pressing against his non existent pul--

Its so annoying. He knows it's annoying. He’s annoying.

His skin prickles and itches with phantom glass shards. And his eyes ache and burn in a way that makes them water and screw themselves closed. And his head pounds and drums to a rock concert that outplays the thunder overhead.

He’s stuck, on the fourth floor balcony, with his forehead pressed to the railing, with his mind floating in the nothingness, the everythingness, the possibilities and the emptiness. He’s lost, losing himself, free falling and smashing into the hood of the car again.

And its three AM still, forever and never and he wants it to stop being three AM and wants to stop feeling his spine snap like a toothpick.

But that means he has to move and change things and make a decision.

And he shouldn’t be scared of this, shouldn’t be worried, shouldn’t want to cry just because he needs to make a choice. Everyone makes choices, everyday, without even thinking about what they could be affecting. Who they could be affecting.

And most of the time those choices don’t mean anything at all. What kind of cereal do you want to eat? What music do you listen to? How many alarms do you sleep through? In the end it doesn’t matter. How can it?

Everyone dies after all.

-- car alarm screeches into the air, stealing all the peace and quiet and the isolation from the night. The girl at the front desk comes running out, tripping over the curb when she sees exactly what landed on the hood of the car and her scream is so fucking funny he wants to laugh but he twisted a little in the air and now there’s glass shards cutting open his lungs and filling them with blood and his vision is all blurry, cutting out faster than before, but slower than that time he fell purposely head first and isn’t it weird how he calls it “falling” as if he didn’t bend at the knee and--

Everyone dies.

So why does he still care so much? Why does it still hurt to think about Silver Sedans and why cant he glance at snow globes without remembering how easy they are to swing down on someone’s unsuspecting skull? Why does he still think about doctors and therapy and wonder why it hadn't worked before?

Everyone dies.

And yet he cant breathe when he thinks about casino cash boxes in the middle of crowds, about jewelry store doors being blown open, about children who think "super power" and "can do no wrong" are synonymous. He cant breathe when he thinks about all the meanings of the term "suddenly", about how quick and fast things can happen, about how differently things could have gone.

Did it make a difference?

Was it the right one?

Or was it supposed to be that Roman, for all his liveliness, for all his popularity, for all his basking in attention and the terrible life lessons he had taken upon himself to teach his brother-- was it supposed to be that Roman should have died 13 years ago to a reckless teenage driver in a silver sedan? That Dee should have died several endless months ago stealing a cash box he couldn't have kept? That one day soon a man named Logan will find his life suddenly stolen by a misstep on a rainy afternoon?

Was he supposed to be changing things? Or was he supposed to have merely watched, observed, accepted?

What if there were choices and because he made the wrong ones, he is falling, falling, falling, splat, now?

Everyone dies.

-- girl at the front desk comes running out, tripping over the curb when she sees exactly what landed on the hood of the car and her scream is so fucking funny he wants to laugh but he twisted a little in the air and now there’s glass shards cutting open his lungs and filling them with blood and his vision is all blurry--

Is this how he's supposed to go?

Its Three AM and time doesn’t move but somehow he finds himself lying on the balcony twisted up in knots and drooling blood from the back of his itchy, burning throat. He’s on the cement balcony; he’s on the hood of a car. His fingers are wrapped around the railing like he thought it could anchor him in the middle of a hurricane; His arm is twisted and broken up in seven different ways and there are shards of glass in his shoulder cutting off the nerves. Its raining soft and sweet and gentle; he’s crying because this is not how he wants to go, please don’t make him go like this, he doesn’t want to leave--

He’s alive and breathing through undamaged lungs; He’s dead and Roman is twelve minutes older than him because his vision is black and the front desk girl is screaming again.

The thunder rumbles. He feels it in the air when every molecule in Earth's atmosphere vibrates and in the ground when every raindrop splatters into nothingness. He can feel the rain pouring over his body, plastering his thin shirt to his heavy limbs, caressing his face to the point where he can't tell the difference between it and the from blood in his hair--

--twisted a little in the air and now there’s glass shards cutting open his lungs and filling them with blood and his vision is all blurry, cutting out faster--

He's on the ground splayed out like a massacre. A hot mess, except he's so cold and empty and everything hurts.

When was the last time he slept?

His head aches, his eyes feel so heavy, and there’s something twisting in his chest: something wriggling and heavy that’s not the glass tearing through his muscles, but just as real as it. He thinks it's terror. But how can he be scared when this is what's supposed to be happening?

