#Half the time when I deal with those guys in caves I crouch with a shield so I can chill (read: hide) for a bit

[rainbowangel110]

My fear is random ass skeletons showing up outta nowhere and suddenly you're cornered in a spot where you really can't escape

I'll be honest I don't think the cave noises are that scary. Like it's just random there's nothing there. It means nothing. You know what IS scary? Baby zombie

[faggotmox]

3+1 Bryan Cock Warming

Rating: Explicit Fandom: All Elite Wrestling Relationships: Jon Moxley/Bryan Danielson, Bryan Danielson/Claudio Castagnoli, Bryan Danielson/Wheeler Yuta, Jon Moxley/ Bryan Danielson/Claudio Castagnoli/Wheeler Yuta, Bryan Danielson/Eddie Kingston, BCC Poly Kinks/Warnings/Ect: Cock Warming, Daddy Kink, BDSM, Punishment, Dom/sub, Subspace, Anal Fingering, Cock Cages Word Count: 853 Summary: Three times Bryan gets his cock warmed, and one time he warms someone else's cock. [AEW Kinkmeme Fill] [ao3] [faggotmox@dw]

1: MOX (Zen)

The warm, soft, fluffy look of bed and Bryan neatly nestled into the pillows wasn’t enough to redirect Mox’s anxious energy. For the last thirty minutes Bryan had watched Mox pace around, moving this or that, putting something away or in a travel bag as he got ready for their next round of flights.

Sometimes Bryan would just let Mox work himself up. Maybe that was mean, but offering help too early in the process of anxiety tended to lead to fights. Plus it let Bryan relax comfortably while he watched his very sexy, jacked, and shirtless boyfriend move around the bedroom manically. As nice as it was to watch Mox bend over and crouch in the very tight red boxer briefs, Bryan was starting to get dizzy just watching him.

“You need to relax,” Bryan called out tonelessly.

“Fuck off,” Mox snapped, throwing up the middle finger as he ignored the comment. 

“I’m serious,” Bryan sighed, tucking an arm behind his head. “I mean, I do love watching your ass in those shorts, but if you get any more worked up then you’re not going to sleep well and I’m not dealing with you being grumpy while we travel tomorrow.” 

“You’re an asshole, Bry.” Mox glared but at least stopped pacing. 

“Why? Because I don’t want the man I love to be miserable and exhausted while traveling all day because I know that makes him feel fucked up?” Bryan smirked at the pissed off look that got from Mox. “I’m serious, Jon. I’ll help you finish in the morning.”

“And I suppose you’ll help me relax now?” The defensive look on Mox always made Bryan think of a grumpy puppy.

“Yup. So come to bed.” Bryan examined his partner very closely as the wall started to break down. There could have been a moment where Bryan needed to push harder, but Mox finally caved and climbed onto the bed. “Atta boy.”

“Are you gonna be a total prick the entire time?” Mox shot him a look as he got onto his side of the bed with a huff. 

“That was sincere!” Bryan laughed. It was hard to make Mox take him seriously sometimes, but that was partially his own fault for always teasing the guy. “There’s a hockey game on. Let’s watch it.” 

“Oh-kay…” Mox looked suspicious as he sank into the bed. 

“Hey,” Bryan paused in his work of changing the channel to actually look at the other man. He reached up and took Mox by the chin. “Just let me help you relax, Jon. Trust me.” He was trying to express that he saw genuine distress without forcing Mox to be embarrassed.

“Yeah. Fuck, alright. Sorry.” Mox shrugged a little as he inched closer. 

“C’mere.” Bryan pulled Mox flush against his chest and threw the arm with the remote over Mox to change the TV. “It’s going to be alright.” He assured quietly as the hockey game came to life. 

It took Mox the first quarter to actually turn off and enjoy. There was still a lot of tension in his body so Bryan started running his hands up and down Mox’s leg and hip. Normally when they watched sports it was downstairs and it was much more lively, but this was just to take Mox’s mind off things.

When half time rolled around Bryan started to work on the next part of his Help Mox Relax and Get Out of His Head routine. A few light kisses roused Mox from his dream-like state. Bryan’s fingers fiddled with the hem of Mox’s underwear around his thigh.

“Go with it.” Bryan encouraged as he started to tug the red material down Mox’s thighs. “You won’t need those.”

Mox kicked the shorts off the bed while Bryan reached for the lube. It was good they had fucked earlier in the gym after Mox got frustrated that Bryan kept pinning him. It meant his partner was open and ready for him. All Bryan had to do was reapply some lube to Mox and then himself before he was gliding in with ease. 

“Fuck…” Mox let out the long moan as he took all the other had to offer.

“You feel so good, Jon.” Bryan pressed his forehead against Mox’s shoulder. “Just relax for me.”

“I should find this kinda shit so annoying…” Mox mumbled, there was no bite in his voice anymore. “Your dick radiates zen or somethin’. Like a fuckin’ xanax.”

“Maybe I should start bending you over and putting it in you every time you start getting antsy.” Bryan grinned against his partner's shoulder.

“I wanna object ‘cause I feel like you’re teasin’ me, but your magic dick is working so I’ll let it slide this time.” Mox sighed as he leaned back into Bryan. 

“I’d stop.” Bryan wrapped himself snuggly around Mox, just enjoying the feeling of his dick being warmed. “But I know you like it.”

“Fuck you…” Mox was already mostly asleep. 

“I’ll fuck you in the morning, baby. Go to sleep.” Bryan shut off the TV so that there weren't any more distractions. 

“P’mise?”

“I promise, Jon.”

2: CLAUDIO (Restart)

The weather outdoors was nice enough that Bryan had settled himself on his back patio to read. It was early in the morning; the sun was just above the horizon, his morning run already complete. After Grand Slam, Bryan found himself with a visitor.

The night had gone long with Claudio. The title lifted a weight off of the Swiss man that he desperately needed, the loss of it left him with nothing to hold onto. So he had sought out Bryan to be grounded. They had done a lot of work the night before, so Bryan was going to let Claudio sleep in. Despite what most people probably thought, Bryan considered Claudio's defeat to be an honorable one. Eddie wasn’t an easy enemy. 

The back door opened up, causing Bryan to look over. A small smirk crossed his face as he took in the very sleepy Claudio. The old hoodie looked like it was one of Mox’s that was left around. A little too small for Claudio, and a faded Deftones logo. There was a questioning look on the larger man’s face.

“I thought you could use the rest.” Bryan waved him over. “I took a short run anyway.” That wasn’t true but it was a worthwhile lie.

Claudio made his way over, one hand rubbing at his eye making the hem of the hoodie ride up. Just enough of Claudio’s abs peaked out between hoodie and boxers. Bryan found a sleepy Claudio to be very cute. The little downturn of his lips until he got coffee, half lidded eyes, totally dreamy look. Before Claudio could kneel in front of him, Bryan waved him off.

“You did enough of that last night. Get in my lap, you deserve it.” He put the book aside as he moved himself into a comfortable position for Claudio to straddle. “That’s a good boy.”

It shouldn’t be so easy for a man that size to so easily fold onto Bryan’s lap, but he was frequently in this position. The heavy weight of Claudio eased onto him, knees resting comfortably against Bryan and the seat. Both arms went around Bryan’s neck as he reached around to hold Claudio at the waist.

“What do I have to do to get you to relax?” Bryan questioned, his hand stroking the back of the other’s neck. “You were a good champ. You’ll be a good champion again.”

There was a small shake of his head causing Bryan to sigh. Claudio had a hard time with the fall from grace. Even if he kept himself together at the surface, Bryan was there to see through the well put together facade. Gently, his hands started to sneak up under the back of Claudio’s (Mox’s) hoodie. The tender bruises being caressed made Claudio shiver. The damaged expanse of Claudio’s back was still smooth under Bryan’s fingers as he started to work out some of the muscle tension. 

“Look at me,” Bryan’s soft command was enough to make Claudio lean back to look at him. Sad, warm brown eyes looking to Bryan for relief. “I know you’re having a hard time right now, but you have to tell me what you need. Even if it’s not in English.” They had spent the night running the gambit on punishment and discipline, things Bryan knew helped normally but didn’t seem to  make a dent this time.

Quietly Claudio spoke in his native language. A request, as well as a confession, that was not meant to be understood. Sometimes it was a communication barrier, but sometimes it also helped Claudio admit things he regularly struggled to express. The larger man didn’t have to know Bryan had been working on his understanding of Swiss German. Of course his understanding wasn’t perfect but at least Claudio was talking now. 

“Good boy.” Bryan reached up to put a hand on Claudio’s neck, pulling him down for a kiss. Rewarding honesty. 

“You should be taking care of Mox, not--”

“Stop, Claudio.” Bryan’s voice was firm, his brows knitted together to show he wasn’t pleased with that. “If I needed to be with Mox, I would be. I need to be with you. I love you, too.”

That admission almost made Claudio flinch. Bryan started rubbing his thighs. As much as he loved and appreciated Claudio, when the other man got like this it became incredibly hard for Bryan, or anyone, to get a read on his sub’s needs. A constant was Claudio’s enjoyment of being touched, it always helped in every situation. Yuta most certainly didn’t get nearly as much out of the tactical work, and Mox almost exclusively wanted everything harder. Bryan knew he was much quicker with his other two, easier to jump into action because he knew what they needed, but Claudio was a continuing challenge for him. He had to work to distract Claudio as he formed his plan, going over everything he could recall as quickly as possible. 

“You know what?” Bryan smiled up at the other man. “I need to clear my head a little while I think about how to help you.” 

“Clear your head?” Claudio questioned. “You’ve run this morning already.”

“You’re right. I need something to relax me.” Bryan shifted his hands up Claudio’s thighs and around his hips to message the perky ass just barely concealed in the well worn boxers. “I love these boxers.” He mumbled as they started to rock against each other. “This soft pink looks good on you.”

“They used to be red.” Claudio mentioned, feeling slightly embarrassed that he hadn’t thrown them out yet. “I should have thrown them out a few years ago.”

“They’re your favorite pair.” Bryan shook his head. “I can tell they’re older because you’re more muscular now. You fill them out better.”

“A polite way of saying they’re too small.” Even though it was clear Claudio was joking Bryan quickly shook his head.

“I want you to accept the compliment.” Bryan hooked his fingers into the (apparently) faded red material. “And take these off.”

“Yes, Sir.” Claudio shifted up to start taking off his shorts.

“It’s daddy this morning.” Bryan distinguished. “Sir was last night.” He ran his fingers over the welts he left on Claudio’s ass.

“Daddy.”

The word stuck in Claudio’s mouth in a clumsy way that always turned Bryan on a little more than it should. Like it was something so foreign to his vocabulary that it didn’t make sense. Once the shorts were removed, Bryran stopped him from taking off the hoodie. It was cute. Bryan pushed his cotton running shorts down a little, allowing his dick to spring free. Of course he was hard. Anyone would be with 232 pounds of beautiful, sexy Swiss man in their lap. 

There was always lube stashed somewhere. That was Mox’s doing. Bryan always had some in a pocket or bag, but this one time he was thankful to be able to get a bottle fished out between the cushions. A tiny smirk crossed his face when he found it. Claudio was a sensualist and cooling lube was one of those things that really got to him. The screw cap was silent, and the touch of the lube was entirely a surprise. The gel was a decent temperature, but quickly Claudio arched into Bryan as it started to leave a cool trail between his cheeks. Bryan’s fingers encouraged it to spread, and slip down to circle the tight ring of muscles. 

“Daddy.” Claudio breathed in sharply as the first finger pushed into him. “Oh.” 

“That’s it. Focus on the feeling.” Bryan’s soft words made the man in his lap shiver. The hand not currently engaged reached up to shield Claudio’s eyes from the rising sun. “Just feel. Don’t think. Don’t move. I’m going to take what I need, and all you have to do is let me. I’ll tell you exactly what I want. Understood?”

“Yes,” Claudio nodded against the hand shielding his eyes. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Perfect. Keep your eyes closed.”

The finger loosening up Claudio was joined by another. Slowly Bryan finger fucked his sub as his other hand untied the bandana holding his hair back. The fabric was sweaty from his run, and dirty from the trail. He pressed it into Claudio’s hands.

“Blindfold yourself.”

Claudio followed orders easily and quickly wrapped the material around his eyes. There was some tension that got released as one of Claudio’s senses was removed. On a whim, Bryan grabbed the faded-to-pink shorts off the couch and stuffed them into Claudio’s slightly open mouth. The larger man only barely pulled back before relaxing again and accepting the gag. 

“Good boy.” Bryan grinned to himself because he had figured it out. Another Claudio puzzle seemingly solved. “I want to finish some of my book in peace. So, all I want is for you to rest against me.”

The answer Bryan got was just a muffled moan. He withdrew his fingers and poured some lube on his cock. Even though his hands were messy Bryan gripped Claudio’s hips and positioned him right where he wanted and slowly started to push in. 

“That’s good.” Bryan moaned as he sank deeper and deeper into the other. “Still loosened up for me from last night. I did a good job on you.”

It was a little hard for Bryan to not just fuck Claudio and leave it at that. Maybe he’d even go back to sleep. But that wasn’t the plan. After a few lazy thrusts and some more lube, Bryan brought him all the way down and kept him there.

“Good boy. Very good.” Bryan’s voice had an edge of a tremble to it but then again he was balls deep in Claudio. “If you can be still for me, let me relax and read, then I’ll reward you.”

“Yes, Daddy.” The words were almost too muffled but Bryan was able to just make out the sounds.

Once he was positive Claudio was situated, he was able to take up his book again. Reading it wasn’t really the goal anymore. Right now it was about giving Claudio a purpose, a way of serving Bryan that didn’t involve pain or punishment. Warming his cock on a nice, early morning while he read before breakfast was the perfect way for them to relax together.

In ten or fifteen minutes–maybe twenty if Claudio really slipped under–Bryan would flip them over and fuck Claudio good and slow until he begged to come. After that they’d go make breakfast together, which would consist of Bryan having Claudio cook for him and make their coffee. Hopefully it’d be the restart that Claudio needed. For now, Bryan was pretty content to cuddle his Swiss giant sitting on his dick.

3: YUTA (Penance)

The cold metal cage clicked into place, the lock secured with a disapproving grunt. The key was placed on a chain and draped over Bryan’s neck. The metal swinging against his chest as Yuta stared at it. The key would stay on Bryan and the cage on Yuta until his next win.

“Christ. Would you two hurry the fuck up?” Mox groaned loudly from the bed. He had to be forcibly separated from Claudio. “Stop mind-fucking him, Bry. He knows he lost. Let’s go.”

“You’re working yourself into the same punishment if you’re not careful, Mox.” Bryan shot back without looking away from Yuta. 

“Do you have any idea how hard I’ve been since Claudio busted that big bitch up?” Mox moaned dreamily as he reimagined the earlier fight.

“Patience, Jon.” Claudio smiled happily as he knelt on the bed and leaned over the brattiest of them all. “I’m going to fuck you for the rest of the night. Over and over again until you’re so exhausted you’re begging me to stop.”

“Fuck, fuck.” Mox whined as he arched up into the body above him. “Watching you beat the shit out of Josh was so hot, man. Like fuck.” His hands went up to grope Claudio’s chest. “You’re so fucking strong.”

“Claudio.” Bryan tossed a bottle of lube at the two on the bed. “Start getting Mox ready. Wheeler, since you like running your mouth so much, let’s put it to good use. Over the edge of the bed, suck Mox off while I get you ready.”

“Bein’ a little hard on the kid, aren’t ya, Bry?” Mox giggled a little as he was dragged down the bed by Claudio. 

“I hate it when you get on commentary.” Bryan reached out to tug at the collar on Mox. “You get more mouthy than normal. If Wheeler makes you come before Claudio is ready to fuck you then you take Wheeler’s punishment until he wins his next match.”

“Oh, challenge accepted.” Yuta perked up at that but then Bryan shoved him face first into Mox’s crotch. 

“That’s not a challenge, Wheeler. It’s a warning to Mox. Now get to work. All three of you.” Bryan threw a look at Claudio to get going.

A tiny smirk crossed Claudio’s face as he started to work Mox open. It was going to be his victory prize. While Claudio worked Mox open like it was his sole purpose to make Mox scream like he had on commentary, Bryan on the other hand took care of Yuta with clinical efficiency. At some point Bryan took Yuta’s hands and pinned them behind his back, making him grunt loudly at being off balance. 

“You’re ready. Let’s go.” Bryan slapped the side of Yuta’s ass. “Claudio, take your prize.”

It was like letting a dog off the leash. Claudio practically pounced on Mox, who found it very erotic to be covered by the big man. Of course after watching that match, Mox turned Claudio’s celebration into a tussle. The pair grappled naked on the bed, laughter and gotchas sounding out. The act of physically dominating Mox was one of Claudio’s favorite forms of foreplay. 

While the pair struggled and moaned against each other, Bryan sat in one of the deep hotel chairs that had a perfect view of the bed. Guiding hands moved Yuta to face the bed as well before taking hold of his hips and easing him down. The easy glide of Bryan made Yuta moan despite trying to hold it in. This was a punishment, after all. Cruel fingers reached around to wrap around the unforgiving metal cage. 

“Keep my cock warm until Claudio is finished with Mox.” Bryan rattled the cage as he sank into the warm, familiar feeling of Yuta. “I want you to watch them. That could have been you.” 

Yuta wasn’t sure if Bryan meant he could have been Mox or Claudio. Either way it was his loss. Losing was why he was currently caged. With a sigh he settled back into Bryan and watched as Claudio threw Mox into the side of the bed and bent him over, hips pressing into hips as Claudio fought to pin the squirming man’s hands down. Quietly he would keep Bryan warm until Claudio was done and Bryan got his victory lap with Mox. It could have been him.

+1: EDDIE (Intimate)

There are a lot of reasons why Bryan wouldn’t seek this person out for any kind of help, but he did actually have two very trusted recommendations. In fact, Mox texted him that he told Eddie that Bryan was already on his way. Unfair of Mox, but warranted. Bryan frowned as he found himself knocking on the door of Eddie Kingston’s hotel room. 

“Come in!” Eddie called out loudly from inside. “Lock it, would ya?” 

“Yeah. Sure.” Bryan frowned as he stepped into the room, locking the door behind him. 

“I’m just finishing up.” Eddie had the bathroom door open. Steam was flowing around Eddie as he dried himself off with a towel. “Mox gave me a bit of a run down. I’m doin’ it as a favor to him,” Eddie paused, looking Bryan up and down. “And you look like you could use it.”

“Don’t be a dick.” Bryan glared.

“Stop being so sensitive.” Eddie rolled his eyes and sighed. “I meant it. Come in here.” 

There was only a split second of hesitation before Bryan went into the bathroom. One of the towels was tossed onto the floor in front of the sink. Bryan eyed it and the rest of the stuff on the counter top. Eddie cleared his throat.

“On your knees, gecko boy.” Eddie was grabbing his toothbrush.

“Gecko? Gecko boy?” Bryan glared up at Eddie as he knelt down, annoyed that he didn’t get whatever insult. 

“Yeah. Dragon’s are just fuckin’ lizards and you’re a small one at that.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “Get my dick in your mouth while I finish up. Keep your hands behind your back and shit.”

“Eloquent.” Bryan mumbled as he shifted around on his knees before taking Eddie into his mouth. A little moan escaped him.

“See? Not so bad, huh?” Eddie reached down to stroke Bryan’s hair. “Just try to stop fuckin’ thinkin’ about shit, alright?”

Eddie easily filled out his mouth and Bryan centered himself on his breathing. Meanwhile, Eddie brushed his teeth and cleaned up his beard. And maybe a few other tasks, but Bryan's brain was starting to get fuzzy so he stopped paying attention. He could have stayed like that for hours, his mouth tightly wrapped around Eddie’s hard length. Neither of his stable mates were lying when they said Eddie had a good dick. It was easy to find himself drifting, especially with how little Eddie seemed to care he was there. He wondered what insight Mox had given him.

“Alright, alright.” Eddie pulled away from Bryan, not even pushing the kneeling man from him but walking away. “Follow. Hands and knees, gecko.”

“Seriously?” Bryan glared, not sure if he was balking at the insulting nickname or the crawling. 

“Don’t play. I know you like to crawl.” Eddie shrugged as he kept walking away.

It was simply left up to Bryan to do as he was told or not. With an annoyed sigh, he crawled after Eddie. It took a while for him to catch up. By then, Eddie was lounging in his bed with SportsCenter going. There was an absent handwave as Eddie called Bryan up onto the bed. The mattress dipped with Bryan’s weight as he got up and crawled towards Eddie. 

“Lay down on your side.” Eddie motioned.

“That’s…” Bryan glanced at the spot on the bed. 

“What? A little intimate? I’m about to put my dick in you. Lie the fuck down.” Eddie shook his head, but didn’t seem nearly as pressed as he should be considering how annoying he found the ‘little vegan freak.’

“Fuck. Okay, fine.” Bryan laid himself down, facing away from the other, but then Eddie stopped him.

“Nah. Changed my mind. Here,” Eddie started pulling Bryan on top of him. “Mox got you all ready for me, right?” 

“Yeah.” Bryan admitted, a blush rushing up his face. At first Bryan had insisted he could handle it, but Mox convinced him otherwise. Considering the thick length Bryan got a taste of in the bathroom, he should remember to thank Mox for that. 

“Good. Hop on then.” Eddie put his arms behind his head and looked off towards the TV like nothing was happening. As if Bryan was borrowing a tool from his garage. 

“Thanks, I guess…” Bryan grumbled as he got himself over Eddie. “Oh, fuck.” Bryan let out a little puff of air. “I see why Mox talks your dick up so much.” Slowly Bryan eased himself down.

“Ah, Mox. All that guy needs is a big dick with a rough thrust and he’s happy.” Eddie reached over to the bedside table to grab cigarettes. “You gonna freak out?” 

“Don’t have much of a say, right? After all, Mox called in a big favor.” Bryan pointed out, just holding back his glare as he found himself fully seated on Eddie’s lap.

“Good answer.” Eddie winked before thrusting sharply up to make Bryan moan. “Good answers get rewards, gecko.”

“You’re seriously sticking with gecko?” Bryan groaned as he was slowly fucked. 

“Yup.” Eddie sighed, his eyes closing as he started lighting the cigarette. “Ya know,” Eddie opened his eyes to look the other up and down. “I can objectively admit you’re pretty hot. Your core…” His fingers dipped between the muscles of Bryan’s abs down to the Apollo’s belt. “You got that sexy outdoorsman thing going, too.” But his eyes fluttered back to the TV as he took another drag.

“Did Mox tell you to sweet talk me?” Bryan almost laughed, thinking Eddie was just playing with him or saying something he wanted to hear.

“Nah. Look at me,” Eddie reached up to take Bryan’s chin in his hand. “Everything else gets left at the door when I do this shit. I don’t need to fuck with you or lie to you right now when you’re vulnerable. If I’m saying somethin’ it’s fuckin’ true, got it?” Eddie waited for a nod before he continued. “When Mox asked the favor I said yes because you needed something. I may think you’re annoying, I may not like you too much, but you asked for help and that gets respect in my book. Especially shit like this.”

Bryan blinked hard at Eddie. This wasn’t what he was expecting when he got sent down this path. It wasn’t an unfair assumption that Eddie was begrudgingly doing this for Mox because he loves Mox, but as it turned out Eddie was just…a good dom. If Regal was still here…Bryan shook his head away from Eddie’s grip to rid himself of those thoughts.

“Hey, whatever the fucks going on up here--” Eddie tapped the side of Bryan’s head. “It’s my job to help ya leave it at the door, too.” Eddie pitched his barely-smoked cigarette. “So, you like fuckin’ basketball or what?”

“Basketball is good.” Bryan agreed as he felt the tug from Eddie to lay on his chest. 

A blanket was pulled up around them as Bryan settled into the position. Eddie was still inside him and he actually started to relax into the embrace. It felt strange, but it started to become easier. Eddie was gentle, one of his hands resting on Bryan’s back while the other scrolled his phone a bit. Mostly Bryan felt ignored, but also cared for, which was maybe exactly what he needed. He felt connected to a very unlikely person and let himself drift off. Away from the match and the loss and…

“Like a gecko sleepin’ on a rock.” Eddie mumbled, like he could sense the thoughts forming again in Bryan’s head. 

“Fine.” Bryan laughed a little as he relented. This softer side of Eddie drew him in, completely unexpected. “Don’t you dare tell Mox.”

“Oh, sweet little gecko, I’m going to be callin’ you that from now on.” Eddie smirked. 

“Asshole.” Bryan shook his head then found himself burrowing into Eddie’s neck a little more. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Now shut that yap if ya can. I’ll let you know when we’re done, alright?” Eddie waited for another nod before he surprisingly kissed Bryan’s forehead and went back to watching basketball. 

[ace-does-stuff]

Misconceptions

Summary: Kyle is only distantly aware he's chosen the worst time to confess

Warnings: swearing, mentions of various deaths, check Ao3 port for full tags

Authors Note: I wrote this to get myself through some idea drought, but Kenny being an oblivious and jealous prick is honestly fun to write, it may happen again. this is basically me shoving another scene into the manbearpig episode by the way, so keep that in mind while reading. hope ya'll enjoy!

Kenny's breathing starts to stutter with the cold, he's too far into sleep to wake up and shuffle around a bit too try and get warm. Kyle can hear it, it's shockingly hard to fall asleep on the cold ground while trapped in a cave system. He feels perfectly fine heat wise, passed out next to Stan and using his jacket as a blanket.

Kyle doesn't know what he's supposed to do. On one hand, he lets Kenny freeze to death or go terribly ill. On the other hand, he wakes up Kenny and hopes that the blonde doesn't get pissed off.