Unless it's not. In that case he should be more than just a little scared. He should be frightened, horrified, aghast. His limbs shouldn’t feel like lead weights dragging him down because there should be adrenaline, right? He should be so desperate to change this fate that he launches himself--

--the guy is over him, yelling nonsense and climbing on the hood with him, reaching out, fingers pressing against his non existent pulse and he almost wants to curl into the touch but he’s dead and his vision is black and there’s nothing left--

--back into the hotel room, tripping over the sliding door base and stumbling his way into the carpet. He should be so full of nerves and that his hands are shaking, that he can’t imagine being alone, that he throws himself out the door and across the hall to the safety that is Dee’s always welcoming arms.

Because Dee is safe. And warm. And Dee’s….Dee’s…

They’ve been running around for months now, amassing a fortune larger than they can just carry around, enough to buy the moon from the sky if they wanted it, enough for them to not need to have two separate rooms at all.

But if they share a room, he knows what will happen. What should happen. He knows the only reason Dee doesn’t know about everything, about his hatred of the color red, about why he won’t get near a silver sedan, about why he needed to make that phone call just to hear that his mother had completely forgotten him again-- the only reason why Dee doesn’t know is because he hasn’t asked yet.

Is it a mercy? Or a threat?

Can it be both?

Is it supposed to be both?

He can’t keep a secret. Not for the life --cutting open his lungs and filling th-- the life of him. Not from Dee. Because he’s seen a billion deaths that could have happened, he’s seen a hundred different realities and drowned in all of them.

Because he’s tasted asphalt under the tires of cars on a highway, felt the wind caress him off the top of skyscrapers, fallen asleep in a bathtub of blood in a hotel room. Because he’d died so many times before he ever reached Twenty One and no one cared.

But suddenly Dee had shown up and he kisses like he knows time is limited here on this Earth, in a way that he’s never been able to convince anyone else. Not Roman who sang and danced to everyone else’s tune, not his mother who tried to fix him and then forgot him when that got too improbable, not his dad who stayed silent when he should have been anything else, not the kids at school, not his teachers, not his doctors.

Dee had shown up believing in him and that meant something. He didn’t want it to mean nothing in the end. He didn’t want it to end.

Not like this.

Please, not like this. Please, please, please, pleasepleaseplease--

“REMUS!”

Its not Three AM but Remus is staring at the pouring rain in the sky wondering what the fucking hell just happened to him.

He’s wet and not in a fun way. His head rings. The air is lighter, the morning later, and his limbs are trembling from being outside in the middle of a fucking thunderstorm. His clothes stick to him like a second skin, and Remus does not like the implications of that at all.

He blinks, once, twice, thrice, and his lungs struggle to gain anything worth keeping. Everything in him is screaming for his attention, making him writhe with the sudden influx of stimuli. His fingers and toes are freezing, his stomach is aching, his head pounds and his thoughts feel like the inside of his brain is coated with molasses or some shit that makes him so slow to register anything around him.

The touch is burning. Remus at once needs it like he needs oxygen and needs it gone because its boiling him alive from the inside out. He wants to scream, but the most he can get is a pathetic little whimper.

“Remus, what the fuck,” Dee says so unelquently that Remus is pretty sure he’s crying.

That makes two of them.

“I don’t--” Remus clings to Dee, because he’s real and solid, and Remus’s throat is coated in blood from a swan dive he didn’t take. “I don’t, I don’t, please--”

The balcony is slick with blood and rain, mixing so freely Remus has a hard time looking at it. Dee helps him move, slowly, because everything makes him dizzy. Water pours off pockets on his body, and drags the dredges of his insides over the edge and on to the car below. Remus flinches with each drop, each splash, each splatter.

Remus wants to laugh. He cries instead.

“I’ve got you,” Dee says. “I’ve got you, darling.”

Remus almost wonders who he’s talking to. Darling? Him? Isn’t there someone else Dee should be calling that? Someone softer, someone kinder, someone who isn’t covered in their own blood and getting snot on his clean vest? Someone who doesn’t hold himself at a distance and play pretend that he’s okay like he’s still eight years old and hasn’t picked up that stupid red rubber ball yet?

“Remus,” Dee says, and it takes him a moment to focus on the way that Dee is in front of him, a hand gently cupping his chin and sending shivers all through his frantic body. They’re so close and Remus is sobbing and Dee is still here.

“I don’t need you,” Roman had said four years ago and then again every time Remus had closed his eyes since. Roman had been his tether, his anchor, his goal and his reason to do just about anything. Because that was what brothers were for, right? He had done everything he could to see his brother smile, to see Roman feel loved, to see Roman live unafraid of dying.

But when Remus was floating alone in the nothingness, the emptiness, the everythingness, Dee was the one who had shown up. Why was it that a stranger he met by chance at a casino wanted him there more than his own brother? Why was Remus covered in blood and crying and one swan dive from becoming an actual hot mess and Dee was still here, holding him, calling him darling, and speaking to him so softly?