He opts for waking up Kenny.

His entire body feels clunky when he stretches, hands over his head and interlaced fingers pushing out. He tugs on his jacket lazily as he stumbles over to where Kenny's passed out on the ground. Kyle crouches down next too him and places a hand on the blondes face. His skin is flush with the bite of the cold, and he feels 'warm' but he isn't.

"Hey, dude," Kyle begins with as he shakes Kenny's shoulders gently, it barely rouses the blonde. All he gets is a small groan of dissatisfaction and the slightest shift in facial expression.

Kyle brings his fingers to loosen Kenny's parka hood but stops himself, he needs the heat to be in, not out. Instead he slides his fingers along Kenny's neck, ice cold fingers sure to jolt him awake. It does garner a reaction, not much.

Kyle talks again, "Wake up man, you're gonna freeze to death."

Kenny blinks open his eyes and glares at Kyle, "I've died worse- heard of worse ways," He quickly corrects himself.

"I know," Kyle said softly, so lightly, making sure Kenny didn't hear. It was his secret, and even though Kyle remembers a good deal of the deaths, he acts like he doesn't. He's not sure if he's lying for Kenny's sake or for his own.

"I'm fine freezing to death," Kenny said as he closed his eyes and rolled onto his side, facing away, "Go back to your boyfriend."

Kyle's face flares up at the accusation, "He's not my boyfriend," He takes Kenny's arm and rolls him back over, "I don't even like him."

Kenny rolled his eyes, "Sure you don't, you just happen to always be with him, always listen to him, always give him attention, always be on your fucking mind- of course he's your boyfriend!" The restraint he enforces to not shout makes him shake, he should've gotten this out in the open a long time ago. But no, he had too wait until the four of them were trapped in the mines before it could come out, "Leave me to die, that's what you guys always do."

"I don't," Kyle said.

Kenny scoffed, "Sure."

"Remember when you were dying of cancer, or whatever, your body was giving out on you?" Kyle asked.

Kenny nodded, "Everyone remembers that."

"Or what about all those other times? Electrocuted, trampled, burned, drowned, mutilated- I remember some of those," Kyle said, "I just, didn't want to freak you out by bringing it up."

"Big whoop," Kenny spat venomously, "You remember most of my terrible fates, so does Cartman. I don't see how that relates to you not being Stan's shitty boyfriend," He hopes that the jealously of his misguided anger is heavily covered.

"Stan doesn't remember half as many, Craig doesn't remember any, and Tweek doesn't remember any. Just me, and Cartman," Kyle said, going off on a loosely built tangent. He was grasping for straws, but he needed an exit into the more important topic of debate, "Because we care about you more than anyone else in all of South Park."

Kenny gestured vaguely for Kyle to go on, a challenge of sorts, maybe it was a plea.

"He cares about you because you indulge in his terrible ideas and hang out with him outside of the group. You're his best friend, we all are, but you more than the rest of us," Kyle explained, gesturing to Cartman as he spoke, "And I remember because," He pauses, words catching in his throat, "I, I remember."

"Spit it out," Kenny snarled, glaring just a bit. It was a facade really, he'd never speak maliciously to Kyle and mean it.

"And I remember all of you deaths because I fucking, I am in love, with you," Kyle managed to choke out, barely at that. He feels like the knots in his chest are tightening, but the burdens on his shoulders have finally been lifted. It's a rather conflicting feeling, to have the brunt of it all out in the open despite knowing it won't be reciprocated.

Kenny is pleased with the fact he can say the reason his face is red is because of the cold. He feels his heart rate pick up, he's pretty sure it's pulsing with irregularities- ha, that's kind of funny, Kyle made his heart skip a beat. Literally at that, the metaphor always came in handy for his journals. He bangs his fist on his chest, right where his heart is, rattling up his rib cage. He glances up to Kyle, "Really man?"

Kyle can't help the exasperation saturated so thickly on his voice it's dripping as he snaps back a sharp, "Yes, really! Of course I do!"

He also can't help the squeak that's pushed out of him when arms wind around his torso and squeeze. Kenny's head is resting on his shoulder, nestled up against the crook of his neck. Kyle doesn't know what he's supposed to do, especially with the way Kenny is shaking, tears hitting his jacket and his skin. It takes a bit too long for him to realize that this is a way of saying 'I love you too' but the second he does he's yanking Kenny into himself just as tight. He knocks the side of his head against Kenny's gently as he hauls the blonde almost onto his lap.

"Fuck man," There's a small sniffle as Kenny tries to lift his head, he can't get more than a couple inches of distance between him and Kyle and it feels nice. He dares to say it feels right, resting half on Kyle's thighs with arms wrapped around him so tightly he almost fears dislocating a rib. He takes a shaky inhale, "I just, did you have to wait until now to say it?"

Kyle knocked his forehead against Kenny's, very brief moment of contact greets them, when he pulls back he's almost shocked that Kenny's hands are at his waist. Almost. He rests his head on Kenny's shoulder, "I thought you were into the chicks."

"I take whatever comes my way," Kenny said, he spoke as though it were humorous, "Of course, I am prone to getting attached and waiting for something better to come around."

Kyle listens, giving a small hum to continue.

"But I got really lucky tonight, aside from the fact we're trapped in a cave system. Not only am I sitting on the lap of someone absolutely magnificent, smart, adorable, and dare I say it, hot. That someone also happens to be the long time target of my affection," Kenny rambled. The words flowed like wine, and he's entirely trying to flirt despite the situation. He brings a hand up to run through Kyle's mess of curls, "Of course, lower class courtship methods usually aren't seen as such by the middle class."

Kyle gives a soft sigh, "Cut me some slack, I just finished coming to terms with this shit," He lifts his head up to find that charming gap tooth grin, definitely one of his favorite things about Kenny. He's had a hard time choosing favorite things about Kenny lately, he adds it to the list.

"Gladly," Kenny answered with, briefly pressing a kiss to Kyle's cheek. He glanced over the redhead's shoulder, "Let's sleep over there."

"Beside Stan?" Kyle asked, he got a nod in response.

"I don't want him getting hypothermia," Kenny said, "Not a fun way to die."

Kyle gives a hum before standing up, awkwardly hoisting Kenny along with him. He knows that the shorter is grinning for the brief walk over to where Stan lays. Kyle sheds his jacket to lay down and Kenny joins him, pressing his back flush against Kyle's torso.

Kenny tilts his head back a bit, "Love you," He's saying it until the novelty wears off at this rate.

Kyle hums in response, "Go to sleep."

"Okay," Kenny said, voice a bit more hushed as he closed his eyes and tried to relax.

It's a lot easier to fall asleep when someone else is there with you. The rhythmic clamber of his heartbeat is welcome to echo in Kenny's ears as he drifts off to sleep comfortably. Even with the cold nipping at his feet he finds it rather soothing to just fall asleep. He's out cold before Stan actually rouses from his slumber, flipping over a bit.

"Go back to sleep," Kyle croaked out softly.

Stan pushed himself onto his elbows and glanced over to find Kenny curled up against Kyle, "You told him?"

Kyle nodded.

"He said yes?" Stan asked.

Kyle nodded, "Here's hoping we make it out of here alive to go on a date."

"In the afterlife I'll third wheel for you, even if we make it out I'll be sitting there being a nuisance," Stan said as he dropped back down. His pressed his back against Kyle before throwing his jacket atop the both of them.

"Thanks," Kyle said quietly, "You're fucking awesome man."

Stan yawns a bit, "No problem bro, that's what friends are for."

[lovebugcody]

i can’t draw but i can write, so here is what i have for the mcyt/dream smp fandom. (inspired by a lot of fanart i have seen) 

3k words baby. i was going to do a second half but i’m tired so i’ll write it tomorrow

anyway here is dadza collecting his boys

--

Philza had always known he wanted to be a dad, but with adventures and quests, he hardly had the time. So he made the difficult decision to wait until one day he had the time to properly care for and raise a child (or children) of his own. But circumstances and his own paternal instinct seemed to decide for him when was the perfect time for him to finally become a father. 

The day he found his eldest, he was passing through an abandoned village. They were common in the parts of the world where Philza was known for exploring, which created a sad but beautiful landscape. Philza had always had an appreciation for the forgotten towns, so he made sure if and when he saw them, he travelled through. While he felt a touch of guilt when rummaging through items that were forgotten in a haste and deemed disposable, that never stopped him from opening every house and chest to find goods. There were occasions where he forgot a small home, or didn’t see a chest or two, but that day was not one. Philza was being careful and made sure to open every door. 

A quiet shuffle and the tiniest whimper caught his attention, and he poked his head around the corner. Curled up, as small as he could, was a boy. Dressed in a dirtied, no-longer-yellow sweater, with a holey maroon beanie over long curls. He tried squeezing behind a chest next to him, and Philza could feel his heart break as the small boy started to cry.

“P-please, don’t h-hurt me.” His voice was tiny, broken, and one again Philza felt his chest tighten. This tiny thing couldn’t have been more than 4 or 5, and already looked terrified of the world. Philza quickly hid his sword in his pack, taking off his helmet to reveal his own hat and hair in need of cutting.

“It’s okay, little man. I promise I won’t. My name’s Philza.” He squatted down, and reached a hand out slowly. He quickly retracted it though when he remembered he had an apple in his bag. He swung his pack to be in front of him, unzipping it. “You hungry?” The small boy slowly looked up, wide and teary brown eyes watching as Philza moved to pull a bright red apple out. He nodded rapidly, curls falling out of the front of his beanie into his eyes. The boy crawled over to Philza, then sat cross-legged in front of him, patiently waiting for the apple. Philza let out a soft laugh, before handing him the apple. 

“Thank you, Philza.” The words were muffled by the apple already in his mouth. Philza laughed again before dropping his own butt onto the ground, to mirror the boy.

“What’s your name, little man?” Philza had his own apple in hand, moving to bite into it.

“Wilbur.” The young boy looked proud as he said his name, promptly taking another bite of the apple. 

“Well then, Wilbur,” the decision was made almost immediately, as soon as he saw the young boy really, “would you like to come adventure with me?” Wilbur visibly sat up straighter, excitement in his eyes. 

“Hell yeah!” Apple was spat out as Wilbur scrambled to his feet in excitement.

It only took three months for Wilbur to start calling Phil “dad”.

---

His second child was under far more surprising and saddening circumstances.

An seven-year-old Wilbur bounced along in front of Philza, swinging his iron sword pretending to be defeating zombies. As he swung his sword, he once again recounted how he battled three zombies in the cave earlier that day.

“I know, Will. They were no match for you!” Philza laughed as he spoke, watching with unmatched joy and pride for his son. 

“I’m the best monster fighter, dad!” Sword held above his hair, Wilbur spun to look at Philza. “I can even help you fight some zombie pig guys in the nether next time!”

“Pigmen, Will.” Wilbur rolled his eyes at the correction. “And we’ll see.” Punching their air and continuing to bounce forward, Wilbur didn’t notice the ruined step and tripped over it. Immediately, Philza rushed forward to catch his son. 

A quiet pig-like snort caught their attention, and Philza, hand still holding Wilbur’s arm where he caught him, whipped his head around, other hand reaching for his sword. He had expected to see a pigman - maybe even a zombie one - to have somehow made it into the overworld and gotten lost, but instead saw a cardboard box. Scrawled across the front of the box in a dying sharpie was the word “FREAK!”. He pushed Wilbur, who was gripping his sword tightly in both hands, behind him as he took a careful step forward. 

A tiny face popping up, giving both Philza and Wilbur a fright.

“Dad?” Wilbur’s voice was small, giving away his fear despite the confident aura he tried to portray. 

“Stay here, okay?” Philza didn’t give Wilbur a change to reply before he continued to move closer to the box. The small child within the box stood up slowly, his features becoming more clear. The snout and ears were piglin in nature, but other than those and the pink complexion, it was clear to Philza that this was simply a scared child. Much like when he approached Wilbur those years ago, Philza moved slowly, crouching in front of the box and child contained within, peeking inside to see if there was anything else within it.

In the box, being stood on by the child, was a manilla folder. It looked as though at one point it had been official, but had been muddied and chewed on periodically. The small child looked up at Philza with tears in his eyes and hands gripping the side of the cardboard box with white knuckles. Philza noticed that one of his ears was stood up, the other - a yellow cattle-tag with the letters “TB” in faded black written on it was pierced through it - was hanging, exaggerated by the fact that the small boy had his head tilted to that side. 

“Can you pass me that folder, bud?” The boy in the box blinked once before looking down at the folder. He squatted down and his stubby fingers picked up the dirtied paperwork. He stood slowly, then held it out proudly. “Thank you.” Philza smiled softly as he accepted the folder from the tiny boy. He sat in front of the box and carefully read over the words written on the cover. As he sat, Wilbur moved forward and sat next to him, watching the child carefully as he placed his sword next to him. 

The top of the folder read “Experiment #14 [unreadable] -lin and human genetic cross- [unreadable]”, with a large red “failed” stamped across the middle of the entire cover. Philza glanced at the boy sadly. An experiment, a discarded experiment, that was all he was deemed to be. He shook his head in disapproval as he opened the folder. He didn’t want to read the majority of the papers within the folder, but he wanted to at least know how old this boy was and what name he had been given.

Technoblade. It was an odd name, undoubtedly, but if that was the name he was given, who was Philza to argue. He looked at the apparent birthdate, and quickly counted back in his head to calculate his age. 

“Four?” The word was barely a breath, but Philza just could not believe that this tiny boy stranded in a box was only four years old. He had been experimented on, tested, and disposed, marked as a freak and a failure. He slammed the folder closed, turning to Wilbur. “What do you think?” Wilbur blinked, tilting his head. 

“What?” He hadn’t looked away from Technoblade since the boy had poked his head out of the box, but he finally turned to look up at his dad. 

“Think he could be your new brother? Come on adventures with us?” Just like when Philza had asked Wilbur if he himself wanted to travel with him, his whole body lit up with excitement. 

“Really? That would be awesome.” He was bouncing again. Philza breathed a laugh at Wilbur, before turning back to look at Technoblade.

“What do you think, Technoblade?” He tilted his head the other way, glancing between Wilbur and Philza. “Want to come with us?” The tiny boy thought for a second before nodding, holding his hands up to Philza, indicating he wanted to be picked up. Philza happily obliged, moving to his feet and reaching down to the excited boy, who now had a huge smile that showed off tiny tusks growing from his bottom row of teeth. He placed Techno on his hip, offered a hand to Wilbur to help him stand, and the now-trio walked away from the broken cobble stairs. 

As they walked away, Wilbur began to ramble about all the adventures he would have with his new brother, and telling him about all of the adventures past. 

It took Technoblade a month to finally start talking to Philza and Wilbur, and only four more for him to start calling him ‘dad’.

---

Dealing with two teenagers was not something that Philza had ever prepared for. Granted he had not even planned for children, but instead found the two boys that now called him dad. This meant that, of course, he never had to mentally fortify himself for any of what he was dealing with. 

Wilbur and Technoblade were constantly trying to fight mobs, and when there were no mobs, each other. Twelve and fifteen, and so much energy. Although Wilbur was slowly starting to lose that youthful energy that Techno still gripped on to. However, the day they found the third of Philza’s boys, he began to learn that some people are always fueled by a youthful energy.

Just as Philza always passed through villages old and new when he travelled alone, Techno and Wilbur had been taught to develop that same habit. Philza had sent them down the centre of the ruined village, going around the outskirts himself. He figured that while they had been travelling with him for a while, fighting mobs in the overworld and nether alike, it was better to be safe than sorry, and so decided on sending them off alone for the first time through an empty village would be best. 

Philza skirted the village, picking up crops that had grown on their own and checking small buildings the excited boys would have no doubt skipped over. He knew that the two of them together would be looking for a fight, but would also keep each other safe. They had grown very attached to each other in the eight years they had been with Philza, referring to each other as brothers. It always warmed Philza’s heart when they called him ‘dad’ or each other as brother - they had bumped into a young man with a creeper mask on his own adventure a couple of years prior and Wilbur had introduced Techno as his little brother, a memory which still makes Philza smile. 

He had made it to the centre of the village, trailing behind the boys, when he heard a scream. Less of a scream but more a shout of surprise, but Wilbur had an unfortunate voice crack in the middle of the cry and it sounded as if he had let out a short scream. Immediately, Philza sprinted towards the sound of his son’s voice, hoping that both were still together and alive. He skidded around a corner and paused.

The sight in front of him was rather amusing. A small boy with matted blonde hair and a formerly white and red shirt was blindly swinging a stone sword while shouting and swearing, while Techno had his iron sword held in front of him in both hands, and Wilbur had his by his own hanging limply by his side. Both of Philza’s sons were wearing very confused expressions. 

“You aren’t stealing my shit!! Go away!” The small boy pushed the oversized helmet resting on his head back as it had slipped in front of his eyes. “This is my house!” 

“Dude!” Technoblade attempted to calm the shouting child, but the boy was having none of it.

“Don’t ‘dude’ me. Go away!” Though amused, Philza decided it was probably time to step in between the children before someone actually started swinging a sword with the intent to seriously injure the other party. As he walked forward, Techno kept his eyes locked on the blond boy, but Wilbur turned to look at him.

“We didn’t do anything, dad. He just… jumped out at us screaming.” The boy on the steps finally turned to Philza, who was nodding in understanding at what Wilbur said. 

“I know.” He stepped in front of Techno, after pushing his hands down, forcing him to lower the sword. “Hey bud. What’s your name?” The stone sword had finally stopped being wildly swung, but was still pointed (though it was clear that the boy was struggling with the weight of it).

“My name’s Tommy.” He finally gave up on holding up the sword. “What’s it to you old man?” Philza scoffed. This kid was ballsy and loud and needed somewhere to channel his energy. He took another step forward and slowly reached forward. Tommy’s grip on his sword tightened again, but even though he wouldn’t show it, his arms were clearly sore and exhausted from the wild swinging, so the sword remained with it’s tip pressed into the step. Hand on either side of the large helmet engulfing Tommy’s head, Philza lifted it up and tucked it under one arm, ruffling the blond locks with the other hand.

“Well, Tommy, my name is Philza and do you want to fight mobs with us and go adventuring?” Philza didn’t know for sure if this young boy was alone or not, but he was hanging out alone in a village ruin defending a tiny shack, so it was a safe assumption. 

“Dad.” The ‘a’ sound was dragged out in an exaggerated groan from Techno. “Does he have t-” He was cut off but a ‘thwap’ sound that resulted from Wilbur smacking him upside the head. 

“Shut up.” Wilbur hissed, hoping that for once Techno would listen.

“What? The kid tried to slice me!” Philza whipped his head around and glared at the boys, and they both quickly straightened, pretending to do nothing wrong. He turned back to look at the boy who was sticking his tongue out at Techno.

“Tommy?” Just like with Techno and Wilbur, Tommy straightened his posture and pretended to look at his feet. “Are you coming?” The boy held out his sword for Philza to take, which he did, before turning and racing inside. Sounds of rummaging came from behind the door, before Tommy reammerged, a much-too-large backpack strapped on. 

“Let’s do this!” 

In a matter of days, Tommy was calling out ‘dad’ to get Philza’s attention. 

--- (original post that inspired this part) --- 

Campsites had gotten harder to find with three boys. Each had developed their own ideas of “safe”, and none of them wanted to listen to Philza. The only solution was to allow them to take turns. Tommy had decided that forests were best, while Techno and Wilbur at least agreed that underground was safest. Unfortunately for the eldest pair, it was Tommy’s night to decide. So the four of them had to march through a thickly wooded area in search of a clearing for the night. 

“Here!” It was barely a clearing, but it was enough space to pitch tents for the night. Tommy spun in a circle with his arms out wide after dropping his backpack, while Wilbur and Technoblade looked at each other. 

“Alright, you three set up camp, I’ll check the area.” Philza dropped his bag beside Tommy’s and retrieved his sword, bow and quiver already over his shoulder. He knew that the boys would be safe, and trusted them to keep each other safe, so he had already turned his back and was already on the move.

“Don’t forget to call out if you find anything!” Techno’s voice echoed slightly in the empty area, and Philza waved his empty hand above his head, indicating that he heard and would do so. 

Checking every possible hiding spot was important to do during the day, to make sure that there were no mobs during the day when they would burn that would later add to the number of mobs that night. Places like the hollowed out trunks of trees. 

Philza had ducked into each as he moved and only saw the occasional spider, with one exception.

He had reached what he had decided was the last tree he would check, and bent down to duck his head inside, only to be met with a curled up figure with a faded yellow and grey striped sweatshirt. They had their arms wrapped around their knees and there was what looked like dried blood in their matted hair.

“Hey buddy.” The figure looked up, and Philza saw more dried blood on his face and sweatshirt. “Are you okay?” The boy shook his head.

“My dad…” His voice broke at the end, and his eyes began to water.

“It’s okay, you don’t need to tell me.” Philza held out his hand, which the boy cautiously took. “What’s your name?” The young boy wiped his eyes with the end of his oversized sleeve.

“Tubbo.” He snuggled slightly and looked up at Philza with wide eyes. 

“Well, Tubbo,” Philza still hadn’t let go of Tubbo’s hand, noticing that Tubbo simply adjusted his hand in Philza’s to hold it better, “do you want to come eat with my and my sons? I think my youngest is the same age as you.” The small boy wiped his nose on his sleeve and nodded. “I’m Philza, by the way.”

---

[ilguna]

Lacuna - Chapters 13-16 (f.o)

summary: they say the odds tend to favor those who need them. well, they were wrong.

warnings; swearing. MURDER, GORE.

wc; 10.3k

NOTES; I give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

-- CHAPTER THIRTEEN --

If this is what it’s like to be dead, then you don’t want to be dead anymore. 

First off, it’s cold as all hell in here. It’s like when you were younger and your brothers would throw you into the frigid ass water for fun in the winter. Of course, you could swim back then. Like every other person in district four, you had learned to swim at the sprightly age of four, probably younger. You start young when it comes to knots, fishing and swimming.

By the time you’re seven or eight you’re basically blending in with the water. Most kids by then can swim like they never left the water, they’re fish themselves. You used to race the kids back home all the time to see who could swim fastest from dock to dock. And those were like a quarter to a half a mile apart each. Every single damn time, you somehow managed to beat them. The runner up would always be at least thirty seconds behind you. On good days, more.

Fishing? Well, if you’re old enough to hold a rod then you’re old enough to get your ass sat on the boat. You can surely get something caught on the line, and then your parents would reach over and get the fish off of the hook for you. Then, you throw the sucker back in, and the process repeats. Really, they’re doing all the work, you’re just sitting there to keep the rod from going anywhere when something does tug back.

And knot tying is easy. Clumsy fingers get better as time goes on, but you observe until you’re eight or nine. You don’t start the knots until you’re nine to ten because the chances of the kids fucking up a perfectly good line with a bad line, is more common than you think. Even the prodigies are prone to messing up on the simplest ones. It’s fine though, they’ll learn it in the next couple years of their life, and soon they’ll be doing it in their sleep.

When they’re bored, they’ll ask for a rope or a wire to mess with so they can fuck around and tie knots. Practice gets you everywhere in this day and age, so there’s no better way to do it than when you’re bored. If you can do it without looking, then god damn, you might as well be teaching the others. Sometimes, you still catch Reed looking down to tie them, and he’s been doing it for over ten years by now.

The room is cold, and it only gets worse as time goes on. Sometimes, it’ll ease up just a little bit, but that’s rare. Every couple of hours, you’re certain. It’s not a constant feeling of the warmth of a goddamn grizzly bear snuggled right up against your side. You wish it was though, then you wouldn’t be shivering and chattering your teeth. They hit against each other, and you think that you’ll bite your tongue or chip one of your many teeth.

Not to mention the fact that it’s wet. There’s always the sound of water running, every now and then you’ll get a drop of water on your forehead or something. Furthering the fact that you’re cold. Who knew a single drop of water could ruin the temporary warmth that you’d falsely given yourself?

You, you guess.

“I-I-It’s cold as b-buh-balls in he-here.” you mutter, going to turn over.

The stabbing pain in your lower abdomen makes your eyes snap open, a muffled scream tries to leave your mouth, but a hand reaches over to place it over your mouth. Your entire body begins to ache. From your neck to your thighs. The left side of your face is swollen and your nose is very much crooked. It’s throwing you off.

When you raise your hand to grab the arm, you see that your own are littered in purple, blue and black bruises. In a panic, you shove whoever it is off, as you desperately tear off the sleeping bag without actually ripping it.

You know who it is next to you. You can see the wide green eyes staring at you in shock. His blonde hair is stuck to his forehead like he just came through the waterfall a minute ago. He’s in nothing but his pants, probably letting his jacket and shirt dry. You can already hear him asking you what you’re doing and he hasn’t even opened his mouth just yet.

“Woah--” Finnick starts, the second you unzip the jacket, pulling it off, “Are you cold? You might have hypothermia--”

“It’s not burning!” you snap, pulling your shirt up, and only then do you slow down for a moment. To see the shirt wrapped around your waist and the blood seeping through along with the bruises blossoming across your stomach, “How many of my ribs are broken?”

“I don’t know.” Finnick sits down now, rather than crouching, “I thought you were dead when I found you.”

You look to him, squinting, “When did you find me?”

“The uh--the night that two had died?”

“Very specific.”

“A couple days after Allio had died.” he tells you.

“Three days?” you ask, you’ve barely been keeping track, and now that you’ve been out for fuck knows how long, this entire thing has thrown it off balance.

“Yeah,”

“Who died? I only heard one cannon.” you mutter, zipping the jacket back up, and you notice that the jacket isn’t very breezy in the back.