“The one thing I want…is for us to stick together.” Dee had said several hundred billion futures ago.

Dee is right there and Remus can see the stars in his eyes, those soft, worried blue grey eyes that are uniquely his right along with the tears trailing down his face. Dee is right there and his hair is swept to the side, utterly mused from its the slicked back look that Dee likes. Dee is right there.

And Remus’s lips are on his.

Remus feels like he’s back in that IHOP from forever ago, feels like he’s bending over a table and just put Dee’s hand in syrup for funsies, feels like the clueless waitress is about to run over to them and command that they stop. He feels like he never punched Dee in the face for having feelings, feels like there was never a kid in that mall, feels like he didn’t drive for ten hours just to get away from himself.

Dee kisses like he needs the control. Remus kisses like every second is going to be his last.

Because everyone dies at some point and Remus is not the kind of person people stick around with. Because at any moment he might lose everything. Because the universe and the deities he doesn’t believe in are not nice. Because Remus, of all the people in the entire world, is aware of how short a second can be.

Dee pulls back with a pant, his pupils are blown wide, like a fucking cat. His fangs tease from between his lips, dripping with a smear of blood that’s probably Remus’s.

“I can’t tell if it's the blood loss or if you’re serious,” Dee says in that nauseating smart tone of his, “But can we put a pin in this?”

“Fuck you,” Remus says, because he can’t really think of anything else to say to him when he looks like that, when Remus’s chest hurts, when he’s so tired he thinks standing might kill him, when he’s so cold and Dee’s lips are a fire that he wants to ignite the rest of his body.

“Clothes off first,” Dee says somehow breathless and with more oxygen than Remus thinks he can ever get into his lungs. He can feel his fingers, twisting and pulling at the edge of Remus’s soaked shirt, dragging it up and over Remus’s head without any help from him at all.

Remus leans forward before the curve of the collar can stop him and chases after Dee’s warm lips.

“Rem--fuck, fuck, Remus!” Dee says again, and its the softest way anyone has ever said his name before. “Remus, we have to get you into dry clothes--” But then Dee is the one pushing his lips into Remus’s so what does it matter?

Water drips from Remus’s bangs into his eyes, and blood makes his mouth taste like metal and whatever the fuck it was that he ate last. Dee tugs at his shirt again and it finally comes off of him. Without any ceremony it goes flying behind them, somewhere in the room, and the resounding splat makes Remus flinch.

Dee hoists him up from under his arms, holding him when Remus ragdolls completely and stars blur his vision entirely. Remus digs his chin into Dee’s shoulder (he’s taller again; taller and stronger and carries Remus without real problems). Remus should feel bad, probably, because he’s soaked to the bone and now Dee is too, but all he feels is tired. A flicker of pain dances in his awareness, his arm whimpering from cuts Dee gave him at the rest stop. Its gone before he even recognizes what it is fully.

“Your internal temperature,” Dee breathes, placing Remus down, and oh this is familiar. A bathtub. Remus has been in a tons of those before taking keys, scissors, his own nails to his own w-- “is a fucking ice cube.”

Dee’s hands are trailing on his shoulders, on his collarbone, up his neck and cupping his cheeks. He’s so warm, and his touches paint Remus in invisible blisters, like Dee is turning his body into an arsonist’s memorial. He’s a pyre and Dee is the torch come to turn him to ash.

The water is a surprise. The rumbling of the hotel pipes sounds like thunder and Remus tries really, really hard not to let his stomach swoop with the dizziness the pounding in his head makes. Dee is talking to him, Remus thinks. But the words sound so much more prettier when he can’t understand them.

Dee has a really nice voice. Remus likes it, likes him. He likes the way it sounds talking french even when Dee is drunk off his ass, he likes the way it makes shapes and moves when he’s speaking, he likes the way the words always seem so genuine even when they aren’t, won’t, can’t be.

Remus feels his head tip back and his eyes follow the way that Dee’s lips form that perfect circle and maybe that’s a bad thing, but he can feel all his limbs tingling from warmth for the first time in fifty billion Three AMs that didn’t happen.

He is scared, but Dee is still here.

He lets his eyes close and sleeps and trusts that Dee not is go ing to b e lik e ev er y ot her pe rson tha t Re mu s ha s e v e r m e t

H e c o me s to w ith hi s he ad fe eling heav y as s hit a nd his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Remus is warm, and its the type of warmth that he hadn't remembered he’d forgotten: the type that reaches all the way down to his toes, to the tips of his fingers, that winds its way around his limbs and cocoons him in an embrace that makes him want to stay there forever. He’s warm and safe and its all he’s ever wanted.

“--strikes again! It seems that wherever malcontent is stewing, the Prince shows up to stop it. This week alone he’s been all up and down the East Coast. Crime rates in nearly seven states have gone down 8% over this past month.”