Motherfucker! He’s tied his shirt around your waist and gave you his jacket. He has to be freezing, and he’s doing it to make sure that you get better. Or Finnick has an ulterior motive, he’s trying to win you back after he pulled that ass move and left you behind.

Finnick’s face twists with worry the second your eyes turn on him, “I’m sorry, okay? I couldn’t just stay there--”

“Like hell you couldn’t!” you shout, shouting hurts your side, but it’s a dull pain.

“Playing pretend? Playing house? I don’t know how you lasted for so long.” he says calmly.

“It was going well until they fuckin’ figured out that I killed Allio,” you sigh, propping yourself up on the rocks behind you.

“You killed Allio?”

“You killed the girl from six?” you mock.

“And Thyme.” he tells you, moving away from you now, and before you can ask, he answers, “Mercy kill.”

“Who died after that?” you ask, running your fingers over your nose. You’re not too thrilled when it doesn’t hurt as badly as you thought it would. It means that it’s setting. Your nose is going to be fucking stuck like this.

“Guys from ten and three.”

You nearly choke on your spit, “Blaire? Blaire’s dead?!” 

“Is that ten or three?”

“Three!” you cry, you can feel the frown on your face before it’s even settled, “He saved me from Lennox. If it weren’t for him, I would have been beaten to death. But I guess he felt like he owed me after I saved him from starving.”

“You saw him a second time?” Finnick looks over his shoulder.

“The day you left I saw him down by the lake or something, don’t remember exactly. Spent most of my time at the pond-lake and he kept showing up. My little bit of company.”

“Leave it to you to make friends in everyone you meet.” he mutters, you glare at the back of his head.

“Leave it to the fourteen-year-old boy to bail on his first alliance to deal with the career pack alone.” you pick up the nearest rock and hurl it at the back of his head for emphasis.

He groans, rubbing it and giving you a small glance over his shoulder, “Like I said--”

“I don’t want another apology.” you tell him, “Or an excuse.”

He doesn’t say anything, staring off into the water.

“Anyone else die?”

“Boy from eight.”

“Any of those kills yours?”

“The girl from eight on the first day, Thyme and the girl from six. Then the boy from ten and also the boy from eight.”

Quick mental math tells you that it’s five. He’s killed five so far, the same as you. Ten people that were in this arena have been killed by the district four participants. Everyone back home must be thrilled. You can’t wait for people to ask you what it’s like being a murder. It happened to Mags, it’ll surely happen to you.

And your response? You’ll ask them if they want to be added to the numbers.

“Damn. You know mine already.” you begin to push yourself up, and with all the noise, Finnick turns.

“What are you doing?”

“Fresh air.”

“You’re going to get the bandage wet.”

“Then I’ll take it off, it’s bloody anyway.” you begin with the jacket.

“Wouldn’t be if you stopped moving.” he mutters.

“I’m going to give you a black eye.” you threaten.

“To go along with yours? Along with that broken nose?”

“Finnick I swear to god, I don’t have a problem with stabbing you to death in here.”

He laughs, “You’re weak. Probably can’t even hold your arms above your head.” it’s quiet for a moment as you debate if you’re willing to prove him wrong, he adds, “That wasn’t a challenge.”

“It’s about to be.” you tell him, grabbing the bottom of your shirt as you very slowly pull it off. It starts in your ribs, and then slowly travels to your shoulders. When the rim--is that the right word?--of the shirt hits your swollen eye, you wince. 

“We’re in the third week, I think. Six people left. Four if it’s just me and you.” he looks over.

Final numbers.

“Well, good.” you say, but it’s not good. You’re covered in bruises, broken bones and a stab wound in your stomach. You’re useless. Finnick could have killed you in your sleep and you wouldn’t have known. It would all have been done for you.

Once you start kicking at your shoes, Finnick realizes that you’re serious. He moves over, untying the boots and then helping with your pants. He carefully unties the bandage, since you hadn’t touched it just yet. And then he takes off his own socks and pants so it won’t get wet. Might as well come back into the little cave with dry things to wear.

It’s daytime, you can see it through the water. You put one hand over the stab place, passing through the water. It’s a little hard on the head, from the gallons of water hitting your head. But as soon as you pass through, you’re heading for the pond-lake water.

“It’s salt.” Finnick says as if you don’t already know.

You slip in, and you can hear Finnick splashing behind you. Probably worrying that you’re going to end up drowning or anything. You can swim even in the worst conditions, he can go fuck himself.

Despite this, he holds beneath your arms, helping you into the water slowly. You want to leave the second that the salt water enters the wound, but you push through it. He can clearly see how uncomfortable you are, but allows you to continue. He’s smart, knows not to try and tell you what’s best for yourself. You need to be up and on your feet, running around like you’re good as new.

Not saying that you want to kill off the last four, but there’s no way that you can stay in here for another week. Another goddamn agonizing week of eating fish, drinking iodized salt water and shivering in a sleeping bag. It has to end, you’re hungry, you’re tired, you’re absolutely exhausted to your very bones.

“Mac, Trink and Lennox and whoever the last--”

“Girl from five.” Finnick interrupts, and you nod.

“Girl from five.” you agree.

“What about them?” his hands are very gentle on your sides, and they eventually fade away in the water.

“They need to--” you try, but Finnick’s hand really is ripped from your arm now, jerking you harshly. You’re about to complain, until he’s pulled beneath the water, sending water flying into the air, “Finnick?” 

How? How has he--you’re standing in the water! You’re fucking standing in it!”

You take in a deep breath, even though your lungs complain, following Finnick under the water. And you see the crevice he slipped into. A ravine in the middle of the pond-lake, and it goes down a while.

He’s reaching up for you, pointing to his ankle, and then making a stabbing motion.

His knife is on the seafloor, so you grab it. Something is holding onto his ankle and he needs you to save him.

You return to the top for air, knowing that it’ll be your last for a few minutes, and then you dive down. It’s probably not smart to have the knife sticking out from your mouth, or for it to be placed there in the first place, but it makes it easier for moving your arms. Before you know it, you’ve hit the crack, and you’re getting closer to Finnick by the second.

You take it out of your mouth, offering the handle to Finnick. His fingers graze it, and then he takes it after. Your lungs are burning, and you wish you could stay, but you’ll only drown. He’s working at his ankle, as you’re swimming up and occasionally looking down at him.

Then, he gets free, and he’s swimming faster than you are straight towards the top. On the way, he makes you wrap your arms around his torso, before he continues. When you’ve broken the surface, he’s gasping for air, you have a pounding headache, and it feels like you’ll never be able to hold air ever again.

“We need to leave.” you tell him, taking his arm as you pull him back to the waterfall, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” he tells you, and hisses when you take his hand instead.

You pull it up to look at, tilting your head when you can’t see anything, but then you bring it closer, seeing all the little cuts on his fingers, palms…

“Are you using vines?” you turn to look at him, he nods.

“How’d you know?”

“Because Blaire had the same cuts.”

“Sounds like you and Blaire were getting cozy.” he mutters.

“No time for jealousy after you ran off with Thyme.” you tell him, “the cuts aren’t poisonous I don’t think. You’ll live.”

“Thanks.” he says, “Hungry?”

“I guess.”

It’s a bummer that the pond-lake time was cut short. You were really looking forward for planning out the future. What you want to do as soon as you’re better. Mags has to send shit now, you’re awake and there’s no better way to heal your wounds than when you’re cognizant. 

You’re ringing out your hair, which has grown a little longer in your time of being in the arena, when there’s a series of chimes, stopping you. Finnick looks to the sky from where he’d been staring off into the water.

“What the hell?”

“Congratulations on being the final six alive.” The gamemaker tells you guys, you feel like this is a trap, and you reach for Finnick immediately, he takes your hand, “There has been a rule change. If you and your district partner are still alive, then both of you may be crowned victors in these hunger games.”

You turn to Finnick the same moment he looks to you.

The gamemaker repeats what he says, as if you guys don’t understand. But you heard him the first time. A loud, crystal clear rule change. Who else would miss something this big?

“We can go home.” You laugh, grabbing Finnick, “Four more people and then we can go!”

“Only four?”

“Only four.” You confirm, pulling him closer.

-- CHAPTER FOURTEEN --

The rule change benefits two districts only. There’s obviously yours, you and Finnick are very much alive. District four has to be celebrating at this exact moment. Mox definitely cried when he received the news, and Reed was surprised. You can see it now.

This isn’t the first time the gamemakers have made this change. Every now and then, when there are districts with two people left in them, they’ll make this change. The particular district that wins, brings home their two kids. Celebrations are grand, bigger and better. And it’s expected that the winners are especially grateful. After all, you guys are supposed to be learning from your mistakes your ancestors made.

It’s only happened ten other times in the last sixty years. It’s not allowed during the Quarter Quells, at all. Because those are the special events. The twenty-fifth they chose the tributes, the fiftieth they got double the amount, and in eleven years there will be a third one. You’re just glad that you’re going to be a victor now. So they can’t throw a huge twist like six kids go in or something.

The rule change is never predicted, it’s a random choice. There have been times in the past where someone was able to guess that it would happen. People found out the system on why they did it, and started to find their way around it. After having the rule change twice in a row, the gamemakers realized that tributes were manipulating it.

They would choose the couples. So when everyone was beginning to cuddle up with each other—except for the huge age gaps like the twelve year olds and the fifteen—it became more common. Again, they figured this out and stopped doing it. Now it’s a once in a blue moon sort of thing.

You got really lucky.

You know that Reed is on the edge of his seat now. He’s cheering you on harder, telling you more advice, even if you can’t hear it. He has to be driving everyone around him nuts, even himself. He’ll be afraid to get on the boat to fish because he doesn’t want to miss anything important, like you or Finnick dying. Reed will be counting on Finnick to keep alive.

However, if Finnick were to die, it’s not an automatic crowning to district one—they have Trink and Lennox still alive, which is why there’s a rule change—they have to survive the other tributes. Kill one of them, Trink or Lennox, it doesn’t matter, then the rules will revert. There will be one victor only.

You could still very much win, it would be a lot more difficult. You’ll be fighting against the four others to make it home. Trink or Lennox would have to be the first to go. To even the playing fields, if one of them is dead, then they can’t team up against anyone. 

District One will probably shower the brats with all the riches they can afford. You wouldn’t doubt it if they got special treatment from the Capitol too. They have so many goddamn victors, it’s annoying. There are constantly houses being built for a new victor each year. They don’t win? No biggie, they’ll win next year.

Four won’t get the same treatment as one, or two. You guys will get the houses, the infinite riches and the celebrations the same as everyone else. But it won’t be as grand, it’ll be like the other districts. Four is a career but four is treated like it’s one of the rich districts but nothing important.

Anyway, the rule change is very important. Keep you and Finnick alive, kill the others and go home. You need to wipe out Trink or Lennox, either or, doesn’t matter. And the others will fall into your hands eventually.

“These vines are insufferable.” Finnick whines, you look from where you’re sitting to see that his hands are completely raw.

“Stop touching it!” You kick his arm with your foot, before going back to the fish.

“I can’t, it needs to be fixed.” Finnick mutters, you get up, yanking the damn thing out of his hands before throwing it through the water, “Hey!”

“Mags will send us rope or something,” you tell him, going to look at his expensive ass gift in the corner of the cave, “And then we can make a proper net.”

“Do you even know how?” Finnick puts his hands into the water to wash them off.

“Didn’t I tell you already? Blaire taught me how. I’ll be able to make a sturdy net with some rope.” You tell him.

You take a moment, deliberating if you want to go through the water or not. But the music from a sponsor makes your ears perk up practically, and you’re stumbling through the water, trying to keep your balance from the force of the water. 

Mags has sent a couple of things since you woke. The first thing is the cream for the wound on your side. You’ve been applying it every night, and it’s done it’s magic. It’s nothing but a bright pink scar now. She had nothing for bruises, or broken bones. So you’ve had to tough it out.

Finnick got his gift a couple days after he had left, sometime during the second week. You hadn’t even noticed it until you and him went back inside after the rule change. To see the silver trident staring back at you. Finnick was all smug talking about how it had to have cost thousands. All you could say was that he could have done just the same with a spear. But he told you that it wasn’t the same.

Whatever, both of you have your respected weapons now. He told you his technique on how he killed so many. You listened as he informed you of the net, that he would throw over the people, get them trapped and tangled. Then he would come in with the trident and kill them just like that.

Unfortunately, with that technique, it meant he kept losing the vine-nets. He’s made four, and he was on his way to making the fifth. Finnick wasn’t too fond of the idea of untangling the bodies of the people he killed from the nets. So instead he just let the gamemakers take them, because they’ll be able to cut it apart and take the body after that. Plus, he didn’t want to take the chance of the gamemakers getting impatient.

But with a rope, no more tiny cuts in the hands. It saves time, it means you guys can kill more people with the light through the waterfall technique. It draws people in, he nets them, kills them, and then the process repeats. But the nets took so much time to make that it would be hard to get two in a day.

Finnick splashes through the water faster than you can. On the way, he steps on the vine-net, and he hisses. Jumping on one foot for a second, holding the other he whines about the thorns. And then he continues, wobbling on his feet slightly.

“This is why you wear shoes!” You tell him, kicking the vines off to the side, away from where either of you would bother to go.

“It’s the hunger games, I don’t need shoes!” He tells you, grabbing the floating sponsor gift. He brings it all the way back over, being careful not to let it touch the water.

It would be fine, if it can float in the water, then it can sink or take in some. It’s probably waterproof, actually. But you can say that you’ve ever seen a gift sent when the tributes were in the water. This is a first for you.

Finnick stands on the rocks next to you, and carefully unravels the parachute, and then opens the lid. It’s a fairly big gift, so when it shows a shit ton of rope, you cheer slightly.

“See! Told you—“

Finnick tilts his head, pulling up the paper. It’s sogs a little in his fingers since they’re wet, but it would be the same for you. Going through the waterfall had completely soaked you like you were swimming in the pond-lake like Finnick had.

“It’s from our district.” Finnick tells you, moving it so you can see.

And clear as day, it says, “This will work better than vines, District Four.”

Tears gather in your eyes and you have to cover your face for a moment, “Just a second.”

“Don’t worry, I’m crying too.” Finnick laughs, and you move your hands.

He pulls out the rope, weighing it in his hands, “Can this stand four more?”

“It could stand the entire twenty-two had we gotten it at the beginning.” You laugh, he joins in.

You look to the water, there has to be a camera on you somewhere, “Thank you, it won’t go to waste. We love you, and we’ll both be home soon, I promise.”

Finnick nods along, “We miss you tons.”

“Can’t wait to start fishing again.” You snicker, and Finnick punches your arm this time, “No but seriously, thank you.”

You and Finnick slip into the cave, being sure to cover the rope so it doesn’t get wet. When you get inside, you unravel the coil, and grab your knife.

“Gonna teach me how?” Finnick asks, you grin at him slightly.

“Sure. If you promise to be a good sport about it.”

—

If Finnick says that it has worked four times before, then it’ll work this time too, if the others will take the bait. The singles are probably desperate to wipe out the doubles so they’ll be able to go home. It’s the same tactic that you were saying before. They’ll be able to make it home if the doubles are taken out because they can’t team up.

The fire is like luring them to their deaths, almost. The both of you are prepared to take them down, and they might be thinking that you’re stupid for even trying a fire in the first place. Wondering how you’ve managed to stay alive so long with such stupid ideas. 

Instead, you guys are clever. You guys have got everything on lock. The fire, the net ready and the trident and spears within grasp if necessary. Unlike all the other times though, Finnick has someone to help. All it’ll take is for them to get caught and for him to stab. There’s no reason for him to even bother helping you with the net.

You’ve made it big enough for them to get caught in, and you didn’t cut the string for the rim. You pull it shut, there’s no escape, and they're tangled in the mesh. Finnick can get them within a couple of seconds, send the body off, and stomp out the fire. Make a new net, rinse and repeat.

“How do you like your fish? Burnt or extra burnt?”

“Preferably not burnt.” You look over to see that they’re practically black, “Remind me why I put you on cooking duty.”

“Because you were wallowing in your own misery?”

“Y’know Finnick, it’s really not that hard to not be a dick.” 

“Some girls think it’s charming.”

“I’m not some girls.” You huff, “But I’m guessing Thyme was?”

Finnick rolls his eyes before shoving the burnt fish your way, “I didn't like her like that.”

“Try again.”

“You are jealous.” He looks smug, again.

“Were you jealous when I told you that Blaire, boy from district three that I was hanging out with for a week straight, no supervision. Just me, him, the vines and the water were together? Him teaching me how to weave the vines, me feeding him so he didn’t die? Were you jealous then?” You tilt your head, watching as the smug falls and turns into something else.

“No.”

“Your voice cracked. You’re a fucking liar.” You tell him, “And by the way, it’s your own fault that I had to make friends with other people while you abandoned me. Leaving me to the fucking hounds.”

“You managed it seems.” He goes to eat.

“That’s not the point.” You tell him, “Partners in crime. An alliance! We were in this together!”

“At least we’re in it together now.”

“Yeah,” you mutter bitterly, going to eat.

It has to be only five minutes of silence, before the splashing of water interrupts you both. Finnick jumps immediately, kicking everything out of the way as quickly and quietly as he can. You take one final bite, getting a mouthful before the net is in your hands.

“Dumbasses.” It's a female voice, but it’s not Trink.

“Who?” you mouth to Finnick, and he thinks for a moment.

“Girl from five.” he mouths back, and then shrugs, “Trink?”

You shake your head.

The splashing gets louder as time goes on, and then you can just barely see her silhouette through the water. Finnick nods to you, letting you know that you should do it.

You get a little closer, hands through the water and then you toss it. There’s a yelp, and you yank the rope, trapping her inside. Finnick goes through the water.

“Wait!” the girl screams.

“Who’s the dumbass now?” Finnick asks, and then the cannon sounds.

Crouching down, you cut the rope, “You can send her into the water.”

“The careers--” Finnick barely gets out, you grab onto the spear. Your heart is pounding in your ears when you stumble through the water.

It’s just Lennox in the water, and he’s bearing a sword. When he sees you, he hisses, “Bitch!”

He turns to leave, but you raise the spear, going to throw it. Finnick grabs your hand, stopping you, “Not today.”

“I can hit him.” you reason, and Finnick goes to your ear.

“They’re going to want a show.”

He’s right, Snow will want a show. So, you’ll just have to wait for another time to kill them. It’s a shame, because you could wipe Lennox right off the fucking map, and all you’d have to kill is Mac and Trink.

When Lennox is out of sight, you send the girl from five off. 

“He knows where we’re staying.” you lean into Finnick a little.

“He won’t come until he’s prepared with Trink,” Finnick tells you, and you watch as the girl gets taken away. You wonder how the family is taking it. If you make it, then that means on the victory tour you’ll have to see their families.

For you, five to six--you’re not sure if the five girl will count as the sixth, since you didn’t kill her directly, you just assisted--different families you have to face. Stand tall and bear your chest and try not to cry because you’re guilty to the very last cell. You killed their family. You killed that twelve year old boy from twelve.

You killed the girl from ten, the boy from eleven, Eytelle, the boy from twelve and Allio. And now the girl from six. You’ve got five deaths on your hands, and you’ll have to face them.

Is it even worth it?

Yes, it is. You’ve gone all this way, you can’t just bow out of it now. You’re almost done, three more to go.

“I’ll go make a net big enough.” you turn, leaving Finnick outside.

-- CHAPTER FIFTEEN --

The sound of a cannon jolts you awake. Finnick, who’s beside you, jumps three feet in the air as he suddenly reaches for his trident. He creeps out of the only sleeping bag that you have, and he goes to the water. Before he can cross it, you grab his ankle.

“You’ll get all wet.” you whisper.

“I need to see.” he tells you, but he knows you’re right. So he strips free of his boots, socks, jacket, shirt, and pants.

He leaves it in a disorganized pile off to the side. Out of reach of any water that might backsplash when he walks through. You watch as he winces at the cold water, before disappearing. The faint sound of splashing allows you to calm down a little bit.

It would be a blessing to get up and follow him. So he wouldn’t be going out there alone, you’d be right next to him in case there is someone else. Ready to pounce and strike.

They know where you are, so sitting here, inside of this cave makes you feel like you’re trapped. At any given moment they could show up and you would be fucked. Especially with Finnick gone, there’s nothing you can do.

Whatever you caught while being in here, it’s bedridden you. Getting up and around is painful. It’s hard enough to sleep at night when it feels like a thousand tiny needles are jabbing into your stomach. It took you over two hours to fall asleep, and you can take a safe bet that you only slept for a couple of hours.

It feels like it’s only been a couple of hours. You should be wide awake, ready to help Finnick if he were to call for help, but your eyes are drooping. Begging for another couple of hours before your body realizes you’re awake and starts the pain. You don’t close your eyes, laying your head down instead.

The spashling has long since stopped. It’s almost pure silence, except for the sound of cicadas and the random shuffling of leaves. The water is a constant, you’ve managed to drown it out by now. Not even background noise, it’s silence due to the consistency. However, you can hear the waves, coming up onto the shore of the rocks nearby.

You try to focus on them, hoping that there will be an irregular rhythm, but it turns out that they too have their own system. Before you know it, your eyes have closed on their own. You grind your teeth to keep yourself awake, it doesn’t work. Your jaw will go slack and it jolts your awake almost.

With a sigh, you push yourself up. Your muscles complain, and you’ve already stirred something in your stomach. Ignoring it, you begin pulling off your own boots, following with the socks.

You strain to hear any sort of sound that would indicate that he’s alive. Water splashing, heavy breathing, the trident accidentally hitting the rocks, but you get nothing.

The clothes come off a little faster now, socks, jacket, pants. You take a breather because the shirt is going to cause more pain that it’s worth. When you feel like you can tolerate it, two hands on the bottom of the cloth, and a quick movement. 

The stabbing appears, and the lines are blurred between your still very broken ribs or the sickness in your stomach. When the shirt is off of you, and you have a moment to breathe, nausea hits you like a truck. You place your hand on the wall to steady yourself, thinking that the cold will jolt your brain.

It works a little bit, but the idea of you puking is at the front of your mind now, unwillingly. You can’t puke, it’s taken you days to work up an appetite. Whatever you have has completely gotten rid of hunger, which is making you drop weight. Finnick can see it, you know.

He gets this worried look in his eyes each time he watches you get up and move. Or try to choke down food, even if it makes you gag. He probably isn’t on your back about it because he knows that you’re trying. You’re not trying to be bedridden, you’re not purposely starving yourself. He knows you want to live, and you guess that he’s waiting for the moment you give up.

It’s charming for him to be worried like that but it makes you feel like a baby. If you wanted to be babied, you would have acted like this since the beginning, even if you weren’t sick. Being incapable of taking care of yourself isn’t a trait that you want in here. Doesn’t get sponsors, at all.

As you get up, you feel like you’ve gained forty years of age. Your muscles are aching, everything hurts in general. The dizziness and the pounding headache comes back. Besides this all, you reach over for the spear, using it as a cane as you hobble your way out of the cave.

The water is cold, and once again, the force of tons of water hitting you nearly knocks you off your feet. On a regular day, sickness and injury free, you would be able to walk through this like it’s nothing. Look at what time has done to you. Made you the goddam laughing stock of the pen.

It’s still dark out, the moon is fairly high, you guess that it’s midnight to one in the morning. It’s an odd time for someone to die, unless Trink and Lennox we’re hunting down Mac or something. Could be the other way around and got himself killed. Mac killed one of them, got away. One of them died of the same sickness you have…

Possibilities are endless here. There’s hundreds of ideas they could have used on you guys. You just want to know what’s so special about midnight, if the gamemakers had done it. Maybe all of you are having trouble sleeping and this is their way of torturing you guys. Subtly, and with sacrifices.

There’s no sight of Finnick, anywhere. Even though you’re already soaking wet, you’re not too fond of the idea of going into the water. The night time is when the creatures come to life. If Finnick had gotten grabbed, then that’s it for him. You can’t go in to save him blind, the automatic right to the win would be given to District One.

You sit in the cold water, knees to your chest as you look over the water, and then the nearby trees. Then to the sky as if they’ll display whoever it is that died. You’ll have to wait tomorrow to see, unless that’s what Finnick is doing.

If he went to the cornucopia by himself then he’s stupid. You get the motive—he goes to see if Trink and Lennox are there, then comes back without being seen—but he’s half naked, soaked in water with a metal trident. The motherfucker is probably slipping and sliding out of his hands. 

You sit out there for another ten minutes, no longer tired, splashing the water onto your stomach every now and then to ease the pain. Eventually, you hear splashing that isn’t coming from you. Your eyes dart over, and you see Finnick, trident in hand as he wades through the water. He makes stabbing motions to keep the creatures away.

“Sorry, I didn’t think I’d be so long.” Finnick tells you, “But it’s hard to leave when they’re talking about an attack plan.”

You perk up, “You’re forgiven, what did you hear?”

“Well, Mac is the one that’s dead.” He tells you, but you guessed that already. The psychopaths from district one are smarter than whatever Mac did to die.

“That’s fine.” You tell him, “A bummer, he was nice. But fine.”

Finnick chuckles, he takes a seat next to you, and then presses a quick kiss to your lips. You scowl, because you’re not looking forward to him getting sick too. But really, he would have had to be sick by now if it’s contagious. What the fuck did you get sick off of?

“They want to attack in two days. Build up on body weight and all of that again. They don’t know if we’re the ones that are dead or killed Mac or whatever. Taking a guess it was Mac that died at least.” He informs, you nod along to it. 

“Two days to plan their murder, huh?” You quirk an eyebrow at him and he chuckles.

“Any ideas?”

“A few.” You admit, a small smirk coming over your face, “Remember how Lennox choked me?”

“Wasn’t there but yes.” He says, crossing his legs.