Remus blinks his eyes open, with far more effort than he probably should need. He feels tired, in a way that's ingrained deep in his bones, carved into the marrow with a switchblade and decorated with flesh that's only there for show and not for use.

“I hear you, John. At the press conference held by the Department of Defense earlier today, Princeps--”

“See, Is it Princeps or Prince? I’ve heard it both ways recently.”

Remus is in a bed and he’s under the covers, tucked in with a care Remus doesn’t think he’s been given since that day he first saw Roman die and his mother didn’t know why he was crying yet. The ceiling looks like popcorn kernels, and he has a lucid memory of sharing a bag of popcorn with Dee and tasting the salt and butter and feeling his teeth break on the unexpected seeds.

“I think it was Princeps. Although Prince certainly has a much better ring to it. Brings back the chivalry, doesn’t it, Ladies? If he keeps this up I’m gonna start expecting more from the men around me-- that means you too, John! Coffee on Tuesdays isn’t going to be enough.”

“Oh good god Karen! You sound like my wife. Pretty soon us normal guys aren’t gonna be able to begin to compete with the World’s First Real Superhero.”

“Oh Fuck that noise,” Dee says, followed by a thump of something hitting the ground across the room.

It takes much more energy than Remus thinks it should but he manages to leverage himself just a bit: folds his arms to his sides and presses his elbows into the quicksand mattress and with a grunt he pushes his limp upper body into the air. For a wonderful split second, he stays upright, breathing fine and taking in the sight of Dee sitting casually at the foot of the bed, legs crossed and one of his dress shoes in his lap with a buffing brush in his hand.

Dee spins at the noise, dropping his brush and tossing his other shoe into the void around them. “Remus!” He’s around the bed in the next instant, gently catching Remus’s shoulders and laying him back on the mattress. “You’re awake-- I didn’t-- Are you-- wait no fuck…”

His touch is fire, even through the T-shirt Remus is in, which, he realizes in a cotton stuffed thought process, doesn’t smell like his own. There’s the distinct smell of fresh ink, of shoe polish and dried linen and of something that he hasn’t ever been able to put a name too other than “Dee”. He’s wearing Dee’s clothes, lying in Dee’s bed, wrapped up in Dee’s blankets and Dee is standing over him fretting like a mother hen.

Its almost funny considering that Remus can’t remember if his own mother had ever done that for him.

Remus wonders what it would take to get Dee to lie down next to him and sleep too.

He blinks and when he opens his eyes again Dee is kneeling next to him and urging an open bottle of water to his lips. Remus takes it like a drowning man takes in air. Its cool, almost cold, even though logically Remus knows its just room temperature and it feels so fucking good going down his throat and taking away the bad taste in his mouth.

Its like metal and Remus tried very super hard not to imagine the finger’s propping his neck up as shards of a windshield slicing through his medulla. His tongue pries off the roof of his mouth he nearly chokes on the small sip he gets.

Dee pulls the water away but he stays and Remus thinks that three inches has never been so far away before in his life. Dee’s breath is warm, a tickle against his cheek, a caress that for some stupid reason makes him want to cry.

Isn’t he out of tears yet?

“Hey,” Dee says, barely more than a whisper, as if he’s afraid talking too loud will shatter this reality. Remus kinda wishes he’d forgo all the talking and just go back to kissing him; his thoughts are fuzzy but Remus is certain there’s at least one place that Dee missed on his neck.

“He…” Remus swallows, “hey.”

“You alright?” Dee says possibly softer than before. It almost doesn’t suit him at all. Remus has known him for months now, known every inch of his personality, every scale on his face, every breath from his lungs. Remus has seen him live and laugh and love and lie and its all been loud and proud. He’s not soft and he’s not kind and Remus loves that about him.

Soft and kind people are forgettable; Dee is not.

“I’m…” Remus’s mouth is too full of words to actually say anything at all. His chest aches when he inhales, and “Kiss me again?”

There’s three inches between them, two, one, and Remus’s lips touch against his so softly he almost thinks it is a dream. Light as a feather, careful, and simple, like he’s asking a question and waiting for Remus to say “no”. For a greedy as he is-- and yes Remus knows Dee’s greedy, knows that when money is involved his appetite for it grows tenfold, knows that they could have all the luxuries in the world and Dee would still want something more, knows that “satisfied” is not a word in any dictionary Dee has-- for as greedy as Dee is, the way he kisses here, now, in this instant, is like he won’t fight if it gets taken from him.

(Which is as stupid as it is ridiculous. When was the last Remus had denied him something he wanted?)

“Like this?” Dee breathes into his mouth, “Kiss you like this?”

This is different, this is new, this is strange, Remus thinks. Because this is not like any future he’s ever seen. Not like bending over an IHOP table, not like knocking on Dee’s door in the middle of the night, not like winding his fingers around Dee’s suit lapels or his tie or his waist and dragging him closer.

Its warmer, burning through him like he’s made of gasoline and even the smallest touch of their lips is enough to make Remus combust. Dee doesn’t bite, although Remus knows he can, and usually does, but takes all that Remus will give him.

“Ye-yes,” Remus pants, “please--”

Dee smiles at him, a wisp of his brown hair floating down over his misty eyes. He looks like an angel, ethereal and untouchable. Remus is so busy being in awe of the way he looks that he completely misses the flash of movement in his peripherals until the pillow is actively coming down on him.

“Fucking!” Dee snarls, slamming it down on his face again and again, “Dumbass! What the hell were you thinking?!”

“Ow! Owowowow!” Remus yelps in between being smothered. Is it bad he kinda likes it? “Sorry!”

Dee slaps the pillow on his head one more time and then sits back on his haunches. He pants a couple times, because he’s a prissy rich white boy who’s never worked out before now, and then massages his temples.

“Goddamned idiot,” Dee huffs, “What the hell was that? You didn’t answer your door and so I shifted my way in and you just fucking... you were... I thought...”

Remus watched him breathe, watched him shudder and shake and stare down at the carpet like it held more answers than Remus’s face.

“Dee--”

“I know what we said, okay?” Dee spits out, “I know that we made that agreement about no feelings or shit but I lied okay! I can’t do this without having emotions. I look at you and I just… I don’t want to ever see you hurt. I’ve been looking up medical references on how to handle the nosebleeds and I’ve been trying to get you to eat foods to thicken your blood just a bit because god knows you don’t eat enough broccoli as it is--”

“Dee.”

“--and I was trying to figure out how to say something because I’ve known something has been up for so long now and I should have said something sooner-”

“Dee.”

“--but then you were just about out of your mind all that day and you took the keys and drove us and I was afraid if I said something you were gonna leave me behind and I think if I lose you I’m not gonna… I’m not gonna…”

“Dee!” Remus says and the shapeshifter finally looks up at him. His eyes are red rimmed, and his face is pinched like he’s trying still trying to hold back a word hurricane and it’s tearing him up inside.

“I’m sorry,” Dee says, with a quivering lip. “I’m sorry, I’m sorrysorrysorr--”

Remus wants to launch himself off the bed and steal the syllables from Dee’s mouth. He manages to flop over, and hang himself off the edge of the bed, dangerously close to falling right into Dee’s lap.

“Why are you apologizing?”

Dee stares at him, like he’s from another world, like he’s not real, like he’s another piece of a future that isn’t going to happen and Remus wonders why this one feels more fake than any other future he’s ever lived through.

“That’s super not like you,” Remus says, talking like there isn’t a lump the size of a boulder in his throat, talking and hoping his words aren’t gonna be the thing that scares Dee away finally, talking without thinking, “But if you really want to make it up to me, you can get back up here and kiss me again. Maybe something saucier if you--”

Dee hits him with the pillow again, and he tumbles off the bed right into Dee’s lap, bruising where his head collides with a knee and his neck does something not-good.

And then… well then Remus is staring up at Dee and whatever else he could possibly say wanders off somewhere in his mind, leaving only a painful silence in their wake: a sizeable gap, a puzzle piece hole where something should be but there isn’t and it pretty much ruins the whole picture now, doesn’t it?

“Tell me something, Re,” Dee says and Remus thinks that he should have said something, anything, everything, anyway.

Whatever it would have taken to get away from this, to put it off, to push it away until they both forgot about it and things wouldn’t have to change. He doesn’t want things to change, doesn’t want Dee to look at him and expect something different because if he does Remus will and then he’ll slip up one day and Dee will realize how much better off he could be and then Remus will be alone.

And he was alone for four years and he doesn’t want to do that again. Not now. Not ever.

He doesn’t think he can. The idea of driving without having to fight over the radio station, of having to talk to the hotel receptionists himself or sleep in his car again, of turning with one of his hilarious comments only to find an empty space next to him? It makes his stomach rebel to consider.

Out of all the people in the world he knows how lonely being alone can be.

“How long?” Dee says, “How long were you out there?”

For a moment Remus thinks about lying. Of saying just a few minutes, thirty tops, don’t look at me like that. Of pretending, of doing that make believe-- but then he remembers how much lying is like acting and how much he hates being a performer.

“Since… three am.” Remus says and the honesty burns his tongue, “And I couldn’t…I couldn’t move. I was stuck.”