“And my last name is Gallows…” you trail off, splashing water a little bit.

“Uh huh.”

“What if we take that extra rope, tie it into a noose, lure him in and hang him?” You look over to see him with the same sickening grin that’s covering your face.

“Sounds interesting. Who’s luring and how are we hanging?”

—

Finnick has to watch you way more carefully now. One of your hands are either on his shoulder, so that you may catch yourself in case you stumble. Or it’s in the crook of his arm, where he’ll be able to swoop you into his arms if your legs buckle beneath you. The sickness is eating away at your muscle.

There are times when you’ll be standing, perfectly fine, and you’ll forget about the illness altogether. And then, your legs will give out, Finnick is diving across the room to catch you so you don’t snap anything like a wrist, trying to catch yourself. Your body will slump, like you’re lifeless, but you’re so very aware of it.

It’s scaring him now. He doesn’t think you’ll make it out alive, he thinks that you’ll die in here, from whatever you caught. You’re not hungry, you gag and throw up most of the food you get down. The lack of exercise is diminishing what little muscle you came into the arena with. There’s a high fever, you’re sweating almost constantly, but then the chills will swoop in out of nowhere. Not to mention the round-the-clock headache. 

You want it all to stop. You’ve never got this sick back home, it was the common flu that went around. Only the very, very poor, skinny kids would die to it, since their immune system can’t handle anything. But that’s hardly ever the case, even the poorest people in the district have a fair chunk of change to carry around.

If you’re going to die from whatever Capitol-altered disease, you’d just have it done in a snap. It’s been almost a week of you having it. And the fact that it had gotten so bad overnight is not a good sign. It was just earlier this morning, midnight when you were conspiring with Finnick on how to end this.

It evolved and it’s completely ruined your body within an eight to eleven hour time span. This means that today, tomorrow, or the day after are your final days. You die tonight, it just leaves Finnick to deal with the others. You can’t do that to him, you can’t send him home alone after all that has happened.

You’re not going to give this up.

“Eat.” Finnick shoves the fish into your hands and you take in a small breath, to keep your side from being stabbed. 

“Finnick this won’t stay down.” you tell him calmly, but you pick it apart anyway, using the water to drink it down.

And then you stop as you stare at the water, then back to the fish. There’s only really two ways you could have gotten sick. It wasn’t because of Blaire, he was healthy as fuck, and the only reason why he died was because he attacked Lennox while he was trying to kill you.

You couldn’t have picked it up from Trink, Allio or Lennox--assuming that it had some sort of incubation period--because that means they would have to be crawling with the disease too. From what Finnick has told you, they seem to be just fine. You’re the only one dying in here. 

Finnick is an automatic no, he isn't sick either and he isn’t catching it. Another reason why you couldn’t have caught it from the others, is because it doesn’t seem to be contagious through human contact.

Which narrows down the possibilities. You got it from eating berries and leaves, fish, or the water. You haven’t eaten berries and leaves in a while though, so those have to be out of it.

It’s the water and the fish, they have something to do with it. It can’t be an allergic reaction, because it doesn’t deteriorate the body like this. If it was a reaction, then you’d be breaking out in hives, through closing in and you’d been dead by now. Unless it’s a small allergy, but that’s not the case either. 

“Finnick, what are some diseases passed through water?” you ask, slowly setting the food down.

He tilts his head slightly, “Uhh, E coli, Cholera, Typhoid, Salmonella--? Why?”

Typhoid is the one you recognize, because of the few cases some of the neighborhood kids back home had. With the right treatment, they wouldn’t die, but for the few who let it go on for too long, or didn’t have the money to pay for it, their kids--or themselves--would die. 

“The symptoms to…” you lean back, “What’s the--?”

The headache seems to increase, stopping you from thinking any further. You press the heels of your hands to your temples to ease the pain. Of course, it does nothing, but it feels better than just sitting there. You clench your teeth and squeeze your eyes, rocking back and forth.

Think, think!

What the fuck is the cure to Typhoid? Hell, what are the symptoms? What’s it related to? How can you get it?

“(Y/n)? What’s wrong?”

Few cases back home. Parents who go down to the sea to collect water. Use for baths, and the kids accidentally drink it. It’s not the salt its--its the bacteria.

“Water,” you look to Finnick, “Have you been treating the water?”

His face twists, and then he pales, “I--I forgot once--”

That’s enough for you to catch it. Just a little bit of contaminated water will get it going. Your body has been fighting off this sickness for a week, and it took you this long to think it over. 

That’s not the matter, though. The matter, is that if you don’t get medicine, you’ll die from it being untreated.

“Mags, if you’re listening--it’s Typhoid fever,” you tell her, “Untreated it’ll kill me. Please, please send me something. Whatever it is that’ll cure it. One pill or sip is better than none, please.”

Finnick looks guilty, but you don’t care. It was an honest mistake, he didn’t know that the water was carrying the disease. None of you would have ever knew if he hadn’t accidentally skipped it. You’d still be up on your feet moving around like none of it ever happened.

This must be what he’s thinking, “Finnick, don’t punish yourself for this. Not now, do it later when we win.”

“What if we don’t win because of my mistake?” he asks, you point your finger.

“Hope. You have hope now, because I can’t carry it for the both of us. I forgive you, we’re going to win.”

Silence, as you wait for the sound of a sponsor gift. But the chiming never sounds, letting you know that you’re on your own. It must be far too expensive, or they just can’t hear you.

“We have better things to worry about, Finn.” you shake your head, “We need to do it tomorrow. We can’t wait until the end of the week.”

“I know.” he whispers, “Are you sure?”

“We have to.”

-- CHAPTER SIXTEEN --

There used to be a song that your mother would sing when you had caught the cold. It was more of a poem, but she would sing it like a lullaby to ease your headache and get you tired. It would always be the first couple nights of the cold, which are the worse days, and as it got better, she would stop. A bedtime remedy, to getting you to fall asleep quickly instead of letting you toss and turn through the night.

As you lay awake most of the time now, you think of it all the time. Reciting the words back to yourself softly. You can’t necessarily sing it without waking Finnick, so instead you turn it from a chant to a couple of lines at a time. You decipher the words, find meanings and then you’ll repeat it back to yourself when they make sense. 

It tires you out a lot quicker than you thought it would. Lately, it’s been working like a charm. Tonight, it offers no comfort though, because later today, you’ll be luring the last two tributes to their deaths. You’ll be using the last of your strength to win the games. If today doesn’t work, you give yourself permission to fall over and croak.

You’re in the final hours of your life. Finnick might be seeing it, but it’s not as clear to him. He’s not feeling all of it directly, he’s watching you pretend. He’s not seeing the way that you flinch and wince when his back is turned. If only he saw how much pain you’re in. 

The second you win, you’ll be fine. You’ll be on that hovercraft, they’ll be feeding you to doctors as Finnick has to watch. They’ll be hooking you up to water and liquid food, and medicine that stops the pain and diminishes the fever. They’ll be working their best to save you, because they can’t have a victor die on the craft. 

Finnick wouldn’t need anything done to him. They’d probably take him and marvel. They’d have to fix up a few scars but that would be it. There would be no reason to save him from anything. Unless something goes wrong today, he gets stabbed or something. Not going to happen on your watch, even if he doesn't like it.

The sun rises a little faster now, and you come to terms with the fact that you'll be working off of nothing today. There’s a few things to do to set up the scene, and then you’ll be able to execute it perfectly. 

“Finnick.” You nudge lightly, he opens his eyes slowly, “It’s time.”

“Did you even sleep?”

“An hour or two.” You tell him, “Woke up an hour or so ago. Not much.”

“Okay,” he says, you slip out of the bag first. Your muscles slowly stretch, making a low groan come from you. You’ve been stiff for long enough, your body thinks that you’re a statue.

Finnick slowly starts pulling out food, you make the last fire you’ll ever have to make in your life. When it sparks, your hands go over it immediately, the fever might be burning your forehead, fueling your headache but it’s also controlling the chills. The truth is, is that you’re cold as fuck. When you leave, the water will make it worse. But you’ll get there when the time comes.

The both of you heat up the food, watching as Finnick uncoils the rope, trying the noose. You don’t ask him how he knows to tie it, you just watch, and then you prod yourself a little bit. Taking in an assessment of how you’ll be able to turn your body.

Your ribs on your left side are still very painful, turning that way is like getting stabbed. It’ll take a while for them to heal, unless the Capitol has something for that, to get it to speed up and get placed right back where they need to be, not floating around in your body, causing more harm than good.

The bruises are almost gone, they’re just a very light purple now. Pressing on them doesn’t hurt anymore, it’s nothing compared to everything else that you’re feeling. Your body as a whole is weak, so there's no worry about specific knees or arms, it’s just the both of them. Not good, but you won’t have to catch yourself before you use the wrong one. You’re always taking a chance.

All cuts are now scabs, there’s a few more scars here and there, but besides that, you’re ready to go. Finnick finishes eating pretty quickly, you guys finish off all the food that you had set aside. You feel absolutely sick to your stomach, since it was hard getting it down in the first place. Overfeeding isn’t helpful by any means, until you’re trying to put on weight.

If you guys get hungry later on, it’s possible to grab something from the pond-lake or whatever. You’ll be inside of the woods, near the middle, but it won’t be that far from the pond-lake if lunch would be needed. But by the look on Finnick’s face, he’s not that hungry either. He stuffed himself just as badly as you had. 

He shoves everything into the backpack. The rope, what water you guys have, which he still looks guilty about. Small meaningless knives that you don’t need, the works. After that, he helps you onto your feet, you both take your weapons of choice, and leave the cave.

There was no point in stomping out the fire, you guys won’t be back. Which is why you guys left the sleeping bag, and all the other little things that came with the backpacks when you got them. For all you care, they can burn up in a blaze. The fire will put itself out before it reaches the water.

Finnick leads the way through the water. Instead of going straight out of the waterfall, a little to the left, you guys go right diagonally. If you were to go straight, you’d head right for the cornucopia. You guys want to do it in one of the big ass trees, out of sight of them in case they were to come looking.

You hold Finnick’s trident, as he holds the backpack above the water since it isn’t waterproof, and you guys don’t want the rope to get wet. You’d rather it be dry, it’ll be more harsh when it gets around Lennox.

“Almost home.” 

“We should have built a treehouse. I mean, it’s been a month, we had the time.” You laugh, he snickers.

“Gamemakers would have had a fire.”

“Wouldn’t have been smart. I’m sure that the tourists would have loved to stay in a personalized treehouse! Oh Finnick, do you think we have time?” You bat your eyelashes when he looks to you, he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can hardly stand.” 

“So? It won’t be so hard.” You reason about the hypothetical treehouse, daydreaming about having one. What would go inside, how much time it would take. How you would replace materials like nails with vine and all that. Or very thin rocks that you can hammer into the wood.

“No treehouse.” Finnick tells you, and then the both of you laugh at each other.

When you reach the land finally, you guys take the time to ring out your clothes. Then you continue to the place that Finnick had picked out last night. When you get to it, you’re thoroughly impressed to see that it’s a big ass tree, and there’s plenty of land around to run around in. This is a place you could build a house, raise a family and all of that.

Finnick unpacks the rope, you take it, throwing it around your neck to keep it from going anywhere. You tuck your spear between your pants and belt, with the blade down. You take your water and put it in your jacket, Finnick kisses you quickly, wishes you good luck, and then you turn to the tree.

Spear, rope, water, a good luck kiss. Now, to climb the tree without falling. Your body will complain and give you hell for this, but it’s all for the greater good. 

You climb the tree slowly, being careful of your left side. Right hand, left hand, right foot, left foot. Occasionally you’ll reach higher than you should, wobble, but catch yourself the next time around.

The spear gets in the way and you have to keep moving the water to where it needs to be. You take a break on the sturdy branches, and continue when it’s just enough to make it to the next one.

Before you know it, you’re at the one branch that stretches over Finnick below you. You wrap your legs around the branch, and even go as far as to tie the non-noose end of the rope to your body. Then, you strip free of the jacket, dropping it for Finnick. The boots follow, and you’re disappointed to see that he dodges where you tried to drop it on him.

“Pants too?” You ask, Finnick shakes his head.

You take a long drink of water, since the sun is in your eyes. And then you take another before dropping it for Finnick, setting up the scene where Trink and Lennox will come along just to die.

Lennox is going to be heavy, he’s had plenty of food to eat from because of the middle. He’s going to weigh what he normally did when he came in. Maybe a few pounds shorter. You however, aren’t at all where you need to be. 

The big breakfast helped, but it wasn’t perfect. You’ve got one, two, possibly three pounds more than you had originally. You’ll fail when it comes to pulling Lennox up with the rope using just your muscle strength. To actually hang him, he’ll need something to balance out his weight, almost.

He’s going to be below you, you get the noose around his neck, you yank and what? Choke him for a split second? Finnick will be fucked.

You didn’t propose this part of the plan to Finnick because you knew he would say no. He won’t ever say yes to something this dangerous and risky, which is the exact reason why it’s going to work. Risky, but odds in your favor.

“I’m ready.” Finnick tells you, you nod.

“Let’s do it!”

You cut yourself free quickly, then you measure out just about what you’ll need to fall through on this. Your eyes keep darting to Finnick, worried about when he’ll yell.

You drape the extra rope across the branch behind you, out of sight out of mind. The noose rope is shorter, but still long enough to reach Lennox. Finnick comes over now, standing right next to it, and nods up at you. Perfect length.

It’s going to get shorter though. You tie a constrictors knot, which will be impossible for the Capitol doctors to get off of you, but they’ll manage. They have to save you, and your leg if it’s possible. If there’s no reason to cut it off, then they can’t. It’s not a medical problem, it’s rope.

You dangle your leg, seeing how it reaches the same height as before presumably. Then, you draw some of it back up to keep out of sight of the others when they come in.

Just in time to listen to Finnick give a blood curdling scream. You clench your teeth together, eyes on the direction the others are going to be coming in at. Listening as Finnick continues to scream for your placebo self to wake up. Yelling for Mags to send in some sort of medicine, to save you.

“Please! Please!” Finnick screams, and at the first snap of a branch, your eyes flicker to Trink and Lennox, “No—!”

“She’s not dead yet?” You think you hear Trink ask.

You wonder if the Capitol can spare a false cannon to see what happens. If they’ll attack him immediately, like a bunch of rabid dogs.

“Leave her alone,” Finnick seethes, he’s crouched over, backing up which is drawing the others to walk over. You can see the smiles on their faces from here.

“I’ve got him.” Trink chirps.

“No!” Finnick lunges forward slightly when Lennox gets close to your body, you begin to lower the rope little by little.

Lennox jumps for your body, you can feel your heart pounding in your chest when you free the rope. Only to see it come up short.

“Shit.” You curse, and then you dip your leg over, getting it right around Lennox’s neck.

Finnick attacks Trink, who’s caught up watching the rope. She goes to warn Lennox, but Finnick shuts her up.

Before Lennox can do anything, you take a deep breath. Feeling the fear try to paralyze your body into rethinking this. You don’t let it, you throw your body the opposite side, to the left.

Lennox chokes, you feel the air on your skin as you watch the branch of the tree get further away. Until the momentum comes to a slow, and you’re dangling in the air by a rope from your foot.

You look to see Lennox, face turning purple as he grabs onto the rope to relieve the pain of choking, you curl your body slightly, pulling him up a little, and his eyes bulge. The sound of a cannon startles you, because it’s clearly not Lennox, who you’re staring at, and he’s staring at you. Still alive.

You go to yell Finnick’s name, but it gets caught in your throat. The blood is rushing to your head, the headache increasing in power. The pain just seems to skyrocket the longer you hang here.

“I’m alive.” Finnick tells you, and then you watch as his trident flies through the air.

It misses Lennox by an inch or two, getting lodged in the tree. You sigh, reaching for your spear now. You don’t want to get yourself free. You want to kill Lennox, and you’re sure that it will be a sight to behold, him hanging from a tree, with you suspending him on the other side, a spear through whatever you can get. 

With it in hand, you lean forward, your left side aches from the sit up. You and Lennox lock eyes, and he shakes his head slightly, beginning you not to even though his face is a deep purple and blood is coming out of his nose, trickling down his lips.

You draw your arm back, waiting for the rope to stop swaying, and then you launch it forward, the very last of your strength going along with it. You’re not even able to see if it goes through anything. The sound of a cannon gives it away.

“You did it!” Finnick yells, but his voice is drowned, you can hardly hear it.

You can feel your body relax, arms going past your head. You try to blink away the spots, but they don’t go anywhere. In fact, they take out your vision completely. 

—

I told her so, and if she say,

That she was wrong,

Then may it be,

A quick little bug,

That will come and go.

—

She will lay,

In clean, white sheets, 

A full tummy,

And a cup of tea,

She will rest,

And she will think,

How this will be,

The very last time.

—

But here comes grey,

Water-filled clouds,

She pulls on her shoes,

And her coat,

So that she may,

Go in the rain.

—

I will come,

To the porch,

To warm her of,

What may come,

She will laugh, 

She will splash,

But she won’t listen.

Then she will come later with;

Rain-soaked clothes,

Not feeling good,

And beg me to care for her.

(the poem is a circle).

--

LACUNA IS THE FIRST VERSION OF BELAMOUR

//MASTERLIST//

[welllpthisishappening]

But Once a Year (5/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: 10K — canon had to catch up, and stuff had to happen, and happily ever after requires some adjectives AN: Guys! This is a completed story! One I had absolutely no intention whatsoever of writing. For that am even more grateful than usual that you all clicked and read and said very nice things. It’s always an absolute joy to write about these two idiots falling in love. I hope your holidays were fantastic, and January is very kind to you, and I am taking suggestions as to what I should write in 2021. (Or: if I should just post a bunch of fic I’ve already written, there’s so much fic already written)

Ao3 links in the reblog, because Tumblr’s tagging system is something of a colossal joke. 

————

She’s got no idea where Killian went.

Especially impressive since they haven’t left the house yet, but the house is also fairly massive and there are a lot of people and some of them have magic, and most of them have weapons, and one of Emma’s knees cracks when she crouches in front of Hope.

Who is wearing pajamas that match Lucy’s, and holding a stuffed animal whose right arm appears to be holding on by a quite literal thread, and has absolutely no idea what’s going on.

It’s a strangely positive thing.

“You’re going to be ok,” Emma tells her daughter, which she hopes isn’t the lie it feels like. “Everything’s going to be ok. We’re just—we’ll be back soon, alright?” That’s not really a lie, either. Depending on how the next ten minutes or so, go. And part of Emma expects impatience — from the other adults nearby, magical or otherwise, but a quick glance over her shoulder only shows Mary Margaret wiping away tears, and Regina’s lips have all but disappeared behind her teeth, and the overall tightness of David’s jaw cannot possibly good for any of his teeth.

Taking a deep breath is an exceptional challenge.

“For presents?” Hope asks, and it takes Emma a moment to understand the question. Nodding hurts her neck. And, like, her heart.

No one turns off their Christmas tree in this future, it seems. Colors splash across one of Hope’s cheeks, what feels like several thousand emotions and at least a dozen internal organs twisting in Emma’s center and she barely manages to rasp out, “yeah, of course,” before there’s moisture in her eyes and her vision is going blurry and at the very least it’s comforting to know that one of the steps in her parent’s house creaks too.

“Emma,” Regina murmurs, and she’s nodding again. Hair brushes the hand that’s landed on her shoulder, as warm as ever, but there’s tension in the move as well and Killian’s lips don’t shift when Emma tilts her head up.

Something’s going on. More than the obvious. And she wants to ask, she does — but the worry churning in her gut moves to the center of her throat, and makes it impossible to voice questions or demand anything more than what he’s already given, and they’ve got no idea how to get her back. Except for—

Killian’s eyebrows lift. Ever so slightly, barely enough movement that it should even count, but Emma’s become something of an expert on his face in the last few days, and she can’t blink away the tears fast enough. Mourning something that’s happened and hasn’t, and absolutely needs to.

She can’t ruin this.

Plastering a wholly unnatural smile on her face, Ruby lets out a huff of air as she marches forward and scoops Hope into her arms. “For presents,” she repeats, “Mom wouldn’t miss that, would she?” Emma shakes her head. Seriously, every inch of her aches. With those pesky emotions and magic, and she cannot fathom how she manages to stand back up without falling over, but then there are fingers tangled up with hers and she’s brushing strands of hair away from Hope’s eyes, and leaning forward to kiss the bridge of her nose and—

“I love you.”

Whispers flood her ears, soft enough that for a second Emma truly believes she imagines them, but none of this has been the dream she’d convinced herself it had to be, and the sound isn’t as terrifying as it should be. Is like the excitement borne of picturesque Christmas mornings, and a ridiculous number of cookies, and magically-maintained snowmen.

Killian’s eyes widen, ever so slightly. Part two.

“Dor and I’ll stay here,” Ruby says, seemingly unconcerned with whatever’s happening between Emma’s ears, but Killian’s staring again and Emma’s barely breathing and she probably nods if the movement of her hair is any indication.

More instructions are doled out, plans Emma only half listens to while also trying to stay conscious and it’s only after the screen door slams behind them that she realize she doesn’t actually have a weapon. She’s fairly certain she won’t need it.

Because she’s absolutely positive this is going to work.

Well, she hopes at least.

“Don’t let go, ok?” she mumbles, mostly into Killian’s shirt and he kisses her hair. More than once, like he’s trying to reach a quota and that’s only kind of depressing, but then there’s magic stretching around them and inching up the back of Emma’s calves and she hopes she hears what she thinks she hears.

When he mutters “never” in her ear.

If there were any doubts that they were dealing with the disintegrating fabric of reality, they’re all immediately dismissed as soon as Emma opens her eyes. Trees bend in the middle of their trunks, broken branches littering the ground as what feels like genuine electricity crackles in the air, sending sparks that occasionally rain down like they believe they’re drops of water and allowed to do that.

Clouds that look suspiciously familiar, but lack that hint of magically-induced purple, blot out any sort of light in the sky. They’re puffier than they should be — the clouds, and also Emma’s eyes because she might be crying again, and she’s not particularly knowledgeable about meteorology. Still, she’s seen more than one curse broken and this isn’t quite the same. The lack of color dries out her mouth, although that may also be because she suddenly can’t catch her breath.

Magic tugs at her brain and her muscles, rising up in defense and something that isn’t really bravery. More like fear, at what the clouds can do and what they’ve already done, and the soft whoosh of Killian’s sword leaving its scabbard is far more comforting than it should be.

Wearing those pants with the sword belt is something Emma doesn’t want to forget. “Kinda looks like they’re eating everything in their way, doesn’t it?” she breathes. “Like, it’s—pulling everything up out of the ground, wrecking it at the foundation.”

“Not exactly ideal, is it?”

“You’re making jokes.” “If I don’t know, I’m fairly certain I’ll fall over.”

Scoffing, Emma licks her lips, and that doesn’t do anything except momentarily wet her lips, but her heart’s also trying to explode and the pop of Regina’s teleporting ability is loud enough to make both of them flinch.

“Oh shit,” Henry mutters, wielding his own sword. Both of those things are going to take Emma some time to get used to. Which she doesn’t have.

Not when tiny whirlwinds explode around her ankles, caking her jeans with leaves and dirt-filled snow, and she briefly wonders if that’s because of her or just bad timing on their arrival. Feels like an insult all the same.

“So, uh,” David says slowly, “what do we do about this, then?” Rolling her whole head seems like an entirely excessive response, but Emma supposes Regina’s never been one for subtlety and it is still kind of impressive when she does the flame thing. Fire jumps between her fingers, like one of those bouncing balls on sing-along VHS tapes, and really the answer is pretty simple. “Emma needs to leave. Weeks ago, if we’re being frank, but—” “—We’re not being frank, are we, Your Majesty?” Killian interrupts, low and a little more pirate than he’s been since Emma woke up here. Regina tilts her head. Her neck muscles don’t appear to be dealing with the same limitations Emma’s are.

“How do we do that, though?” Ella asks. “We’ve—I mean, we’ve tried just about everything haven’t we? Zelena’s spell didn’t work.” Regina hums. Looks a little smug, but with a hint of worry that’s also oddly comforting in a slightly vindictive way and there’s no warning before Tinker Bell appears in front of them. Smaller than usual, with wings that move as quickly as a hummingbirds and Emma’s eyes widen so quickly they manage to water even more and it’s easier to hear Killian’s soft laugh when he pulls her against his side.

What looks like sparkles, but may actually be pixie dust floats in the air, Regina’s sigh of impatience barely passing her lips before Tinker Bell is a full-sized person again and that full-sized person looks as terrified as the situation demands and— “Wonderland’s gone too,�� she announces. “I only just got out.” Emma’s eyes are going to fall out of her face. It will be gross and undoubtedly uncomfortable. “Out. What does—what does that mean, exactly?” “What it sounds like. It was—” Shuddering, Tinker Bell wraps both arms around her middle, as if she’s trying to ensure she doesn’t fall apart either, and guilt appears to be the prevailing emotion threatening to sever Emma’s spleen at the moment. She’s only partially confident as to where her spleen even is. “Those,” Tinker Bell continues, pointing up at the clouds advancing on them, “they’re…cannibalized versions of magic.” “Oh,” Henry says, “gross.” Mary Margaret sniffles before she kisses him on the cheek. He’s holding Ella’s hand very tightly.

“It is,” Tinker Bell agrees, “because it’s all wrong. Broken, even. The opposite of what you’ve created here. Anything unified is gone, shattered from the inside out and—” “—That won’t stop, will it?” Emma asks, already knowing the answer. It’s been the same since the start, but it was so easy to fall into this start and live this life and she’s hardly noticed Regina. Lifting her hands towards the clouds like she could fight them, or stop them and her electricity metaphor had been almost accurate before.