Dee’s grip on him tightens, which is frankly startling because Remus hadn’t even realized Dee was holding him. There’s an audible swallow, a gulp, that’s nearly a whimper and Remus doesn’t know which of them make it.

“Th-three,” Dee echoes, lips shaking so much that Remus sees double and wonders if he could kiss that shake away. “W-what do you mean you were stuck?”

Remus blinks away the cold feeling of rain pouring over his body, of gravity dragging his core downwards, of his neck snapping to the side, of a receptionist screaming and car alarms turning his thoughts to mush.

“Like… like just physically stuck, Remus?” Dee asks, “Like you fell and hurt yourself and couldn’t get up?”

He sounds so hopeful about it that Remus wants to lie again.

He grinds his molars together and shakes his head instead. There’s blood in the back of his throat. Why does the truth always end with blood? On a snowglobe shattered on Roman’s head, on the gravel after it drips from Dee’s nose, in the back of Remus’s throat right here, right now.

“Stuck,” Remus says, “as in I couldn’t get out of the future.”

Dee breathes slow, hard, painfully. “Th-that can happen?”

Its not like Dee to be scared. It makes Remus feel less stupid for hiding it for so long. He doesn’t trust himself not to start unravelling at his seams if he opens his mouth again so he just wiggles his shoulders.

Dee exhales every atom in his lungs, Remus breathes them all in. The silence is awful, but its better than words.

“Has it...have I made…” Dee says, which is bad.

“No,” Remus says, so tired, so exhausted, “No, Dee. You didn’t make me do anything, okay? Don’t think that. I look because I want to. And when I get stuck its my fault--”

“What causes you to get stuck?”

Remus’s mouth closes with a click. His eyelids ache, heavy and itchy but his arms are way too cumbersome to even think about rubbing them.

“I don’t…” Remus says and stops, because he does know. He spent all morning thinking about it, spent eleven billion trillion freefalls thinking about it, spent a thunderstorm and an unconsciousness thinking about it. What causes him to get stuck?

What makes the visions repeat, the future to become repetitive? What makes living feel like deja vu?

“Whats the smallest animal you’ve ever turned into?” Remus asks, “Like an ant? A worm, maybe a spider?”

Dee crinkles his nose at the mention of spiders. “An African Egg Eating snake. I used to ride in the pocket of….nevermind. Why are you asking?”

(Its the first time Dee has ever brought up the insinuation that someone else knows about his power. Remus doesn’t know what to think about that so he doesn’t.)

“When you were that small, did you ever…were you ever afraid? Of being crushed?”

“You get stuck in the future because you’re afraid of it?” There’s no judgement in his voice, just desperate curiosity and a need to understand why Remus is so fucking suicidal.

“That’s not an answer,” Remus points out, but it falls flat when Dee just stares at him. “No. Or yes. Maybe? Do you know how many possibilities there are in the universe? How many things are impacted from just one decision? The Butterfly Effect-- you know that right?”

Dee’s eyebrows furrow, “You mean from the concept of time travel? Where if you go back in time and kill a butterfly you can start a chain reaction of events that drastically alter the future and prevent yourself from ever being born?”

“Yes!” Remus says, “Exactly. Except think about if Every. Single. Object. Is a Butterfly. Your clothes are a butterfly, your shoes are a butterfly, what cereal you eat in the morning is a butterfly, the music you listen to, what bus you take, if you make eye contact with a stranger, if you smile-- They’re all fucking butterflies.”

Dee’s not following. Its cute how he tries to pretend like he is.

Remus swallows and tries again, “You wear a suit most days, right? Say we’re out in public and you wear a suit and so as we’re walking everyone moves out of the way for you, cause like… youve got money. One of the guys who moves out of the way isn’t watching where he’s moving and he bumps into a woman with a baby waiting at a crosswalk. She’s off balance so she falls into the road and oh no a bus is coming! Splat! No more woman or baby all because you wore a suit. And the bus driver gets fired and the media paints him as a devil so he can’t get rehired and really thats just the last straw since his wife died of lung disease last week so he gets a belt and bye bye. Guess what his son sees when he stops by for a visit the next day? Everyone loves free trauma--”

“Remus,” Dee says, “You need to breathe.”

Remus gasps in all the air in the entire world and its still not enough to calm him down. Its not enough and Remus doesn’t think it will ever be enough. He’s shaking right there in Dee’s arms and he’s begging for air that his lungs refuse to hold.

“There are so many,” Remus wheezes, “So many, Dee. And people die all the fucking time in them.”

“Shhh,” Dee murmurs but Remus can’t get himself to stop.

“Everyone dies and I can’t-- I don’t-- If I don’t stop it isn’t it my fault? If I do stop it, is that what I’m supposed to do? I was standing there and I could see everything and I felt so wrong doing it. What if next time I’m not fast enough? What if something like the mall happens again? What if I can’t save you in time and I’m left staring at your corpse knowing I could have?”