Lightning explodes from Regina’s palms, feet a bit wider than usual while a muscle jumps in her temple, and the first brush of Killian’s thumb against Emma’s wrist makes her flinch again.

The clouds pause. For a moment.

Seem to shudder against the force of Regina’s power and strength, but there’s another crack and a branch that slams into the ground with an alarming speed, shaking the ground under yet a different pair of Emma’s boots, and, well—

That’s that, as they say.

Only they don’t ever mention the shadow-type vines that also explode from the ground. And for a breath, Emma’s not there. She’s sitting on different ground, in an entirely different realm, while her sword half hangs from the makeshift belt on her back and lights dance in front of her eyes. Blinking doesn’t do anything. Breathing heavily only makes the sound echo in her ears and air heave out of her lungs, and Emma can’t get her bearings. Is being twisted and torn until she’s certain she’ll be ripped apart. Right there, in the in-between, and—

No.

Giving in isn’t an option. She’s got people to save, and a kid to get back and a life to live. And the hand squeezing hers is tight enough to pull her back from a variety of edges. In any version of reality, she’s sure.

Head falling forward, Emma slams into something solid and that’s probably not another metaphor. Blades flash at the edge of her vision, both David and Henry moving quicker than she’s ever seen, while Mary Margaret slings arrow after arrow at something that isn’t entirely substantial and Killian’s hook moves under Emma’s chin.

At one point she might have thought that was a threat. She’s the world’s biggest idiot, obviously.

“No,” Tinker Bell replies, far later than is conversationally acceptable, honestly. “It won’t. Nothing will last if you don’t go back, Emma. It all hinges on you. That’s why Pan did this in the first place. He knew what you meant, to the whole world.” She groans. Like a goddamn hero.

“That might be a little heavy, Tink,” Killian mutters, and Emma makes another noise. Disbelief and charmed and wholly endeared, plus that other thing that she knows will make all the difference and at least eight of her knuckles crack. When she curls them into his shirt.

Patterned, naturally.

“Are you quoting things?” He nods. “You think it’s very cute.” “I’m not sure you could ever really be cute.”

“Is this honestly happening right now?” Regina snarls, sweat dotting her brow and Emma barely notices. Can’t really pull her eyes away from Killian when he’s smirking at her like that. “Flirting at the end of the world?” “Seems as good a time as any, doesn’t it?” Emma challenges. More pixie dust falls on the forest floor, shining brightly for a few prolonged seconds. That’s something of a confidence boost.

For Emma. And her feelings. And her plan, half-cocked as it may be.

“Expand on that for me,” Killian grins.

Keeping her head lifted is one of Emma’s more major successes. At least recently, and while her muscles don’t entirely appreciate it, the jut of her chin makes it easier for Killian’s fingers to ghost over the edge of her mouth and push into her hair and—

“Your eyelashes are unnaturally long,” she says, and the grin widens. “It drives me nuts.” “Does it just?” “Yeah, from like—the get, really. At first I thought it was a fairytale thing, y’know…have to be painfully attractive to be part of the story, but—” “—You end up in the book eventually.”

Heart explosion is not nearly as painful as Emma assumed it would be. If anything, it just makes her feel like she’s floating a bit and her magic gives her a buoyancy that leaves her lighter and softer and she turns into the palm cupping her cheek. “Spoilers,” she chides. “What do you—what do you think happens?” “When you go back, you mean?” Emma nods. Doesn’t really want the answer. Might actually be terrified of the answer, because the timeline is as knotted as it’s ever been and time travel is way more trouble than it’s worth. She’ll probably kick Peter Pan too, just to cover all her bases. “Will you,” she whispers, and holding Killian’s gaze is something of a rather disappointing miracle, “will you all—” “—I don’t think so.” “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

One side of his mouth tilts up, eyeing her with passing amusement and that other emotion and his fingers trail towards the chain hanging around her neck. “Between the vaguely twisted compliments and the actual insults, I’m not entirely sure this is going to work, love.” “What isn’t going to work?” Henry asks sharply, swinging his sword through a shadow.

Grunting, one of Regina’s knees buckles as she continues to fight against the cloud and Ella’s back pressed against hers only just manages to keep her standing. “Get on with it, already,” she hisses. “Or at least try it.”

Nerves explode under Emma’s skin, racing up her arms and threatening to drown out the magic that’s as strong as it’s ever been because the magic is clearly smarter than her, and it’s unreasonable to think she’d be able to deal with that exact shade of blue in Killian’s eyes.

“You make sure I’m alright.”

He blinks. Fair, honestly. Words keep tumbling out of Emma without much thought, but she needs him to know this and this might be the crux of everything else and she’s nodding again. “Over and over,” she continues, “when we’re on the Jolly, and I’m—” “—In the crew’s quarters doing pull-ups.” “You remember that?”

“I’m rather attracted to you, you know that right?”

Laughing with tears in her eyes is as patently absurd as it is nice, and the shadows inch closer. “Could probably do with some reminding every now and then,” Emma admits, “but I, uh—that’s what happened before, too. Sitting outside the Echo Caves and you were supposed to be asleep. Showed up anyway, to make sure I was alright. You always do that.” “Something of a habit.” “So you’ve mentioned.” Humming, there’s not really any way for Killian to get closer to her, but he certainly tries and Emma hopes she doesn’t forget that either. She’s not entirely sure how her memories will deal with everything they’ve been through in the last few weeks. And, like—her life, but that sounds kind of melodramatic. “You don’t need me to take care of you,” Killian says softly, “but it’s—making sure you’re alright is like…making sure we’re following the right course.” “Am I the star in this analogy?” “Several times over,” he replies, “and it’s easy to follow.” “Oh, what was that about backhanded insults?”

Warm air brushes her face when he exhales, nosing at the tear stains her over-abundant emotions have left behind. “I have no idea what will happen,” Killian whispers, as if he’s speaking only for Emma and she supposes that’s at least partially true. “I doubt we’ll disappear, not when it appears time’s much less of a straight line than I originally anticipated, but Her Majesty was right. Nothing’s set in stone, love. That’s half the fun.” “Sounds like a hell of a gamble too.” “Aye, but you’ve also got a pirate who’s rather willing to cheat on your behalf.” “Did you use weighted dice?” He kisses her hair. The edges of her eyes. Down the bridge of her nose and just above her mouth, which is really a very cruel tease, but if they were running out of time earlier, then they’re operating on borrowed minutes now, and Emma’s calves almost audibly object when she pushes up on her toes.

“Just sleight of hand,” he says, “it’s very impressive, I know.” “Something like that, yeah.” “This wasn’t fair to you, Swan. To—to be thrown into this, and I can’t…”

Shaking her head, she’s never actually let go of his shirt, so Emma doesn’t have an excuse for how much her fingers tremble. “No, no, no, if you apologize I will step on your foot, I swear to any God you can come up with.” “Several, actually.” “Nerd,” she insults, and it’s as far away from that as it’s possible for a four-letter word to be. Killian’s eyes have gone glossy. “This wasn’t what he thought it’d be. Pan, I mean. He—he thought he’d take me off the board, keep me locked here because I’d be so tempted to stay and I—” A tree branch falls dangerously close to her right foot. “Well, obviously I was, but…” “But?” Emma presses her lips together. Ignores the ache in her legs and the area directly around her heart, taking more pleasure than she should in the overall circumference of Killian’s eyes while her magic practically sings. Soars out of her, until the ends of her hair light and the shadows don’t retreat, but they freeze for a second and that’s all she really needs. “Seeing it all,” Emma starts, “living it, that’s why I can go back. Because I want to live it. No cheating, no advancing to Go. God, fuck—am I really making Monopoly jokes right now?”

He beams. Stares at her like she’s that star, and a few other constellations for good measure. Possibly the Sun too, but Emma’s the one who’s all too willing to orbit around the whole lot of them, and she kisses him before she can think better of it.

“You make sure I’m alright,” she repeats, “ten-thousand times over, until I end up here. And it’s just not better, babe, it’s—it’s a life, a real one. The kind I used to think was some great, big joke, but that house is so big and our kids are so good, and it’s—” Killian wipes away the tears. For the best, really. Since Emma isn’t entirely sure she can unclench her fingers. “I love it,” she breathes, “I love—”

In any other situation, she’d almost resent being interrupted. As it is, being interrupted with the press of Killian’s mouth against hers is one of the better things that’s happened to her. Like, ever. And she’s already pressed up on her toes, so really the whole thing is pretty practical.

Tilting her head, Emma’s grip threatens to rip his shirt and her spine isn’t all that pleased at the arch she’s put it in, but his hand is flat against her back, the kind of steady presence she’s sure she could build everything around. They’ve gotten better at this, she thinks — less frenzied than it was in Neverland, but somehow even better, like they’re sitting on simmer, a low heat that simply exists and isn’t as overwhelming. She’s not sweating, at least. She’s wrapped in cashmere blankets, and comfort and some other word that starts with ‘c’ because Emma’s ability to linger on the alliterative in times of heightened feeling is actually pretty impressive.

At least until Killian’s tongue swipes the seam of her mouth, and they drift a hint closer to frenzied, and somewhere in the realm of desperate and she genuinely does not notice the first band of light.

Or the second, quite frankly.

It isn’t until the colors arch over them, and several people gasp, that Emma realizes they’ve done something fairly tremendous. Beams of glistening magic curl around them, some hanging from the bend of Emma’s elbow and the curve of Killian’s hook, draping either one of their shoulders and falling off the sleeves of their respective leather jackets.

“Holy shit,” Emma breathes, fully expecting Killian’s smile and hoping for his laugh and she’s done more hoping now than she has in the first twenty-nine years of her life.

Henry clicks his tongue. “Oh you can say it, huh?” “I’m your mom, that’s how it works.” More laughter, as out of place as ever, but the light doesn’t disappear immediately and Killian’s jaw has gone slack. “Has that not happened before, then?” Emma asks him.

“You called me babe.” Regina groans again. Henry snickers, ducking his head into Ella’s shoulder, and Emma’s not sure what her parents do, but her mom is definitely crying and she’s crying and there’s something shimmering on the other side of Tinker Bell.

“Told you it’d work,” she says with a knowing smile. “She just needed to get there. And, y’know, be willing to walk away. Which doesn’t sound as romantic as it is, now that I think about it, but might be kind of in the spirit of Christmas.”

Killian rolls his eyes.

“Yeah,” Emma nods, “that’s—” She cuts herself off that time, Killian’s fingers lacing through hers so he can give her hand three quick squeezes and that number was probably random. Maybe. True Love’s goddamn Kiss.

“Falling in love with you probably isn’t very easy, is it?”

The tears fall. Drop from the corners of his eyes onto cheeks, one of which has a scar on it and Emma wants to know how that happened. Wants to learn every single thing about him, and them and collective pronouns don’t quite terrify her anymore.

“Not always,” Killian agrees, another strange way of doing it, “but I do always think it’s worth it. For everything we get.” “This?” He nods. “And then some. Because you’re the single most stubborn lass I know, and Pan’s an absolute fool.” “Call me lass again, and see if I kiss you anymore.” “I’m almost confident on that front.”

Smiling doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t affect the muscles in her face, or the overall state of her heart, and that may have something to do with its exploding tendencies from earlier, but Emma’s eyes keep flickering towards that portal and everything ahead of her, and the wave of determination that crests her consciousness doesn’t take her by surprise.

She’s going to get this all back.

Like a Christmas present, waiting under the tree to be opened, and another promise and Killian squeezes her hand again. Before kissing her once more, in a way that doesn’t feel like a farewell, but has a hint of promise and expectation and Emma hugs Henry. And her parents. Glances at Regina, and goddamn Tinker Bell, and hugging Henry again simply makes sense. “Come save me, huh?” he murmurs into her hair. “That’s the plan,” Emma promises. Twisting her neck, Killian’s not more than an inch behind her, but the shadows threaten again, making it difficult to see him and eventually she’ll argue that’s why she doesn’t entirely notice when his hand moves, darting towards her pocket and back so quickly it’s not much more than a blur, and her lips barely brush his before they’re pulling away from each other.

To get back to each other.

“I’m going to love you an absolutely ridiculous amount,” Emma promises, and Killian’s eyes brighten. Brand themselves on all those memories, and even more feelings. “More than I do now, even.” “I look forward to it.”

Bumping her chin against her chest when she nods, Emma’s next inhale is shaky at best, but her steps are sure and she doesn’t feel anything when she falls backwards, or notice the way Regina’s hand shifts ever so slightly.

Her feet slam into the ground. Ground that hasn’t exploded with glowing, vaguely evil plants yet and that’s all it takes to set her plan into motion. He hadn’t remembered, after all. And Emma can only sort of remember now.

Smoke on the water, her thoughts drift through a haze that’s far more metaphorical than she entirely appreciates, and she makes it all of eight larger-than-usual steps before those same feet land on boots and she barely stops herself before she collides with Killian.

A Killian who looks at her like he’s surprised to find her there, but not entirely opposed to it, and whatever thoughts continue to cling to the forefront of Emma’s brain know what else he wouldn’t be entirely opposed to, and that’s not bad, might even be good and great and she can’t remember why her lips feel like they’re tingling. That’s—

Strange, that’s strange. As is the number of times she blinks, and his hook flies to her waist. To keep her steady. Or something. Magnets, maybe. “Swan, are you—” “—Fine, fine,” she breathes, only just able to keep from kissing him. Hard. His lips part slightly when she keeps staring at him, eyes tracing across his face like she’s recommitting it to memory, and she supposes she is, and he was coming to find her. All over again. “You’re here though, right? This isn’t…this is real?” Hair threatens to fall into his eyes, head at an angle that Emma is sure simply exists to torment her. “Why wouldn’t it be?” “I—I don’t know,” she admits, and it only sort of sounds like a lie. Emma shakes her head. That doesn’t help, really. “Is my mom still ignoring my dad?” “Very much so. You shouldn’t be out here, you know.” “Neal’s not dead, though?” “No,” Killian says, lips forming a perfect circle on the second letter. Emma’s staring at his lips. Again, or always. Or whatever, honestly.

“Ok, ok, that’s—that’s good, well maybe not the ignoring part, but we’ll figure that out and we’re going to figure this out.” “Wasn’t a question.” “No it wasn’t.” His eyes narrow, neck remaining at that angle. “Good. It shouldn’t be.” “Awfully confident of you.” “No, no, I’m only confident in you, love.” Something flutters at the back of Emma’s brain — part memory and even more desire, and this feels like something they’ve done already, but that can’t possibly be true and those particular words in that particular order are as honest as Emma’s heard. She must have fallen asleep.

“C’mon,” Killian continues, hand reaching for hers and she doesn’t pull away. She lets his fingers tangle with hers, and every squeeze against her palm is enough to settle her pulse and her magic, and he doesn’t let go of her until they get back to camp. Neither one of them mention how she doesn’t pull away, either.

They plan. Plot, and discuss and Neal’s something of an issue — as is her mother’s pointed and unnecessary romantic advice, but Emma knows her objections fall on deaf ears, especially when that same mother keeps ignoring her father, and she’s not sure she’s ever known fear like she feels in Dark Hollow.

If asked — and Emma can’t imagine why she would be, but she’s at war with her own thoughts and some sadistic childlike-monster who’s already fucked with her more than he should be capable of — she’d argue it was because of what Killian tells her. When I win your heart plays on loop in Emma’s brain, but it’s also because, somehow, she knows he will and does, and fire bursts out of her in the middle of yet another shadow attack.

“How did you do that?” Neal asks, sounding far more surprised than he should and something in Emma’s center recoils at the tone. “Regina. She’s teaching me magic.” Not entirely a lie, not really. But Killian’s eyes snap towards her, and she’s apparently just as good at ignoring things as her mother. “She’s teaching you magic?”

“Yeah,” Emma nods, gripping the coconut in her hand a little tighter. Six months ago, that would have felt like the most absurd sentence in the world. Now it just pisses her off. “I guess she is.”

There’s more, because of course there is. Wendy Darling and Neal are something of old friends, and she’s somehow an even worse liar than Emma, but the truth means Henry’s death and she can’t breathe. Can hardly stand, but is also standing closer to Killian and she keeps calling him Killian. In her head.

His hand squeezes hers; exactly three times.

“It’ll be fine, love,” Killian murmurs. Naturally, it’s not.

Watching Henry hand over his heart is a nightmare Emma will see for the rest of her life, wholly unprepared for the way her kid drops to the ground and the strength of her ensuing magic threatens to blind her.

Regina’s not much better, honestly. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out and then there’s magic and a wave of her hand, and—“He’s not dead yet,” she tells Emma, like that’s acceptable, but she’s got no idea what else to do and the growing feeling that she’s forgotten something very important.

Preservation spells are as freaky their name implies, it turns out.

Henry doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, but he also isn’t dead and Emma figures that’s at least one positive. While she’s attacked by a tree, and taunted by Pan and Regina’s admission leaves her reeling just a bit. That is until it turns out Peter Pan is also Gold’s father, and the absurdity of it all makes Emma want to scream and cry and they somehow save Henry’s heart.

In Pandora’s Box.

Really, the rest is a blur — adrenaline mixing with magic and an above-average amount of gasping, and Killian offers Henry the captain’s quarters. Emma doesn’t think before she walks, leading the pair of them towards the door, and there’s a shadow trapped in the sail and they’re on a flying pirate ship, so honestly her knowledge of that pirate ship’s layout should be the least of their worries, but something, something…open book.

“You want to tell me what’s going on, now?” Killian asks, finding Emma what feels like a lifetime later. Hours, actually. Most of which she’s spent leaning against the railing, while trying to breathe in as much salt air as possible and Regina’s still in the cabin with Henry.

“Aside from the obvious?” “Whatever’s got you staring so intently at the horizon.” “It’s calming,” Emma reasons, and there’s some truth to that as well. There’s also something in her back pocket, a piece of clothing that miraculously isn’t totally destroyed with mud and the after-effects of fighting for their collective lives.

“It often is, although you’re thinking so loudly, I can’t help but—” “—Do you think you’ll stay in Storybrooke?”

Killian tenses. He’s close enough that Emma can practically feel the way his muscles tighten, but there’s more to it than proximity, and it’s got to be nearly his turn at the helm. Neal can’t stay up there forever.

“If you think that would be a good idea.”

Rolling her eyes makes her head hurt. She might also be dehydrated. The knowledge that there’s a flask of rum stashed somewhere under the cot in Killian’s cabin is one of the few things keeping Emma conscious. Captain’s cabin. Semantics. She has no idea how she knows that. “That’s not really what I asked,” Emma argues. “Do you—is that something you’d like?”

She shouldn’t be as nervous as she is.

The future is suddenly blurry, and not entirely uncertain, but she fought like hell for it and now there’s this growing sense of optimism taking root in her. Like it’s the foundation for everything else, strong and certain and that’s a rather daunting change of pace for her. The certainty, not the adjective choices. Gold made it so David could come home too. They all get to go home. So, Emma doesn’t move very quickly when she turns, just presses her lips together and—

Hopes.

Pixie dust requires a certain amount of belief to work, after all.

“I would,” Killian breathes. He leans forward, or Emma leans forward, and it genuinely does not matter because there are mouths and hands and it’s over before it really begins, the rail of a flying pirate ship threatening to dig into her back. She’s never been more comfortable. “Ok,” Emma says, footsteps coming towards them, “that’s good.”

“You saved him, you know.”

“Motivation’s a funny thing like that.”

“Certainly is,” Killian agrees, “and you had that in spades. I just—” He smirks. The bastard. “Telling you I knew you would makes me a bit of a cad, doesn’t it?” “More than a bit, maybe.” He chuckles, letting his head drop closer to hers. “Why’d you know where the blankets were in that cabin?” “Far too perceptive for your own good.” “I prefer to see it as an acute observation.” “And you’re more than just a pretty face, huh?”

“Sounds suspiciously like you think I’m pretty.”

“Occasionally,” Emma says, standing on wobbly knees again and they’re dancing without music. “I don’t know, really, but we’ll get there, I think.”

Leaning back, Killian’s eyebrows shift and his thoughts practically come with cymbals, but he doesn’t press her anymore and Emma doesn’t actually believe she fell asleep. Outside the Echo Caves, but all of those thoughts feel like dreams now, and Neal doesn’t ask any questions — which is either a victory or a crushing disappointment, depending on which way you look at it, but Emma can’t bring herself to leave the railing, even when the wind picks up and goosebumps prickle her arms and the something in her back pocket is a tiny slip of paper.

Torn at the edges, like the person who grabbed it was pressed for time and flush with determination and she’s never actually seen his handwriting before. It doesn’t make an ounce of difference. Swooping letters linger on the looseleaf, no matter how many times Emma blinks, the words the same and she tries very hard not to rip it. Holding it as tightly as she is makes that easier said than done.

Still, it doesn’t change.

I love you.

As clear as the tears that return to her eyes will allow, and Emma’s not surprised to find him already looking in her direction. She smiles, and goes below deck.

They don’t make it very long before something else gets fucked up.

They barely make it like—two weeks. Pan isn’t dead, and Henry’s not Henry and the whole thing is a disaster that frequently ends with Emma slumped against the nearest wall she can find, the hand gripping hers squeezing at regular intervals, like Killian is trying to remind her of something, but she might just be hoarding every touch and every feeling and it figures.

Standing at the town line, Emma’s not sure how she’s going to get in that car and drive away from this town and these people and her mother kisses her forehead. Softly and almost reverently, and David’s hand finds the back of her head, holding her as tightly as he had in Neverland and Emma knows he’d like to do that forever, but that won’t be possible in five minutes and she’s not going to remember.

Any of them. At any point.

She’s still not sure why the timing of it all seems so important.

“That’s quite a vessel you captain there, Swan.”

Smiling is the only way she stops herself from kicking him, or possibly kissing him and she’s not prepared for what Killian says next. If she ever gets to remember this, that will seem vaguely ridiculous. All things considered.

“There’s not a day that will go by that I won’t think of you.” He means it. Emma knows that, too. As much as she knows she should have said something — a string of words that’s still a little overwhelming, but the sheet of paper basically lives in her jacket pocket now, and for someone who feels as if she keeps bouncing around time, or at least realms, she also continues to run out of it.

“Good,” she says, and one side of his mouth moves. Tugs up while he stares at her, and struggles to step back and everything disappears. Behind a cloud of purple smoke, and a line that’s brushed away as easily as if it had never been there at all, and Emma forgets.

Most of it, at least.

Some guy knocks on her door, knows her name, and immediately tries to kiss her. It’s not the strangest thing Emma’s ever encountered, but that’s because bail bond’s a weird gig, and he keeps showing up. Gives her a note with handwriting that looks suspiciously familiar, and proves even more than that and her hand shakes. While pulling a weather-stained piece of paper from the folds of her wallet, and she’s got no rational reason for keeping it. Not when she’s got no idea why she has it in the first place, but every time she considers throwing it away, something tugs between her ribs and flutters at the back of her brain and the swoop on the top of his ‘o’ is exactly the same.

She doesn’t mention that before she drinks the potion. And she only balks slightly at the word potion , so that’s another victory and— “Killian,” she breathes, memories flying back. Some arrive quicker than others, while a few hang in the shadows and she knows there’s more to the sheet of paper than she’s willing to admit. Magic fights with her, trying to piece together things that don’t entirely make sense, and she can remember things that don’t make sense. Pirate ships, and flashing swords, and a house with enough windows that it likely sets a record.

And a hand slipping a sheet of paper into her back pocket.

“Miss me?”

It’s a joke. A bad one, at that. Especially coupled with a smile that barely reaches his eyes, but Emma finds herself nodding all the same and he doesn’t stumble backwards when she launches herself at him, hugging as tightly as she can.

The paper goes back in her wallet before they leave for Storybrooke.

She’s going to leave. Get back in her car and go back to New York, and raise Henry like a normal kid, but Emma can’t shake the feeling that there’s something inherently wrong with that plan, and it doesn’t have anything to do with wicked witches or newborn brothers, but maybe deja vu for something she hasn’t lived yet, and Killian’s eyebrows fly into his hairline. When she does the unthinkable.

“Come with us, then.” “You’re not serious,” he challenges.

“Like a heart attack, maybe. I just…none of this is safe, and New York was, I mean…you could be part of—” “False memories, based on magical nonsense.”

Shoulders slumping, Emma can’t come up with an argument to that. Only kind of wants to, but she’s not in the book, and Henry doesn’t want to leave. The dreams she keeps having make sleep something of a pipe dream. And she’s something of a mess, but Killian’s a much better dancer than she expected him to be.

And she’s not surprised to find him rounding the corner of Regina’s dungeon, although it’s nice to be saved, even when she’s perfectly capable of doing it herself. But then his arms threaten to crack several of her ribs ten minutes later, and Emma has a few theories about that. None of which she voices, far too busy memorizing the way his thumb feels when it brushes her cheek, and her mother’s not dead.

Doesn’t remember her, but time travel beggars can’t be choosers. Another burst of deja vu rattles through her, and there’s no magic to jump in her veins, but Killian glances her direction all the same and the wand is heavy in her hand. One that’s magical again, a portal home because it is home and you trade your ship for me isn’t much more than a whisper on warmer-than-usual wind. He doesn’t blink when he answers. She’ll think about that for quite some time.

After she stops thinking about how good they are at kissing, because they are exceptional at kissing and it’s very simple. To fall into this head first, the feeling and the emotion and Killian chuckles when Emma’s magic begins to thrum under her skin.

She tells her parents about Neal.

About what he did, and how he did it and their eyes widen so often she wonders if they’ll get stuck like that. Killian’s hand doesn’t leave her shoulder.