Dee smells like shoe polish and dried ink. His heartbeat feels like a drum beat, pounding louder than Remus’s thoughts when the shapeshifter yanks him up and into a hug that Remus can’t possibly hope to return. He doesn’t realize he’s crying again until the side of his face is pressed into Dee’s chest and he’s breathing in the scents and hearing that heartbeat.

Dee’s hands rub fiery circles on his back and he’s rocking them gently, like Remus is an unruly newborn who doesn’t know a thing about mortality yet.

“Shh,” Dee whispers, “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Remus feels like he’s falling again even though he’s safely in Dee’s arms. The ground is coming isn’t it? And if he opens his eyes it will be there and Remus will go splat and there will be no more do-overs.

The possibilities are so big, so large, so many. And everything has an impact. Cause and Effect and everyone ends up dead in the end. Roman and a silver sedan, Dee riddled with a bunch of bullet holes, Logan and a cracked head in an unlabeled open manhole-- it could happen at any moment, every moment, this moment.

Remus’s visions are so large and he’s so small and every time he makes a choice it feels a bit like he’s setting this life up for a tragedy. It wouldn’t take much for the comic forces in the universe to crush him like an ant, or a worm or a spider or an African egg eating snake.

“We’re okay,” Dee says, wiping away a tear from Remus’s eyes. “We’re going to be okay, Remus.”

He talks like he’s the one with the ability to see the future. Or that he’s going to fight every god there is until they are. And there’s a part of Remus that believes him.

It sounds like a promise, like a challenge, like Dee is waiting for Remus to ask him how he knows and Remus doesn’t have the guts to actually do it. Always a coward. After all, when things get bad, Remus runs, doesn’t he? Away from home, out of the car, into his mind.

The room around them turns golden and orange and then purple and grey and Dee makes no movement to change where they are curled up on the floor of a hotel room. The carpet is hell but Dee keeps rocking them and hums until Remus’s tears dry up and he himself forgets how to push air out his nose.

Somehow throughout all of this the TV is still on, playing the news or a rerun of the news from earlier, but it feels muted from the world: something in the background, something not real, something that can’t ever touch them.

“Do you feel better now?” Dee asks softly.

Remus groans, “headache.”

Dee nods absently. He presses a kiss to Remus' forehead, “I have some ibuprofen.”

“Won’t work,” Remus presses his nose into Dee’s collarbone, “Medication doesn’t do shit for me. Never has.”

“Then we need to get something to eat,” Dee says subdued.

“Ice cream for dinner?” Remus suggests.

“You need a protein.”

“What if I put hot sauce on it? And chili peppers.”

“Those are not proteins, dear.” There’s a ghost of a smile on Dee’s face, which isn’t much, but considering how crappy both of them feel, Remus counts it as a win. He breathes in and listens to Dee’s steady heartbeat.

“Dear” and “Darling” make the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It sounds so eloquent coming from Dee, so natural and easy. One of Dee’s hands trail up Remus’s back and twist around the curls at the base of his hairline. Remus thinks he wouldn’t mind staying like this forever.

“--Secretary of Defense, Dragana Witchall, made this announcement this afternoon regarding the influx of beings with so called “super powers”--”

“Wait what,” Dee says, shifting them to the side to get a better look at the screen. Remus follows his gaze by proxy. On it is a recording of a lady who matches Janus in terms of dressing immaculately: a plum striped pantsuit and with a white shirt underneath and no jewelry. Her blonde hair is pinned back in the same professional bun that just about every no-nonsense teacher Remus ever had had. She looks about three seconds away from slapping every reporters’ hands with a ruler and giving them detention for questioning her.

Remus hasn’t ever seen her before. He thinks he would remember a face like that.

“Emergency legislation,” She says, and Remus gets chills, “Has been put in place to ensure the safety of all beings living in America.”

“Oh no,” Janus says.

“Starting immediately, under the implications of the Next Evolution Act, all beings with discernible inhumane abilities will be required by law to register their abilities with the Federal Bureau of Evolution (FBE). While this is to protect all citizens from possible catastrophic danger, we have been assured that identities of those with such power will be handled with the utmost professionalism and confidentiality. Information about locations for registration will be shared in a few moments. We ask that people seek out these locations as soon as possible and will implement incarceration for an indeterminate amount of time for those who refuse to cooperate with the FBE. In the meantime, we encourage all citizens to remain calm and look to the future with hope.

“Now, here with a few words, is Princeps, who has graciously agreed to partner with the American Government--”

The rest is drowned out by the cheering of the reporters as the self acclaimed superhero steps into the screen, onto the stage, up to the podium and everyone surges forward.