They announce the change two days later. Prince Neal is Prince Leo and he’s still as cute as ever, with a tendency to spit up on whoever holds him.

“Are you alright?” “You’ve asked me that like ten times.” Nodding, Killian doesn’t move and Emma can’t imagine what kind of damage this is doing to his knees, but he doesn’t seem inclined to stand up either and she’s finally starting to get some feeling back in her toes. Fingers, too. Which makes it easier to drag the tips of them over his cheek, and his eyelids fluttering shut is a jolt of confidence she’s going to cling to. “And yet,” he drawls, “I’m still very curious.”

“I’m fine,” Emma says, not for the first time and she knows it won’t be the last. He shifts the blanket draped across her legs, tucking it under her side like—“A mother hen pirate.” “That’s rude, love.” “You’re going to give yourself a coronary.” “I don’t know what that means.” Laughing softly, her lips are still a bit chilly when she presses them to Killian’s skin. Warm, like always. Some joke about her own personal sun, and something else about walls made of ice and she doesn’t think before she mumbles, “you want to lay down, or something?” “Your father might challenge me to a duel.” “Not confident in your own sword skills?” “I’m very confident in my skills, but—” “—C’mon,” Emma interrupts, ignoring Killian’s protest when she pulls her arms out of the mountain of fabric covering her, “you’re warm, anyway.”

She realizes she loves him before she says it.

Well before, honestly. And she wonders why that feels inevitable, almost like it’s already happened, somehow but that’s—well, that’s impossible. She should rid that word from her vocabulary. And the inevitability of telling Killian everything she’s feeling isn’t totally surprising, either. Has been coming on so gradually that don’t you know, Emma, it’s you doesn’t knock her entirely off course. Might right her, actually. Direct her back towards some star or something else nautical and decidedly sentimental, and she cannot rationalize how quiet she is when he falls.

Dies, really.

This alternate version of him that still managed to rescue her, and she couldn’t save him and that’s not right. Two-way streets operate in both directions, but she didn’t tell him and everything feels like it stops. Not long enough. Time refuses to linger the way Emma needs it to, lungs threatening to disintegrate, and this isn’t real, can’t possibly be real and Henry’s pulling on her sleeve, telling her they have to go. He’s right. They’ve got to get out of here. Fix it, and give Emma more time, and she doesn’t spend any of it thinking before she rushes up the loft stairs and clings to him tightly enough that they fall over.

That will feel poetic later.

Standing in the center of Main Street, with a dagger in her hand and magic in the air and it’s familiar all over again, another burst of deja vu, and the exact opposite. Wrong, on a fundamental sort of level that she still can’t ignore and she closes her eyes. Thinks of what could be, or what she hopes will still happen, and then she tilts her head up and meets eyes that are far too blue to be fair and it’s easy to give voice to the words she hadn’t before.

That’s nice, she supposes.

Being as consistently confused by her own thoughts is one of Emma’s biggest pet peeves. “I love you.”

“Getting more and more difficult not to tell him. Isn’t it, dearie?” Sighing, Emma doesn’t bother glancing up from the half-finished dream catcher in her hands and Killian’s not going to be happy that he fell asleep. He likes to think he can protect her better while he’s conscious. As if he could protect her from her own mind.

“Do you even remember it?” Rumplestilskin continues, and it’s not really him. She has to keep reminding herself that. “Can see into your thoughts, y’know. And I don’t think you do.” “Shut up.” He doesn’t, of course. “The Queen did something. Changed something, somehow. Can feel the dregs of her magic, clinging to your memories and—” He leans forward. “—So can you, can’t you? Wonder why those scenes that appear behind your eyes every time you blink, feel so real. All that fairy tale fodder, and another thing you’ll miss out on. Strange how that version of your personal prince charming never mentioned what happens to you, isn’t it? Almost as if he’s keeping secrets. Maybe that’s a sign.” “Shut up.” She doesn’t mean to say anything. Responding only ever eggs the apparition on, and Emma’s head feels as if it will split in two. It might help if it did.

Every one of Rumplestilskin’s teeth is on display when he smiles. Like a goddamn crocodile.

“You could likely get your memories back. If you wanted. All that power surging through your veins. Or maybe,” he continues slowly, “part of what you’re feeling isn’t anything more than fate."

"No, that’s not true."

"Sure of that? Absolutely positive? Anything is possible, after all."

And the idea takes Emma by sudden and overwhelming surprise, part of her hating even the thought, but her feet are already moving and she might be running if the stretch of her legs is any sign, and Merlin doesn’t look up. When she slams open his door.

“You know, don’t you?” “Everything you’ve forgotten?” he asks lightly. “Yes, I do.” “What do I do about it?” “Would you like to do something about it?” “Did Regina do something to my memories?” Emma presses, leaning against the door as soon as it shuts behind her. One of his shoulders lifts. “He—the voice in my head…keeps taunting me about it, and I don’t—is any of that possible? That life?” Finally lifting his gaze, Merlin looks exactly as he did in that movie theater Emma only half believes she actually remembers, and time travel continues to be one of her least favorite things. “Depends,” he replies, “on you, and your next question.”

“I shouldn’t know. Right? Shouldn’t remember, I—he was looking at the house. The one I remember us living in sometimes, and I don’t…it’s impossible. To get back to that.” “He already told you it wasn’t,” Merlin argues.

I’ll never stop fighting for us.

Emma licks her lips. Coming up with anything else to say is difficult, and she’s still holding the goddamn dreamcatcher. That makes it easier. To give into instinct, and she’s broken. At her most basic level. Ripped apart and stitched back with pieces that don’t entirely belong to her, and remembering any of it feels like a cruel trick.

Lifting her arm, the whole thing only takes a few moments. Nothing more than a soft pull, and what feels like a soap bubble popping.

“Feel better?” Merlin asks, gaze dropping back to his table and his task and Emma nearly growls at him.

“What are you talking about?” “That’s what I thought. It won’t all disappear, though. Magic’s got a way of leaving a mark, especially magic like that.”

She leaves before he can make any other cryptic announcements, and Dark Ones don’t really need sleep. Emma sits on the bed for the rest of the night.

Dreams happen occasionally.

In the few days between — after the blade broke apart in her hand, and the decision that she won’t take this lying down, fuck whatever the world says about death and Dark Ones — visions start to creep into Emma’s subconscious. Sometimes they aren’t good, are a startling reminder of how it felt to fall to the ground, and the exact way dew soaked through her jeans, or how cold he was when his hand fell away from hers. And then sometimes they’re…not that.

They’re bright, and laughter rings out in the space Emma can’t quite define. Like it’s somewhere she’s been before, lived in even. Happily so. Scents hang in the air, a mix of salt and sweet and there’s almost always an arm curled around her waist, whispers in her ear and the steady press of kisses along her neck. Soft footsteps echo down carpeted hallways, and there’s garland wrapped around the staircase railing. Lining their ridiculous number of windows, and draped across branches of a tree.

For Christmas.

Emma isn’t sure how she knows that, but the snow outside is a good clue and it’s that — the growing desire to make this dream something closer to a reality, and no one questions her decision. To go to the Underworld. The same way she doesn’t second guess her steps as she races towards Killian, blood on his cheeks and nothing at the end of his left arm and he’s heavier than she remembered. Slumped against her chest with his breath in her ear, and it’s not quite the same as the dream, but they’ll get there.

They’ll get there.

Emma repeats the phrase — over and over, stumbling down a path she’s only passably confident will lead them outside, and he squeezes her hand. Three times.

Sometimes they dance.

In the kitchen. In the living room. She’s got this habit of hoarding records, and Killian’s far more interested in antiquing than he’d ever be willing to admit. Emma makes pirate jokes about it.

If only because it inevitably guarantees that spark in his eyes.

The one that makes her shiver, and reminds her of something she can’t quite remember and—she gasps, a hand spinning her on the kitchen floor. Away from the sink of dirty dishes and anything remotely responsible.

“I’m going to get your shirt all wet,” Emma grumbles, but that doesn’t appear to concern him very much. Or at all.

“Good.” “Good?” “Was that confusing?” Killian challenges, metal already working under the hem of her shirt. There are flowers on it.

“You think you’re very funny.” “I think I’ve got fantastic rhythm, and I can hear you thinking from across the room. What’s got your magic so loud?” Without stopping, Emma’s magic responds in kind — a symphony of possibility, and the growing sense of want that sits like a nearly-comfortable weight in the pit of her stomach, and sometimes she tells him. About the dreams, and the scenes that feel like she’s lived them before, and Killian never tells her she’s crazy. Even when Emma wonders if she might be. Instead, there’s simply this look of his own want, crinkling the skin near his eyes and she kisses away the pinch between his brow. Which makes it easier for her to ask— “Why this one?”

“Excuse me?” “This house,” Emma clarifies, and the conversation’s a little late. They’ve been here for years. Watched Henry grow up, and taught him how to use a sword, and watched movies until they could quote them back without a single mistake. So, really she should have figured it out before, but Emma’s had her suspicions. It’s only now that she’s greedy enough to ask about them.

“You know why.” “Would love to hear you say it.” “Pirate,” Killian accuses, without any insult and Emma giggles when he pulls her back to his chest. “And I—well, it’d be nice, don’t you think?” “Yeah, it would,” Emma says. The agreement tumbles out of her with ease, partially because of that aforementioned greed and the memories she can’t shake and Merlin said something to her. About magic’s tendency to leave something behind.

There’s a sheet of paper still hidden in her wallet.

“So,” she continues, “great big house, with lots of rooms and—” “—It’s your choice, Swan.” “That’s not how it works, and you know it. A combined team of planning and feeling and���” He dips her, she tries very hard not to giggle again. Fails miserably. “—Self-proclaimed rhythm. We just…this isn’t just about me, this is an us thing.” The music doesn’t stop. They only kind of do, Killian leaning back with a glint in his eyes that’s different than it normally is and Emma’s not sure when she started breathing through her mouth, but it’s drying out her lips and that’s not the first time she’s said that.

She doesn’t think so, at least.

“I’m a rather large fan of that string of words,” Killian says. “And you.” “Seems like a requirement of marriage.” “And parenting?” “Yeah?” “Yeah.”

Kissing him is really the only reasonable option. And Emma considers herself fairly reasonable, although her magic nearly makes a light bulb explode a few hours later and it’s difficult to be annoyed by the smug look on Killian’s face when he’s not wearing any clothing.

“What about Regina?”

Half a dozen heads snap towards Emma, some of them sporting bemused expressions, while others wear flat out disbelief and she doesn’t blink. Her fingers tighten, under the table where she’s gripping Killian’s hand and she can’t seem to get comfortable.

There’s way more of her than she’s used to, and the books claim she’s in some stage called nesting. Which Killian uses as an excuse to make Swan jokes at every opportunity. It might be driving her insane.

So, Emma will use that as an excuse. “What do you mean, Your Highness?” Grumpy asks her, and Killian can’t quite mask his laugh. Even with his teeth pressed distractingly into his lower lip.

“I mean,” Emma starts, “that if we’re going to combine all the realms, maybe having Regina in charge might not be the worst idea. She’s got queenly experience.” “Wow,” Regina says slowly, “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” “No it is not!” “Top five, at least.” “You’re ruining this.”

Scrunching her nose is not a normal Regina reaction, but Emma figures it makes sense considering the circumstances and it’s a lot of responsibility. Uniting all the realms is a pretty daunting prospect, that will require enough of her own magic that Killian’s already freaking out just a bit, and somehow Emma can’t bring herself to be frustrated with that. Endeared, maybe.

And absolutely certain this will work.

She doesn’t know why. She looks at the slip of paper in her wallet, like four times a day.

“You’re sure?” Regina asks, Emma nods. “Alright, then I’d uh—it’d be my honor.”

They buy too many gifts. Hope is a baby. One who won’t have any memory of her first Christmas in this absolutely massive house, with a tree that Anton gave them a discount on.

“For milestones,” he reasoned, and Emma resolutely refuses to admit that she cried. But Killian brings it up more than once, and that gets her to roll her eyes and smile against his mouth when he ducks his head to kiss her and Snow White went above and beyond this year. Decorations line Main Street, cookies shared from every business and every person and all those people keep smiling. At her, and them and their kid is way cuter than her brother was.

Emma doesn’t mention that.

Killian does, at least when he whispers it to her while Leo tears apart another paper-covered box, and Hope gurgles in the crook of his arm. And Emma figures this is as good a time as any. To tug the folded envelope out of her pocket, flipping her wrist at the expectant and slightly confused look on Killian’s face. “What’s this?” “A gift,” Emma snarks, barely twisting out of the way to avoid him nipping at her nose. Like some twisted and very attractive Jack Frost. There’s some silver in his hair now.

He uses his hook to open it.

Emma clicks her tongue. So as not to push into his mouth. That might scar the kid.

“I don’t—” Killian says, pulling the scrap of paper out of. He holds it like it’s precious, and it is for Emma, but she also doesn’t entirely understand it and it’s kind of a selfish gift. “This is my hand writing. Why…I don’t remember writing this.” “And I don’t know when I got it. But I have it.” “I can see that.” “No, no, you don’t understand. It’s—I’ve had that for as long as I can remember. Since before New York, at least.” Killian’s eyes flash. To her and possibly through her, and Emma’s shrug is half-hearted at best. “Memories don’t always stick in this town,” he reasons, but it sounds like an excuse. For something she still doesn’t entirely understand.

“Yeah, I know. But it’s been there. Was in my wallet, and I had it in Camelot, babe. Used to pull it out sometimes, when you were—” “—Dead?” “God bless us, every one.” His laugh lacks any real amusement. It’s not very festive. “I’m going to ask you something,” Emma says, fully prepared for the way his lips curl.

“Eventually you’ll bypass the proclamations, Your Highness.” “Why do you squeeze my hand? You do it all the time.” “Do I?” Blotches of pink appear on his cheeks and he might want to lie, but his ears can’t and that’s not as weird a sentence as it should be. “Only three times, you realize?” “Don’t insult me like that.” That laugh is better. Purer, more like him and Emma’s magic flickers when he kisses her cheek. He’s constantly kissing her cheek. And her hair. Temple. Anywhere he can reach, like he’s always looking for a reminder and proof, until Emma knows she depends on it just as much as he does.

“Made it easier,” he says, “saying it without actually using words.” “And the words were…” He doesn’t really glare — that’s against the rules at Christmas, Emma’s sure, but his head lolls and his lips quirk and magic jumps. In her. To him. Whatever, really. “I love you,” Killian says, easy as some other cliche and Hope squirms between them. When they start kissing.

To suggest that what happens next happens suddenly, also makes it seem like Emma is paying attention to anything outside the little bubble of family and feeling, and neither one of those things is true. So she can’t say that. Her mother can.

Gasping and yelping, and there’s color everywhere — rivaling the lights that hang all over, because no one does holidays and milestones better than Her Royal Highness Snow White of Storybrooke. Emma curses.

Like a goddamn princess.

Remembering something that hasn’t technically happened yet threatens to make Emma topple over, but she’s really good at standing now and Killian’s arm is around her anyway. That helps. Perpetually.

“What the hell was that?” David demands, with as little grace as any of them can exude.

Emma shakes her head, refusing to blink. Despite the moisture there, and the feelings and she remembers. Has this whole time, kind of. The semantics probably aren’t important, at least not as much as the light is and was and will be.

Perpetually.

She doesn’t answer. Not her dad, anyway.

“I love you,” Emma tells Killian instead, and it takes some time to explain it all later. True Love and its somewhat inconsistent if not equally wonderful tendencies, and while that future in the past may not happen exactly as it had, this is somehow better and Emma was right.

They got here, eventually.

[asarahworld-writes]

title: burning, charred, splintered

prompt: Zed overcomes his fear of fire to save Addison

@amber-eyed-neko​​ - welcome to the Zombie crew!  As you’ve probably noticed, we are an angst-loving fandom.  And with this prompt, you’re going to fit right in! (though we do also love fluff. really.  I promise it’s not always angsty.  Well, not entirely.)  I don’t know what it was about this, but I was inspired!  Also, I want to mention that usually I’m not an angsty writer. Usually.

Ash-laden clouds of smoke surround him.  Every breath fills his lungs with hot smoky air, forcing him to stagger as another cough wracks his tall frame.  In the distance, he can hear the wail of a fire engine approaching but it was still too far off, still behind the wall in Seabrook proper.

As he stumbles out of the burning power plant, he is quickly ambushed by Bonzo and Eliza.  Only Bonzo and Eliza.

“Where’s Addison?” They ask simultaneously.  “Gozrea Addiska?”

“I thought she was with you!”  Zed looks from his friends back to the fiery plant.  “She’s still in there?”

Eliza catches his arm as he whips around.  “Zed, no, it’s too dangerous.”

“I have to find Addison. It’s my fault she was here.”

“Ag garzen zet. Bak zrayn.”

“She’s my girlfriend, Bonzo. I can’t wait around for somebody to maybe show up.  Things might be changing, but this is still Zombietown.”  Zed stares at the fiery blaze as he speaks.  Red and orange flames raged through the entire plant, thick black plumes of smoke billowing up towards an otherwise clear sky.

Zed stops in his tracks. “I can’t go in until you guys go.” Eliza protests.  “No, you have to go.  As long as you’re here, I - just, please go.”

“Five minutes, Zed. We’re coming back in five minutes, and if you’re not here,” Eliza choked, pretending to clear her throat.

“Deal.  Now get out of here.”  Zed watches as his friends leave, then looks back to the burning building. He’s not scared.  The fear is consuming, he’s not scared but he’s terrified that he won’t find her.

He takes a deep breath and heads into the blazing fire.  Vaguely, he half-remembers some scrap of something that clean air is denser than smoke and to stay low.  He crouches to the ground and is relieved to find the air to be slightly cleaner.  He takes in a gulp of burning air, his lungs already feeling a different burn from oxygen deprivation.  “Addison!”  He calls, as loud as he can, as he coughs from the smoke.  “Addison!”

The plant was always lit up with coloured lights and pulsing with the beat of loud music and in a way, the fire mimics it.  Flickering orange and yellows, and sharp cracks with a steady crackle underneath, but this is no zombie mash.  Something cracks and falls crashing to the floor.  As his eyes follow, he sees movement.  He calls her name again.  Faintly, he hears her.

“Addison!”  He finds her, collapsed against a wall that’s smouldering.  Every cell in his body is desperate to get out, to get away from the orange embers, but he strains against every instinct.  “Addison, can you get up?”

They’re both coughing, and he coaxes her onto her knees. He can feel the terror inching closer, can feel himself nearing his breaking point, and he needs to get them both out before that happens.  Something else cracks and the wall beside them fully bursts into flames.  Zed freezes for a moment, then forces himself to look at Addison.  She’s barely conscious and he’s starting to feel the effects of smoke inhalation. They need to get out.  He needs adrenaline, he needs to move.  Fast.

Zed makes a split-second decision and took off his Z-band, securing it in Addison’s limp hand. Already, he can feel the effect of the electromagnetics leaving his nervous system.  His brain is shifting into fight or flight mode and his body is coursing with energy.

Zed stops and falls to his knees.  He lands hard, doing everything he can to push through against his instincts and not leave her.  He picks up the unconscious human in front of him, drawing her close to his chest.  He inhales deeply, the familiar smell of her brain anchoring him.  Out. Get out.  Fire.  Zon zegra.  Fire. Addeska zegra.  Addison safe. Grik regur.  Get back quickly.

Fire surrounds them, consuming everything.  The way he came in is now blocked, another support beam having slammed into the ground, sparks flying.  Zed hisses as they land on his coveralls, instinctively pulling his arms in closer. He forces himself to look out across the flames, searching for a way out.  He crawls towards where the door should be, used to be, pulling Addison along. Her arms are draped over his neck, most of her body protected underneath his own.

Grik.  But how?

The wall has almost caved in.  Any support is used to have has long since been compromised and with the lightest force it would collapse.  Not giving himself time to think, even in his zombie state, Zed shrugged out of his jacket, placing over Addison to protect her from the sparks and burning ash, and charged at the wall.  He burst through it easily, charred wood splintering and embedding itself into his skin. Zed barely felt it.  He was vaguely aware of people shouting, but he couldn’t focus on them.  He went back into the fire.

Addison was right where he’d left her.  He made it back just as his jacket burst into flames and he wasted no time in scooping her up off the ground and back into his arms.  He discarded the ruined jacket and held her close as he forced his way back through the makeshift exit.

Someone came running up to meet them as Zed stumbled from the ruins.  Whoever it was tried to take Addison from him and he snapped, growling lowly as he protected his mate.  “Ag.”

Whoever it was started speaking lowly in Zombietongue, slowly convincing Zed that it was safe. To let Addison go.

“Agru grep.” Zed didn’t leave her side as the Zombie Patrol came in.  He heard but didn’t understand what they said as they examined Addison and loaded her onto a stretcher.  It was only when they lifted it up that he understood they were taking her.  “Ag,” he growled.

Eliza held him back. “Where’s your Z-band?  Zer-garzand,” she said urgently.

“Adska,” Zed looked to the departing vehicle.

“Addison has your Z-band? That’s not good, Zed.”

“Adska.”  Zed’s eyes were wide and he pulled free of Eliza, sprinting after the patrol car.  His zombie-fied strength ensured that he caught up long before his friends could stop him and he followed it, bursting after the paramedics into the human hospital.  She was gone. He tried to calm himself and walked as normally as he could to the receptionist.

“Addiskan Well. Zer-garzand - zongro.”

The receptionist looked at him and screamed.  Zed tried to make his expression calmed and focused as much as he could.

“Addiskan Wellzz ag za zer-gand.”  He tried again, holding up his bare wrist.  The next thing Zed knew, he was being forced to floor, patrol officers forcing electromagnetic waves into his brain from a taser.  Crude, but it snapped his brain back into its higher functions.

“Addison Wells was in an ambulance to here from the fires and she has my Z-band,” he blurted out, needing to have the officer understand before he was shocked again.  “Is she okay?”

The officer said nothing, forcing Zed forward with the taser until they reached the ambulance where his z-band was laying on the ground.  Zed moved as smoothly as he could to reach it and quickly snapped it back onto his wrist, breathing deeply as the electromagnetic pulses soothed his instincts.

He looked at the officer. “I just need to know if she’s okay. Please.  She’s my girlfriend.”

“The family is on their way. I’m sorry, but we don’t disclose patient information to non-relatives.”

“She’s my girlfriend,” Zed repeated.

“There’s nothing I can do about that.  However, we do have somebody available to take a look at those burns.”

The moment she said that, Zed became acutely aware of the sensation burning over his entire body. He gritted his teeth, unwilling to make any noise of pain that could be misinterpreted as a Zombie going rogue. He nodded his head jerkily, exhaling sharply through his mouth.  The burns were painful, as was the salve and bandage application.  Zed said nothing throughout the procedure, staring blankly ahead until it was over.

He returned to reception. “Have the Mayor and Chief Wells arrived yet?  When can I see Addison?”

The receptionist ignored him.  “Can I have your name and information please?”

Zed rattled it off listlessly, trying to think of any way to find Addison, when the door opened and the two people he’d just been asking about ran through.

“Our daughter, where is she?”  Missy Wells stormed to reception, the perfect image of a distraught mother.  She and Dale were quickly escorted away and Zed ran after them, ignoring the receptionist and interns and orderlies and whoever else was in the hall trying to stop him.  He followed them into the ICU and stopped in his tracks.

Addison was asleep, light gauze covering most of her body.  Missy and Dale were at her bedside, Missy holding her hand.  Zed drew back, not wanting to intrude on a private family moment, but hit his hand lightly on the door.  He hissed in pain involuntarily and the Wells looked up.

Clutching his hand, covered in burns and splinters with his blackened coveralls, Zed realized what a sight he must be as he took in their faces.

“Addison,” he choked out, voice raspy.  He moved forward, wincing as he bent his tall frame over the bed.  One hand gripping the bedrails for support, Zed reached out and brushed back an unruly white curl.  He withdrew, almost collapsing onto the floor.  Dale approached him.  “I’m not leaving her,” he said thickly.

Dale said nothing, merely helping the boy off the floor and into a chair.  “You need medical attention, Zed.”

“I’m not going back to Zombietown.  I’m not leaving Addison.”

As always, Zombietongue is from @unusual-ly​ ‘s masterposts

Zombietongue translations:

1. Gozrea Addiska - where’s Addison

2. Ag garzen zet.  Bak zrayn - She’s my friend too.  But wait.

3. Zon zegra - not safe

3.5 Grik - fast

4. Ag - mine

5. Agru grep - She needs help.

6. Zer-garzand - zongro - Z-band - bad

Note: I am aware that I randomly switch tenses halfway through.  But they just seem right.  I don’t know.

[supermanshield]

Finding this is hard

~~~

Yet despite his best efforts tonight, Clark smiles at him, and even through the screen and slightly distorted feed he feels the warmth. Tingling suppressed because it’s nothing like the real deal. The one he’s seen directed at Lois, or when Clark talks about Lana.

Bruce has accepted that Clark will never be interested in him. Until finally, Clark takes a chance.

~~~ 

Words: 5,242

A/N: This only started because I was thinking about the layout of Wayne Manor, and for some reason considered Tim’s room next to Bruce’s. It grew into something much bigger from there, became much too serious and I completely lost track of the humorous angle I wanted to go for at first. Yay angst.

Also, another one in Bruce’s POV, which I always considered harder than Clark’s POV, but I am also working on two+ things with POV Clark.

Read on AO3

 ______________________________________________

“Quiet night?” Soft thud of Clark’s boots on the rooftop behind him and footsteps walking over to where Bruce sits crouched at the edge. An affirmative grunt is all he gives Clark in return, eyes trained on the building across the street and listening to shards of conversation being fed to him by the cowl from the bugs he has planted earlier.