Remus feels sick looking at it: the cheery smile of the man in white with a red plastered face mask and eyes that seem to stare into his soul, the way he takes control of the podium with ease and fluidity, the way that the camera bobbles trying to get closer. Princeps-- Prince-- whoever he is soaks in the chaos of the questions being thrown at him and revels in it.

Dee’s nails prick into Remus’s back.

“They can’t do that,” he says.

“I think they just did,” Remus says, maybe laughing, and wondering how much the government is paying the guy on stage to stand there. He doesn’t look real. He looks like someone’s fantasy, a pipe dream, a day dream created to placate the undercurrents of terror. Remus gets the urge to throw something at him, just to see if Princey boy here would dissipate into smoke like a dream too.

“No, Remus,” Dee says, fixing him with horrified gaze, “They- They cannot be allowed to do this. Forcing people to register with the government-- You know what that is right? They’ll sit you done in a windowless room and ask you how much you love your country. Enough to die for it? Enough to put your life on the line for it? And then they’ll turn you into a human weapon. And that’s just if you say yes automatically.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then they’ll tell you to fill out this form with your home address and let go you on your way and about two weeks later you’re going to be killed in a drunk driving accident.” Dee snarls between his fangs, “Or-- Or one of your family members will go mysteriously missing, okay? And they’ll show up on your doorstep and ask again. And even if that doesn’t happen, they’ll be some asshat who hacks the database or sneaks into the Headquarters and gets his hands on even a portion of the list and releases it and people will die from prejudices. This is bad.”

Remus stiffens.

Princeps is still on TV talking animatedly to the reporters who hang on his every word. “As I was saying, with the help of the FBE, I managed to gain control of my abilities, which otherwise could have hurt those around me. In fact the FBE helped all of my team--”

“Excuse me, Prince! ” A reporter interrupts, “Did you say Team?”

The figure on screen laughs brightly; Remus thinks it the most irritating sound he’s ever heard even if he can’t pinpoint why exactly.

“Yes, fair maiden! I do have a team! They are the most wonderful people I have ever had the pleasure to meet, Although I started my journey alone, I’m proud to call them my friends. We’re few in numbers now, but hopefully with time and patience, more brave souls will step forward to help us protect our homes and the lives of the people we love--”

Remus is pleased that both him and Dee fake gag at the same time.

“--That being said, each of us have agreed to partner up and help the FBE with their registration. I, myself, and my partner will be heading out to the West Coast right after this and we’ll be in the Portland area for most of the week for any of you fine folk who may want autographs.” He flashes a brilliant, blinding smile at the camera.

“Portland,” Remus repeats. “Isn’t that where we are?”

Dee has a look on his face and Remus knows that look. Very well in fact. It’s haunted his favorite memories in the past several months: the moments before he’s picked a mark, moments before he nudges Remus in the side, the moments before they start planning on how to do something illegal.

Its based on trust: Remus will find them the future that works, Dee will listen without hesitation and they’ll get out together.

Dee shifts and wiggles a bit, sticking a hand in his pocket and comes back with a coin, the purple Barney from the Baskillisk Casino where they met that had wandered off the floor in Remus’s pocket. He rolls it between his fingers.

“Are you...can you…?” He asks.

“Still see the future?” Remus finishes.

“Without it hurting you.” De says, “Because it's a definite no if you’re gonna end up in a pool of your own blood like that again. I’d rather not know things than not have you here next to me.”

Remus is quiet, which is unlike him. The TV switches to a commercial break about toothpaste or something and the screen illuminates Dee’s very kissable lips very nicely.

“Tell you what,” Dee says, shakily, “Heads, we do something about it. Probably end up taking out an entire new branch of government and putting some superheroes in the hospital. And possibly become the most wanted men on the Earth. Tails, we ignore it until we can’t.”

He swallows. Then he balances the coin on his thumb. In the dark of the room Remus can’t even tell which size is which.

--It flings up into the air with an impressive height, flipping eight times by its pinnacle and another eleven by the time it comes down on the floor and bounces into another arc, another flip, two, three. And Remus thinks that “supposed to be” can go fuck itself, because he doesn’t care what should and shouldn’t happen all of a sudden.--

It flings up into the air with an impressive height, flipping eight times by its pinnacle and another eleven by the time it comes down right into Remus’s palm.

“What do you know,” Remus says, innocently as it comes. “It landed on Heads."

[Chapter 6]

#Deja vu AU #Demus #Janus Sanders #Remus Sanders #tw:suicide #tw: blood #KISS KISS KISS KISS #look I was so excited to write this kiss scene alright #Epic level of foreshadowing here #Guess whos gonna show up in the next chapter guys #the dragon witch #roman sanders #the Plot emerges!#finally!!#sanders sides

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