“Stakeout.”  

Minute flicker, Clark shifting in and out of focus, and he sits down next to Batman. “Turned the security camera on the corner over to the building with your guys in it.”

“Hnn. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Don’t use your superspeed though. Don’t need suspects scrambling because they see red and blue.”

He chances a look over at Clark. Squatting down on a grimy rooftop in Gotham, back against the half wall running around the perimeter – good, anyone on the street can only maybe see his black hair and Batman’s cowl blends into the dark of the night anyway –, and hair and cape wet from the rain is not a good look on Superman. He stands out like a sore thumb next to Batman, doesn’t belong here. Yet, it has been a long time since Bruce has sent him out of his city because of all that, his presence now a comfort that has crept up on Bruce. And Clark has learnt, too. Hiding in the shadows just like him and helpful to a level that used to be annoying. It’s not that Bruce is dependent on him for this kind of stuff, he really isn’t. He can just… welcome the company sometime. That’s okay.

“Did you have something to discuss?”

Clark shrugs, one corner of his mouth goes up. “Just thought I’d check up on you.”

“You can use the communicator for that.”

“Right.”

After a while of sitting like this, Clark’s hearing clearly focused on the same conversation as Bruce, they both perk up at the same time. Silently following the suspects is a job for Batman. He sends Superman away, tells him through his comm to go back to Metropolis and silently thanks him for the company.

Much later, after a meet-up with Robin at the docks and on their drive to the Cave, Red Robin behind them on his bike, Bruce considers his relationship with Clark. Damian stays silent in the seat beside him – lets him brood - , and when they get back to the cave, he and Tim (even Tim), both tired, disappear up to the house for a snack and sleep.

Maybe he has let Clark get too close. Got too comfortable around him and let down those meticulously crafted walls. Yet being around Clark isn’t painful anymore, feelings born out of curiosity evaporated a long time ago. A mere physical attraction shoved into the depths of his being when reciprocation turned out impossible. He’s accepted that, Clark is a friend, and Bruce is content with his family, as far as that is possible with two teenagers and an aggressive prepubescent son in the house, and more scattered across the city and the east-coast (he is). It was a necessity to keep Clark at arm’s length, before. Protect them, put yourself last, don’t be selfish, don’t let yourself fall (don’t pull Clark down).

He has even chased Selina for a bit in an attempt to settle down as expected of a man his age and his status, his name, but it ultimately wasn’t worth it. Selina obviously not the right person for settling down and his interest faked, a game of cat and mouse (bat).

So yes, he can be close to Clark. They are friends, after all.

----------

Clark’s brain is a super-computer and more human than Bruce’s at that. It comes in handy when filtering through recordings or data and Bruce can’t think of a better reason to invite him over for dinner and a joint case-study in the cave.

He doesn’t remember the last time Clark has been up in the house and not just in the cave. It’s ridiculous really, they’ve been friends for years, only Bruce hasn’t been acting like one while Clark has put in 100% effort (and only sporadically to the point of annoyance).

Friendship leads to bad things and more, like with Harvey. But Clark is not Harvey.

“Thanks for inviting me for dinner,” Clark says when they walk back down into the cave. “You didn’t have to, I mean. But it’s nice to talk about non-cape stuff for once and see you interact with your kids.”

“I didn’t invite you because I had to, Clark. We’re friends.” Fact, not question and (obviously) obvious to Clark.

“Of course.” But a dazzling smile in his direction (he finds he wants that, more, and that’s exactly why he can’t) and Bruce decides that now is as good a time as any to go on patrol and leave Clark with the brunt of the work that they started on earlier. A few quick commands and suits up, utility-belts packed, and Robin, Red Robin, Batgirl, and Batman speed out of the cave to go on patrol.

----------

A steaming cup of coffee appears on the desk in front of him and Clark sits down in the other chair and swivels towards him. It always goes like this; Bruce will come up early, ready for monitor duty whatever time of the day it is. Clark walks in almost a clockwork five minutes later, coffee or tea in both hands, a quick silent rush of his cape and he reappears with snacks, sometimes dinner (leftovers from Martha’s cooking, and Bruce hears his stomach growl in betrayal at the first waft of chicken, cooked vegetables, goulash). They often get paired up, being in the same time-zone and no one else wants to spend time with Batman much. Except maybe Diana, or J’onn. (But Diana pries too much, seeking out the truth. J’onn doesn’t pry at all, even though he could. With him it is hyper-focus and silence for most of 6 hours.)  

So, it’s fine with Clark, nothing’s expected and there is familiarity in their conversation. The time passes faster and he gladly chooses this over any board meeting where nothing ever gets done anyway. But today monitor duty is during his patrol, and Tim and Damian are out on their own. Together. Dick in Blüdhaven and Cassandra out of commission in bed. One of Bruce’s screens is continuously focused on Gotham, two small figures in capes and chasing bad guys and each other. They do their job and Bruce watches his other screens, listens to Clark and nods appropriately, goes over some new schematics for a suit improvement.

Corner of his eye, peripheral vision is dedicated to the two small figures in Gotham. The screen shows the top of Wayne Tower and Red Robin pacing up and down, clearly talking, unhappy, Robin has crossed his arms. Bruce can interrupt them over the comms, give them a good scare, but they’d never learn. The need for them to work together more poignant as Bruce becomes older and Damian almost ready to join the Teen Titans if it wasn’t for Tim. His heart skips a beat when Damian’s hand goes for his katana, but Tim holds up his in surrender, holding him off and it is fine, they’re okay.

Bruce turns back to his other screens only to find Clark looking at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Clark takes another bite of his Mars bar, feigning oblivion.

“Listen.”

“It’s my hearing, B. I can’t just turn it off.”

“Then focus on something else.” Clark turns back to his side of the monitor bank and Bruce goes back to his work, but he’s lost his focus. Gotham not just in his peripheral vision anymore and of course, Clark notices.

“Want me to go down there? I’ll keep an eye on them. Or you go and I’ll stay here.”

“No, we have a job to do. So do they.”

Clark doesn’t look convinced and something in the back of Bruce’s mind screams of Superman’s disapproving scowl at a brightly coloured child next to Batman’s black cape. But that is a long time ago and Clark looks at him now with a crease between his raised eyebrows and a hand on his shoulder. Worry, a question.

“No,” he says again. “They need to do this together. I trained them. I trust them.”

That hand lingers on his shoulder a moment longer, and Bruce doesn’t shake it off, doesn’t want to. The weight behind Clark’s touch and his gaze ground him, get him out of his thoughts and back to focus on work.

----------

It’s a couple weeks later and they’re all in the cave, Tim and Cass on the matts, sparring, Damian off by the workbench quietly cleaning his gear. Bruce has a video feed open to the Fortress of Solitude, where Superman and Supergirl are looking into the Kryptonian database for the origins of an abandoned alien ship found on Mars. Or at least, Superman is. Kara is playing with newly acquired Krypto, two streaks of red and a blur in the background from time to time. Clark’s family is expanding, too.

Their conversation is all business, small talk quickly waved off by Bruce and he keeps them on track. He has other stuff to do and if Clark can’t find anything about the ship in the Kryptonian data, he’ll contact Oa and let the Lanterns handle it. Yet despite his best efforts tonight, Clark smiles at him, and even through the screen and slightly distorted feed he feels the warmth. Tingling suppressed because it’s nothing like the real deal. The one he’s seen directed at Lois, or when Clark talks about Lana.

“I could uhh… come over?” The uncertainty in Clark’s voice surprises Bruce, but Clark quickly picks up again. “Got everything we need here. I’ll send it to you and we can come up with a plan.”

“The Lanterns can handle it from here,” Bruce says resolutely, pauses. “OK, come over. Bring Kara. I want to have Tim teach her some things about tracking and deduction.” At the mention of her name, Kara appears, now fully visible and Krypto at her side, looking up expectantly at the ball in her hand.

“Hi, guys,” she waves, and Bruce finds Tim and Cass behind him, and even Damian has come much closer. She pretends to hold a magnifier in front of her face. “Detective Kara on the case.” Cass smiles and waves. Tim greets back and says something about listening to detective Tim, smug voice and all smiles. Bruce looks back at Clark to find him still staring at him, holds onto that and Clark’s blue eyes, until Kara speaks again. “Sooo, sleepover at the manor tonight? It’s getting a little boring up here. No offence, Kal.”

Clark holds up his hands. “None taken.”

Bruce cuts in quickly. “No. Tonight’s training and then back home. Damian and I will go on patrol. Clark can stay here with you guys.”

Clark chuckles. “Bruce, it’s fine. You’ve got room enough and I’ll just go back to Metropolis tonight.”

Bruce’s stare turns into a scowl, and Clark folds his arms. Tim lets out an uncharacteristic groan, Cass rolls her eyes. Clark breaks first, unfolds his arms but it’s not without a smug smile when he says, “We’ll be right there.”

 -

They all have supper together, it’s an odd sight at the table with Clark and Kara in their super suits, capes left folded on one of the benches in the cave. Damian is already in the under-suit of his Robin costume, the rest of them still in training sweats, but Alfred only scoffs mildly as he joins them at the table, impeccable as ever. Bruce gets lost in conversation with Clark while the children have their own thing going on. So lost, in fact, that he forgets about patrol time until Damian gives an incessant tug on his sleeve and tells him to ‘get ready, father. I cannot believe you let the alien distract you like that.’

On top of that, in the cave Clark somehow convinces him to let Cass, Tim, and Kara have their sleepover. It’s good for Kara, he says, she needs to spend more time with people her age. Of course Tim then asks if Kon can come too, and Clark happily says yes, at which point Bruce has to remind him that it’s his home, his room is right next to Tim’s and everyone needs their sleep, and thinks it’s a good thing they’re not raising these kids together. They’re opposites, he would be the strict parent, and everyone would go to Clark to ask things (evidently, they already do, or at least Tim does, and Bruce wonders again if he’s let Clark let too close).

That night on patrol though, he can’t shake the feeling that something about tonight felt absolutely right. He chalks it up to the manor, it’s large, it’s supposed to be that full, and his age. He’s not weak, he’s just becoming a sentimental old sap.

----------

On Tuesday afternoon he runs into Tim in the hallway adjoining both their bedrooms where Tim tells him about a recent board meeting at WE, some adjustments he wants to make to their financing plans, coffee cup in hand and stack of papers in the other. Mature, he looks mature.

“How old are you again?” He asks after Tim finishes talking.

Exasperated sigh and waving the stack of papers. “Did you even hear anything I said?”

Bruce just glares at him in answer, raises an eyebrow.

“Right,” Tim says. He hums. Tim is going to fly out soon and Bruce is not quite ready to acknowledge how that makes him feel, but he’ll do his damn best to make sure it’s a good experience for him. To not push him away. To not lose him. “You know I’ll be out of here as soon as soon as I’m eighteen.”

“And finish school.”

“Fine, and finish school. Then I’ll get my own apartment. Might get quiet here.”

Bruce shrugs. “It won’t be quiet with Damian around. I could always call Clark to come over if it gets boring.”

“Clark?”

“Or-”

“No, no, invite Clark. Good for you.” He elbows Bruce and steps into his room. Tim’s grin is just a little unsettling, worth a second thought, but the only possible answer is simple enough. Clark slips into his conversations and his thoughts like he’s supposed to be there (he is). Being around him is more than comfortable, it’s normal. Much better than back in the day when he was always with Lois and Bruce is completely over his feelings.

---------

A mild injury (twisted ankle, he landed wrong and feels it up in his knee), and Clark insists on going back to the cave with Bruce after patrol. He sends Damian to the showers and to bed, slides into the chair in front of the computer and takes off his cowl. Clark hovers around, it’s annoying, he offers to get an ice pack, but that’s Alfred’s job and he’s there as soon as Bruce sinks down. Tim’s at the other end of the large bank of monitors, tracking shipments of something. Bruce should really be more interested and know what Tim is up to, but he’s tired, sore all over, just wants a nice warm shower and sleep. Work first.

Maybe it’ll go faster with Clark around. At least, if he would just stop worrying about Bruce and actually help him. They’re looking into some recovered DNA when Bruce reaches up, rubs at his neck subconsciously.

“You okay?” Clark’s question startles him, both their eyes still trained on the screen. Listening again.

“I’m fine, just sore.”

“Go to bed. I’ll do this.”

“No, I still need to write tonight’s report.” Rubs at his shoulder and rolls.

“Ok. Then here, let me.” Clark walks closer to him, behind the chair, makes a motion with his hands. It takes just a bit too long for Bruce to catch on, but he leans forward slightly. Clark deftly removes the cape and cowl - and it should really worry Bruce that he knows how to, but he forgoes an angry comment as soon as Clark’s hands touch his shoulder. They’re warm along his shoulders and neck, large, gentle despite their incredible strength. Of course, Clark easily finds all the knots and twists and kneads in just the right places. Bruce tries to refocus on his work, tries to be annoyed with Clark for knowing exactly what to do, but the smooth slide of Clark’s thumbs on his trapezius muscles makes it hard. Friends can do this.

It’s somehow much too soon when all the tension is gone and Clark pulls back his hands, but he pushes the thought away. Clears his throat. “Hnn. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He hasn’t noticed Tim leave, but his spot is empty now, hears him rumbling around in a different part of the cave and the rest of their work gets done quickly in silence.

“I think we should wrap things up here,” Bruce says after finishing his report. He pushes himself up out of the chair, has to hold onto the backrest for support. Clark, automatically, reaches out to him to help.

“Report all done?”

Bruce nods.

“Ok, then. Need any help getting upstairs?”

“No.”

Clark hasn’t let go. In fact, he’s come closer, every colour blue visible in his eyes and his breath ghosting over Bruce’s face.

“Bruce, I-“

“Yes.” The grip on his arm becomes tighter, slow tug. Lips on his, impossibly soft and a hand gently supporting his back. But his own hand stings and the next second Clark stands in front of him, shocked and appropriate distance between them again. Bruce swears in pain. His hand throbs.

“What the fuck, Clark.”

“Crap! Sorry, Bruce, I…” Bruce clenches his jaw, there’s a sigh, then only a gust of wind, Clark’s speed too high for Bruce to even see the streak of red flying out of the cave.

“Bruce.” He whirls around at the sound of his name, heart racing. Tim’s stopped on his way to the stairs, towel around his neck and Bruce ignores the pain in his ankle as he makes his way over. “Fuck, why did you try to hit him?”

“Bed, now.”

Tim groans overdramatically and walks past him into the house. Slowly, Bruce makes it up the stairs and to his bedroom, where he collapses into bed and a restless sleep.

---------

The next day it’s glowers from Tim, no hugs or any words from Cass, and Damian isn’t much better off. Alfred gives him more than a few pointed looks, no sassy raised eyebrow and all scowls. Bruce ignores them as much as they ignore him and the house is quieter than it’s been in a long time. He needs to deal with this himself, he just doesn’t know how to yet. It all lasts until evening, when everyone is in the cave quietly getting ready, where Tim finally speaks to him.

“You lead him on.”

“What?”

“Clark. You lead him on.”

“I heard you, Tim. I did not.”

“You get too close to the alien, father.”

“Clark is a friend. I am close to him.”

“No, you let him get close. You lower your defences, and your body language is all… open.” The last word sounds like a reach within Damian’s vocabulary, chosen carefully.

“Exactly,” Tim joins in. “You lean into him; he moves towards you. You make googly eyes at him; he makes googly eyes at you. When you’re not looking of course.”

“I don’t make googly eyes.”

Tim sighs. “You get the point. Hell, I’ve seen you having coffee with him in the kitchen after patrol more than a few times. I thought that-”

“Tim.”

One of his trademark teenage sighs again, all frustration and no patience. “For a so-called billionaire playboy, you’re really bad at telling when someone is actually interested in you.”

“I’m done talking about this. Suit up. All of you.”

“Had me believe you were in love with him…” A mumble and it dies down as Tim puts on his helmet. The roar of his bike engine drowns out Bruce’s words. “Clark isn’t… that’s just me.”

By the time the cave is quiet again, Damian is waiting for him in the batmobile, arms crossed over his fastened seatbelt. Bruce pulls the cowl over his head and doesn’t notice Cass behind him until she tugs on his cape, puts a hand on his shoulder. “You… love.” She touches his chest. “Clark. Loves you… too.”

 -

On patrol that night, Bruce’s mind wanders. If Damian notices he doesn’t comment on it. They intercept a weapons shipment by the docks, take down the thugs. Standard night in Gotham.

Clark isn’t gay. Straight? Bruce has never outright asked him, always assumed. Lana and Lois all he has to go on and he simply came to a logical conclusion. Though it’s a flawed one, and contradicted by himself on top of that. CEO of a billion-dollar company and he has women hanging of his arms at every society event he goes to because it’s expected. To be straight. He can’t imagine Clark having to do that – maybe it was his rural upbringing, though the Kents are not like that.

And of course, Clark brings Bruce’s whole world, the lies he tells himself, down with one simple kiss. After eleven goddamn years, and all he can feel is loss, lost time, frustration and anger as his fists connect with ribs, jaws, elbows on the street. He needs Clark to explain. He needs himself to understand.

---------

“Bruce.” Clark opens the door, still dressed in a blue button-up and off-the-rack slacks. It’s clear he hasn’t been expecting him; a single plate with a half-finished dinner sits on the table, next to a laptop.

“Why now.”

“What?” Clark clears his throat, swallows a remnant of his dinner. “I’m sorry for what happened.” He steps aside to let Bruce into the apartment, follows him towards the small living room. “I didn’t mean to… I just thought- “

“That’s just it. You didn’t think, you just-” Bruce stops himself, groans. He isn’t here to fight with Clark, but it is just so goddamn easy. Toe to toe and head to head despite half the room separating them. Clark’s jaw sets in that all too familiar way and his expression drops from astonishment and curiosity to calm and collected.

“Are you just here to yell at me? Because I’m really not in the mood. I’m sorry. I thought you were interested in… that. Clearly, I misread the signs, so it won’t happen again. Can we just forget about this whole thing… and move on or something?”

“No.” To Bruce, moving on is impossible.

“Right. Why are you even mad at me? If anything, I should be the one being angry with you. And it doesn’t sound like you came here to apologize for hitting me.”

“No, I didn’t. I’m here so you can explain one thing to me, Clark. Why did you kiss me?”

An eternity packed into the second it took Clark to find his reply, and his answer anything but satisfying. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ve just been spending too much time together.”

“We’re friends. Friends spend time together.”

“Yes. Ok,” Clark sighs, averts his eyes. “I’m attracted to you… and I thought it was mutual. I mean, you let me give you a massage. You’ve never let me done that! So really, I’m sorry if I misread the situation.” Clark holds up his hands, palms up in explanation, excuse. All of it seems much too easy for him, something to brush off.  

“I didn’t think my behaviour would cause such a complication.”

“A complication.”

“I didn’t know, or I would have done things differently. Ergo, a complication.”

Clark breaths in and out, pinches the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Ok, do you have a problem with me being the way I am? Because that’s what it sounds like. It was just a kiss. Get over it.”

“You jump to conclusions, Clark. As always.”

“Cryptic and you leave me two steps behind, Bruce. As always.”

He looks around Clark’s apartment. The couch is small, but he sits down anyway, motions for Clark to sit on the armchair. Ikea. It puts him across from Bruce and level. “I didn’t know you were…” he has to strain for the right word. “Not straight. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Clark runs a hand through his hair, closes his eyes and takes of his glasses. “I thought you were supposed to be good at reading people. I thought you knew.”

“All evidence pointed to the contrary.”

“Bisexuality is a thing you know. And I don’t have to tell you everything about my love interests.”

“Right. Feels like you do, though.”

“So then,” Clark tries. “You’re just here to confirm my sexuality.”

“Not just that.”

“Oh. So, you are… You’re not out, are you?”

“Neither are you, apparently.”

“It’s complicated. And it’s not like I actively hide it,” he says accusingly. Evidently, conditioned bias can really be a bitch sometimes. There’s a whole other conversation to be uncovered behind Clark’s complicated. One they should have. Maybe later. Bruce swallows.

“Why I hit you. I overreacted. I taught myself to… not want that, and-”

“Rao, Bruce, stop. You don’t have to deny who you are. Not around me.” There’s that comforting hand on his again. So much of Clark's communication is rooted in touch. He's held back, Bruce realises now, and finds he desperately wants a lot more of it. Hand on the armrest of the couch, he doesn’t pull away.

“Will you let me apologise. I didn’t mean to hit you and I’m sorry. You know I would never, and it’s stupid.” He looks at where Clark’s thumb touches his bruised knuckles. “Clearly,” Clark agrees.

“The thing is. I was finally content. Happy with what I could have. My family. You as a friend. And then you go and ruin it all with a stupid little kiss.” He has to avert his eyes, look up at the ceiling to consider the absurdity of it all. Biggest miscalculation of his life. The feeling of loss washes over him again like a tidal wave of his own making, and he can’t help but wonder if it feels the same for Clark. “Eleven goddamn years, Clark. Took you long enough.”

Clark’s chuckle does things to his stomach that he hasn’t allowed himself to experience in a long time. He joins Bruce on the couch. “Hey. At least I had the courage to do something.”

“Okay. So you suck a little bit less at this than me.”  Some of the tension finally leaves his body, and Clark visibly relaxes next to him. He turns towards Bruce, like on the watchtower, like at dinner. Bruce thinks of what Tim had said, how they lean towards each other, always, and it feels right, fits. Opposites attract, or something.

“Can I kiss you?”

“God, yes. Didn’t really get the full experience last time.”

“Wonder whose fault that was.” Clark’s face has come much too close for Bruce to see his smile, but he can hear it, feel it in the way there is just a little bit of teeth when their lips meet. This time, the kiss is much better. The feel of Clark’s lips under his own, his hands on Bruce’s thigh, his chest, so warm. Clark’s curls and incredibly strong pulse. He commits it all to memory. Just in case.

“And he says I jump to conclusions,” Clark states to the room, and Bruce has to close his eyes to keep from laughing.

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

Epilogue

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

It’s been over a month since the incident with Bruce and Clark in the cave, and honestly, Tim thinks he would be seeing more of Clark. He felt a little disappointed at first, didn’t talk much to Bruce. Because of course, leave it to him to just shut everyone out again and pretend nothing had happened. Damian – annoyingly so – takes after his dad, works hard and just a tad too victorious.

Tim considers himself a pretty good detective.

However. It takes him a couple days to notice, too long, Bruce would say, that Bruce is calm. More relaxed. If that’s even possible for Batman. Well, not out on patrol of course, but at home. Tim’s doing homework in the ground floor study one day when Bruce walks in, looking at his phone. Smiling. Distracted and he hasn’t noticed Tim on time, clearly, when he quickly pockets his phone and asks Tim what he’s working on. The smile lingers.

There’s a league meeting but when batman returns to the zeta platform in the cave, the usually present proverbial protruding vein is not there, and Bruce doesn’t stomp to his computer right away. Instead, he takes a whole five minutes to remove the constricting parts of his uniform, eat one of Alfred’s sandwiches, and comfortably installs himself in front of the large monitor. It’s as un-Bruce and healthy as Batman can get and it doesn’t go unnoticed. No one comments.

And then. Bruce comes home late one night – on time for patrol – from the office. Or so he claims. But his tie is loosened, shirt not perfectly pressed anymore, and he smells like Pakistani curry. He could have got the food delivered of course, but it’s the windswept hair that betrays exactly who brought him back to Gotham after a dinner in Metropolis.

All of it culminates, there’s more little things and it’s the kind of behaviour that stands out when you spend a lifetime practicing every possible degree of a scowl and a faked interest in small-time fun.

Tim’s suspicions are finally confirmed in a much too unsubtle way when he’s in his room late one night – or maybe early morning –, under the covers and ready to go to sleep. There’s stumbling, bumping into the wall outside his room. His first thought is a threat, but then he hears Bruce’s voice. And another. Creak of the master bedroom door and footsteps shuffling on carpet.

“Take that off.” Straightforward as ever, Bruce.

“This too?” And yep, that’s Clark. Where are his noise cancelling headphones?

Constrained. “Yes.”

Tim clicks on his bedside light, stumbles around his room extra loud, hoping Clark will hear him. Notice he’s awake. At the very least, Superman should be considerate.

“I thought you had superspeed.”

“Patience, B.”

“Waited for you all week.” The rest was muffled, a creaking sound.

Under the safety of his covers and the protection of his headphones, Tim thinks about texting Stephanie. Or Kon. Or Dick. He groans and decides to put on some music instead. Why couldn’t Bruce just come out to them like a normal person? Why didn’t he spend an all-nighter in the cave tonight? Why did he ever choose the bedroom next to Bruce? At least Damian won’t be able to hear them. Right? He makes the mistake of lifting up one side of his headphones to check, only to hear a rhythmic thump, thump, thump, and drops it right back down. Okay. He can probably do some more work on the Two-face case down in the cave. It’s not like he needs sleep, anyway.

He just needs to have a very stern talk with Batman and Superman come morning. And move to a different bedroom.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Don’t Hide That

Prompt: okay i know its an overdone trope but its an overdone trope that i love //so much//- would you ever consider doing one of those "peter tries to hide an injury from a mission and the team finds out and reminds him he can ask for help and also that he's a silly idiot boy" bc those always make me feel so like ?? warm?? cared for?? i just love them so much

Thanks so much for the prompt, babe!

Read on Ao3

Pairings: none, love me that found family

Warnings: peter gets hurt kinda bad...there’s description of vomiting, blood loss, blacking out

Word Count:  2407

Spider strength is both a blessing and a curse.

 Peter can hold this building up long enough for the others to get the people out. He can do so he has to do it. He grits his teeth inside the mask until the air squeaks out and still he clenches. Peter knows he’s not supposed to clench his jaw this hard, it fucks up his neck and his shoulders and his whole system, but he has to hold this building up.

He hears Cap in his ear and he holds on. He sees Sam flying by him and gives him a quick nod.

 “Don’t let your head drop, Pete,” Sam grits out as he punches a bad guy square in the face, “you’re doing great. We’re almost done.”

 Peter knows better than to try and spare breath to reply.

 Rhodey swings by with a swarm of drones after him, sending repulsor blast after repulsor blast into the buzzing mass. Peter shifts just an inch to the left to make sure he gives them enough room. Rhodey glances at him before he has to duck around the corner and vanish again.

 Peter grits his teeth and holds on.

 How long has he been holding this? Minutes? Seconds? Hours? Does it matter?

 No, Peter thinks, holding tighter, it doesn’t matter. I just gotta—I just gotta keep holding.

 His arms burn. His shoulders ache. Something in his left ankle gave out ages—seconds?—ago. He has to hold on. Just hold on. Come on, Spider-Man.

 Sweat starts to run into his eyes. He blinks away the salt and holds on. His eyes start to burn. He squeezes them shut, willing them to stop. He wobbles. He forces his eyes back open, peering through the eyes of the mask. Karen’s in his ear, Cap’s in his ear. They aren’t all out yet.

 “Spider-Man, status.”

 “I got it,” Peter gasps, wobbling a little, “I got the corner. I’m gonna—how many are left?”

 “Half a dozen. We’re almost out.”

 “Wait, did you just say you have the corner?”

 Natasha’s worried voice is enough to send tremors to his knees. No. Not now. He can’t fall.

 “I’m fine.”

 “Pete—“

 “I said I’m fine,” he growls out, restacking his leg and shifting, even as the movement sends a bolt of pain through his left side.

 No tenderness. No weakness. Not now. He can’t let go.

 He hears more concern coming from his comm but he ignores it, shooting off the vaguest reports and asking questions about how many more are there? Where are they? Are the others still coming?

 The little twinge of pain in his left side isn’t going anywhere and he shifts again. Trying to figure out if he’s pinched a muscle, if he’s just breathing wrong, why doesn’t he remember how to breathe properly, Sam’s helped him so much with that.

 Peter clenches his jaw and holds on.

 He shifts again and he hears the sharp crack.

  Fuck.

 Broken ribs are the worst.

 Peter knows if he were to let anything slip, the slightest hiss of breath over the comms, a noise, even a gasp, someone would come to his side in an instant. But then they’d be leaving people in danger. They can’t deal with this. He can.

 He holds on, despite the pain.

 He scours his mind for every little thing Natasha’s taught him and schools his face into the perfect blank expression. Even beneath the mask it helps. His breathing becomes more controlled, his face barely twitching as the pain doesn’t let up. He has to be stoic. He has to do what needs to be done.

 Peter straightens up so he’s not hunched over, even as his muscles groan and his ribs cry out in protest. Unlike the normal fluid grace, this is halting, jittery, and wrapped up in strings and strings of agony. He strains against them all and stands. The smallest gasp escapes his lips and he almost freezes, worried that a tender voice will come over the line and make him shatter. He has to hold on, he has to be strong. He pushes the pain to the back of his head.

 “Almost there. Just a few stragglers. Start getting the others to safety.”

 The rush of relief is almost enough to make him drop but he won’t. If he doesn’t move, if he hardly breathes, the pain is at a point where it’s not overwhelming. To it fades into the background, with his straining muscles and jilted breaths, no longer governing his every move.

 Just a little longer.

 Just…a little…longer.

 He can do this so he has to.

 “Get clear!”

 The second he hears Cap’s voice he lurches into motion, tearing out from under the building and slinging a web up as high as he can. He pulls himself free with the instinct overwhelming his system, not enough to stop him from moving properly, until he’s up, up, high away from the building crashing down. His hand brushes something wet, and he looks down—

 A dark patch grows on his left side.

 Peter can’t tear his eyes away from it.

 It’s so much blood.

 It’s so much blood.

 It’s so much—

 —crash.

 Not bothering to look where he was swinging, too distracted by the sight of all that blood, Peter crashes headfirst into a billboard and rolls onto a roof, landing so hard it knocks the wind out of him completely.

 The dull pain becomes a fierce agony, flaring up so brightly that it rushes into Peter’s lungs and makes breathing seem impossible. He can’t see. Can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t feel anything other than the sharp stabbing in his side. Blearily, he tears off his mask to try and get some air but it’s no use. Everything is fuzzy. He’s on his back, why is he on his back? His arms go up on instinct to defend himself but he can’t move, has barely a kitten’s strength, he’s defenseless—

 Is he making noise? He can’t tell, everything’s so fuzzy, he doesn’t know what he’s looking for, he doesn’t know who he’s looking for, did they win? Where are the others? There’s something in his ear but he can’t tell what through the haze. He curls up, trying to hide, trying to make himself as small as possible, but it’s no use, they’ve seen him, he’s gotta get up, he’s gotta go, he’s gotta help, he’s gotta—

 It’s no use. He collapses time and time again and every time he hits the ground he hears a crack.

 Eventually he can’t move.

 There’s something pressing down on top of him. Concrete. Rebar. The roof caves in around him and—

 No. No, he’s not there. He’s free, he got out.

 Peter blinks. A mixture of blood and spittle and bile pools on the ground in front of him, more dripping bitterly from his lips. The sight of it makes him heave again, more bubbling up and oozing from his mouth. He ends up on all fours, his vision spinning so wildly it makes him retch again.  Each one makes his ribs throb harder until his stomach is entirely empty.

 It’s over. They’re safe. Right?

 He can…he can rest now?

 …yeah…yeah that sounds like a good idea.

 Peter’s just…he just…he’s just…gonna take a nap…right here.

 Right here…yeah, it’s fine…

 He passes out.

  Rhodey’s scanning for Peter the second he gets the alert that he’s lost consciousness. He slams the reverse hard, turning back and racing through the buildings, looking for something, anything, where are you, Pete—

  There.

 “I got eyes on him,” Rhodey says, snapping open the helmet and racing to his side. He immediately clocks the pool of bile and blood smeared all over Peter and the still-growing stain on his side. “Sam, get over here, now!”

 “Oy my way.”

 “Come on, Pete,” Rhodey mutters, rolling Peter onto his uninjured side so if he vomits more, he won’t choke himself, “you’re gonna be alright, I promise.”

 Peter is so small, and so young…his face is pale and covered with a grisly sheen of sweat, his lips almost white under all the partially congealed blood and spittle. Rhodey’s metal hand lands on his shoulder and the flimsy give of the muscle makes him wince.

 “Sam!”

 “Here,” Sam says, landing a few feet away and dropping to his knees beside Peter. “I got him. You make sure to get that suit applying pressure.”

 “Here?”

 “Yeah. We gotta stop the bleeding.”

 “Won’t that fuck up his ribs more?”

 “His ribs are already fucked, man, we gotta make sure he doesn’t bleed out too.”

 Rhodey winces and does as Sam asks as Sam starts running through his medic kit. For a second, this isn’t Peter, he isn’t in a suit of armor, and Sam isn’t Sam. He’s somewhere else, someone in the desert, the smoking wreckage of a plane not too far away.

 Then Sam looks at him and calls his name.

 “Rhodes, C’mon. You gotta keep him here, you hear me?”

 “I hear you.” Rhodey grits his teeth. “Where, here?”

 “Yeah. Harder.”

 Even unconscious, Peter lets out a hiss. Rhodey winces and looks back up at Sam.

 “Harder.”

 Rhodey can’t stop himself from full-on grimacing as he presses down, Peter jolting under his hands.

  The jet can’t get here fast enough.

 Sam works quickly, his hands steady, doing his best to get the kid stabilized before the jet comes to whisk them back to the compound. They can’t risk carrying him as he is, too much of a risk they’ll do more damage. But their wings and repulsors feel like tantalizing useless hunks of machinery as the fliers crouch there.

 “Hang on, Pete,” Sam mutters, “we’ll get you home.”

  Peter blinks his eyes open to the lights that are way too bright. He shuts his eyes and groans, only to gasp when the movement tugs at too many places in his body.

 “Peter?”

 Peter turns his head as the light behind his lids dims, opening them just enough to see the—

 “Guys?” Wow, does he really sound like that? “What’s wrong?”

 He licks his lips and tries again.

 “Are you—am I—“

 What happened? He’d been in the fight, helping, then the explosion had blown out one of the support beams and he’d jumped down without a thought because there were people in there and they needed time to get them out so he’d—

 —oh. Right.

 Peter’s eyes widen as he takes in the stony gazes of Cap, Mr. Stark, Colonel Rhodes, Black Widow, and Falcon.

 “A-are you guys mad?”

 Sam curses and Peter flinches as much as his ribs’ll let him.

 “I-I’m sorry I couldn’t hold it for longer,” Peter tries, “I’ll do better next time, did we—did you manage to get everyone out?”

 “Peter,” Cap says, taking a step forward, “they’re all okay. We managed to save everyone.”

 “O-oh,” Peter burbles, sighing into the hospital bed, “that’s…that’s good.”

 “Yeah, Pete, it is,” Cap repeats, still coming closer. He reaches out and lays a hand carefully on the bed right next to his head. “But you’re not okay. You almost didn’t make it.”

 “…s-sorry.”

 “No, Peter,” Cap corrects softly, reaching out to—to…brush his hair back from his face? What? “It’s not something you apologize for.”

 “You can apologize for scaring the shit out of me,” comes Mr. Stark’s voice, quickly followed by a thwack and an indignant yelp.

 The fingers in his hair make it really hard to focus on anything other than the pleasant buzzing sensation—though that’s probably whatever painkillers they’ve got him on—but still Peter pries his eyes open to stare up at Cap—oh and there’s Colonel Rhodes, and Falcon?

 “G-guys?”

 “We’re not mad at you, Pete,” Falcon says firmly, “just worried. You could’ve died out there and that building didn’t need you holding it.”

 “But I—“ Peter swallows— “I had to hold it.”

 “Why?”

 Peter frowns at Rhodes. “So you guys could…you know, go in and save people?”

 “We can fly,” Rhodes points out, “we could’ve gotten in there. You got hurt, Pete, and we’re not okay with that. You can take care of yourself in a fight.”

 “We’re not mad, Baby Spider,” Black Wid—Natasha says, coming up to the bed too, “we’re just worried. You ask us for help next time, hmm?”

 Cap—Steve hasn’t stopped stroking his hair and Peter’s having a really hard time keeping his eyes open right now.

 “B-but I—“

 “Shh,” she soothes, reaching down to trace his cheek, “we’re not. And you’re okay now. You just gotta remember you can ask, right?”

 “…you promise you’re not mad?”

 Steve huffs a laugh. “The only reason I’m not hugging you right now is that it would hurt. So…” He ruffles Peter’s hair in just the right way and Peter can’t hold back the keen. Sam chuckles.

 “We’re not mad, kid. Promise.”

 “I…did the breathing technique you suggested.”

 “Good. We can work on that when you’re not holding up a building.”

 Peter looks around at them. They really don’t look mad, but…

 “W-where’s Mr. Stark?”

 “I’m here, bambino.”

 O-oh. Oh, Mr. Stark isn’t angry. He never calls Peter that when he’s angry.

 Weathered fingers slide into his hair next to Steve’s and Peter’s eyes flutter shut. He hears Tony chuckle from somewhere above him.

 “Why don’t you sleep this off, bambino,” Tony hushes, “and then we’ll promise we’re not mad again.”

 Sleep. Sleep sounds good.

 “Silly boy,” he hears Natasha say faintly, “you can always ask for help, you just need to be a little less stubborn about admitting you need it.”

 “Don’t scold my baby spider.”

 “Your baby spider?”

 “Shh, you’re gonna wake him up!”

 “How is this my fault?”

 “For the love of god, will you shut the hell up?”

 “You shut up!”

 Peter drifts off to sleep in the warmth of the bed with the lights dim and two hands tangled in his hair.

[princessjungeun]

Sick Days: Little! Yiren & CG! Aisha

Request: little!yiren and cg!aisha during sick days

Cw: crying

Heads up...this is long. Once again this is sfw age regression, it is not meant to be sexualized in any way, shape, or form. I don’t think I should have to put this but people on this app surprise me everyday. Please keep that in mind. But basically i’m just saying don’t be a creep :)

This is also my first time writing age regression so tell me if it’s something i should keep on my list of acceptable requests. If you hate it tell me so i’m not posting trash work pls 🥺

Today was just like any other day for Everglow, practice, practice, lunch, group conditioning, practice, and more conditioning. After Dun Dun promotions ended there was no breaks like there used to be, which was overwhelming for the group as a whole but specifically for Yiren.

Yiren usually handles her stress well, talking to her managers and staff when she needs help, calling her parents at night helps too. But sometimes when it becomes too much she regresses and as much as she hates it, it's inevitable. Today was one of those days.

“Ok guys let's run it one more time!" Jiwon instructed from the front of the practice room. The girls had been practicing since 8 am and it was now 6 pm, they were all exhausted especially Yiren. Her eyes burned when sweat dripped into them, blurring her vision. Her knees were bruised from dancing on the ground all day. Her muscles ached and her abdominals were on fire. She just wanted to go home, take a shower, and curl into Yoorim's arms.

In addition to this she had been trying to get over what she considered a cold for about a week. It progressively got worse but she didn’t think much of it, as this usually happened. It usually started out normal, got worse, then ended just like that.

But this was now becoming too much. She felt sick, her whole body ached and it was hard to breathe because of it. “Yiren-ah are you ok?" Mia poked the maknae in the side playfully. That was all it took for the Chinese girl to fall apart onto the floor.

Yiren collapsed into a ball and wailed loudly, Onda and Sihyeon stopped their side conversation immediately. Jiwon asked “what did you do? Eunji-ahhhh!” Mia responded “i’m sorry I didn’t know she’d start crying!”

The leader crouched next to the crying girl and asked “Yiren? Can you tell me what’s wrong?” I’m between sobs she choked out what sounded like Mandarin because it definitely wasn’t Korean. Jiwon’s eyes widened at the realization and looked around the room for Aisha.

“Where is Yoorim?” Jiwon asked her other members with a twinge of panic. Onda responded “I think she went to refill her water bottle downstairs.” Jiwon replied “ok um...we’re done for the day. Go back to the dorm. But in your way out tell Aisha I need her up here...Quickly please!” With that the three girls ran out of the practice room.

Jiwon turned back to the girl on the floor and crouched down next to her trying to get her to stop crying but it was no use. Aisha walked back in the room "why did you send them back ear-” The taller girl ran over and sat on the floor next to the little.

“Yiren-nie. Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Aisha spoke softly trying her best not to overwhelm her. It was no luck though. Yiren wailed louder on the floor babbling incoherent Mandarin while choking on her tears. Jiwon responded from her spot on the floor "she's been really stressed recently, I think our schedule has been too much for her. And I think she’s still sick.” Aisha nodded and took a seat on the floor next to the crying girl.

"Yiren-nie look at me please." Aisha cooed to the smaller girl. The sobs slowly subsided as the little crawled into her caregiver’s arms. "What's wrong baby?" Aisha softly asked as Yiren responded in what seemed to be a mix of Mandarin and Korean "I don’t feel well.” The little’s tears once again started pouring down her cheeks.

Aisha passed Yiren to Jiwon quickly so she could get off the floor, once she was standing she placed the little on her hip and swayed lightly. This was a trick Aisha learned fairly early on that would ease Yiren enough so she could think of what to do next.

“You said she’s still sick right?” Aisha asked her leader. Jiwon nodded and said “yeah, it’s been like a week and a half almost. She was saying earlier she was having trouble breathing and she had that nasty cough last night.” Aisha looked at her unnie with fear in her eyes “you don’t think...?” Jiwon responded “I mean the second wave of it is still here. And she’s definitely forgotten a mask a few times.”

Aisha felt her heart drop but also simultaneously speed up. “O-Ok. Um ok. Can you call our manager, I’ll have them drive us to the hospital. We’ll both get tested there and you all can go tomorrow morning.” Jiwon nodded and went to call their manager while Aisha tried her best to soothe Yiren. 

After ten minutes of swaying, walking, and bouncing Yiren around on her hip, Aisha was finally able to soothe the little. Jiwon checked her phone “ok our manager is downstairs, do you want me to come with you or head back to the dorm?” Aisha responded “it’s ok, you head back and can you explain to the other girls what’s going on...they don’t really know about this.”

It was no secret that Yiren regressed, but it also kind of was. Yiren was able to have enough control of her regression to only slip into this headspace around Aisha and Jiwon. Her other members knew something happened but they simply didn’t think of it that much.

Aisha pulled her sweatshirt over Yiren’s head and put the hood on as well. She gave the little a mask before guiding her head into the crook of her neck. At times like this Aisha was very grateful for so few people being in the Yuehua building. Even then, people throughout knew Aisha and Yiren had a close relationship. So even if someone did see Aisha carrying Yiren, it probably wouldn’t be a big deal.

The staff that was waiting was Yiren’s favorite manager. They remained quiet throughout the car ride enjoying the white noise the A/C gave off. It took longer than expected to get to the hospital that was offering the test Yiren needed. But Aisha realized there would be a very big problem in a few short minutes.

While some tests for the virus were done through swabbing the mouth, this hospital didn’t offer that one. This test involved a long stick that had to be shoved up your nose all the way back. Aisha knew she’d be fine with it but Yiren was another story, regressed or not.

Due to the potential of Yiren having the virus, a nurse came to the car in a white hazmat suit to do the test. Yiren wasn’t exactly fond of that either as when she’s regressed she only wants to be around those she knows and trusts.

Aisha decided she’d go first, maybe it would calm Yiren enough if she saw how her caregiver did it well. The nurse stuck the probe up Aisha’s nose and she did her best to not swear at her because to be honest she was being a little aggressive.

When the nurse went to the other side of the car Aisha knew she’d have to hold Yiren down and she was already regretting it. Her manager rolled the window down and the nurse went to stick the probe up Yiren’s nose.

It was at this moment Yiren realized this was not something she was ok with. Before she could swat away the nurse’s hand, she felt someone holding her down. Aisha with almost all her strength held Yiren’s hands down as the little screamed in panic. The nurse had to hold Yiren’s head in place as well, only adding to Yiren’s discomfort.

Aisha hated doing this and hearing Yiren scream stop over and over again wasn’t helping. She felt tears burn her eyes as she saw Yiren’s face get more red with every shriek. Aisha tried her best to not cave as she held her wrists down, her hands trembling. “I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry.” Aisha continuously told Yiren hoping she’d listen.

The second the nurse pulled it out of Yiren’s nose Aisha felt a wave of relief. “Your results will be given via phone call in 36 hours.” The nurse told Aisha and her manager. They both thanked her before rolling up the window and driving off.

Yiren’s tears continued to pour down her face, however her wailing subsided. Aisha tried to reach out for Yiren but the second her hands touched her, the little shrieked in fear. Aisha felt her heart break and she immediately texted Jiwon that Yiren would need to sleep with her tonight.

When they returned to the dorm, Jiwon was there, ready to pick Yiren up and take her to bed. Aisha thanked her manager and walked upstairs sadly, trying her best to hold back tears.

Aisha didn’t bother to see if Jiwon needed help with bathing Yiren or putting her to sleep. She knew Yiren would only starting kicking and screaming again.

Mia walked in her room and sat down next to Aisha who was trying her best to stop crying out of guilt. “Yoorim-ah, what’s wrong?” That was all it took for Aisha to fall apart in her unnies arms.

“We got tested but it was the one they stick up your nose. A-and I had to hold her down and it took so long because she kept moving. And she kept begging me to stop but I couldn’t or else she’d have to go through it again. And she hates me now- and I feel so bad.” Mia patted Aisha’s shoulder and said “It’ll be fine Yoorim-ah, you did what you had to do. I- just trust me she just needs a good nights sleep.” Mia hugged her before padding out of her room.

•

•

•

48 hours passed and Aisha anxiously awaited their test results. Her other members got tested as well but they’d find out the same time. In this time she at all costs avoided Yiren knowing the little probably hated her still.

When the phone rang she sprinted to answer it. She felt a weight lift off her chest when she heard they all tested negative. She went ahead and texted the group chat because she knew if she were to walk where they all were, she’d have to face Yiren.

She got a text back saying Yiren needed her nap and she wanted to sleep in her bed. Aisha couldn’t deny the little of her own bed, after all it was hers.

The door opened slowly and Yiren waddled in, thumb in her mouth. “S-Sha?” Aisha felt her heart melt and all she did was hold her arms out for Yiren to crawl into.

The little curled into her caregivers arms and Aisha said “baby i’m so sorry for what I did. I’m sorry.” Yiren turned around so she was facing her and curled closer into Aisha. Her fingers wrapped tightly around Aisha’s shirt, as if she was afraid to let go. Aisha kissed the little’s forehead and said softly “I love you baby”.

[legolaslovely]

Warm

A/N: Huzzah for another almost 5k word Iolaus story! I love him to freaking pieces and apparently this is how I deal. And Thank you to @nerdbirdsworld​ for your precious help and encouragement, always and with this fic! Thank you to all of you friends who have never seen anything Hercules related and still religiously read these stories, it is so exciting for me and means the world. Sending you love! **MAKE SURE TO READ THE WARNINGS, FRIENDS.**

Pairing: Specifically Man Bun Iolaus x Reader

Word Count: 4,951

****Warnings: Violence- physical blood and gore, torture and torment of the mind more than physically? language warning, angst, reader near death, Ares and Strife being assholes, all ends in fluffity fluff do you guys know me AT ALL?

Summary: (Y/N) sacrifices herself to save Iolaus and the boys have to find her and save her.

A/N PS: A picture of my love for your viewing pleasure before we get on with the story now that you’ve read the warnings. Promise? Okay let’s go.

(Y/N) turned the crisp page of the herb and spice book she’d borrowed from Fiducious and reveled a bit in the scent that rose to her nose. After a bustling week of exams, drills and lessons, she finally had a few hours to herself to relax. She easily ignored the stiff golden twigs of hay poking into her neck as she lay in the silent loft of the barn. This was her hiding place where she planned to stay until she was so ravenous, her growling stomach forced her to walk to Kora’s for a well deserved treat. Or maybe she’d bargain with Iolaus to bring her something that would stick to her bones for the rest of the day. She turned the next page in the thick book.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N), are you in here?”

She groaned when she recognized Jason’s voice. Closing the book and rolling to the edge of the loft, she said, “Yes, I’m here.” She straightened when she saw sweat glistening over his forehead and neck. It seemed to magnify the red marks on his arms and knuckles that would soon develop into blue and purple bruises. “What’s happened?”

Around heavy breaths, he said, “Iolaus. Ares has Iolaus.”

The herbs and spice book was forgotten in the hay as she climbed down the ladder to the floor. In her rising panic, her foot missed one of the rungs and she hung by her hands for a moment before she leapt to the ground. “Are you okay?” she asked Jason. When he nodded wildly, she asked where Hercules was.

“Trying to find Chieron,” he said.

She shook her head, dashing to the south side of the barn where some of the cadets’ weapons were stored. “He has yet to return. Fiducious said he’ll be here for lessons tomorrow, but not before.” She threw her quiver over her shoulder, tightening the strap at her chest before grabbing her bow. Jason followed her out of the barn and called for Hercules who was soon running to their side.

“Tell me what happened,” (Y/N) said to Hercules. She took his hand and examined the blood over his knuckles. He ripped it away.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Strife and Discord, they lured him into a trap. They’re trying to get to me.”

“Where are they?” she asked, turning to the horses outside the stables. She flung a set of reins off a post and lifted them over one of the mare’s ears.  

“Hephaestus’ old cave. Where he stayed before he found the forge. Those are Chieron’s horses, what are you doing?” Hercules said, watching (Y/N) leap to the mare’s bare back.

The horse backtracked in apprehension, able to feel the distress in her rider. (Y/N) skillfully circled the post as she spoke. “I think he’d understand our borrowing them to save one of his cadets from the god of war.” She nudged the mare’s barreled stomach with her heel, but Hercules grabbed the reins. 

“(Y/N), just-just wait. We don’t have a plan-”

“We don’t have time to stand around and make plans!”

“One of your arrows won’t stop Ares,” Jason said.

“What are you going to do?” Hercules asked.

She whipped the reins out of his hand. “I’ll figure it out when I get there.” She yelled to the horse and squeezed her thighs around the healthy body until thundering hooves blocked out her friend’s protests. 

Her mind was blank as she rode through the forest. The wind played with her braided hair and bit at her bare fingers as she expertly weaved her steed through the winding trees, struggling to keep her balance on the bare, speeding horse. She dug her heels under the mare’s belly as she leapt over a fallen log and slowed suddenly to turn and leave her rider near the dark, stone cave. (Y/N) slid off, feeling her knees buckle as she hit the ground. She steadied herself, ran a hand over the mare’s neck and slapped her hind quarters, sending her back to the academy.

(Y/N) slid an arrow from the quiver over her shoulder and readied herself to fire. The ground was soft underfoot and she silently toed to the entrance of the cave where she crouched and peered into the darkness. She heard Ares before she saw him. 

“That little twerp is going to lead my half-brother right to us,” he said.

Strife was in the cave as well, (Y/N) recognized his high whine. “And then you’re gonna kill him!”

“No! You idiot.”  

(Y/N) barely heard what Ares said next, but she guessed it was some kind of threat mixed with a half-witted plan that wouldn’t go well. His voice continued to rumble and she took this chance to creep further into the cave. With her back to the stone, she peeked over her shoulder and winced once her eyes adjusted to the bright light shining from the ceiling in the center of the cavern.

There was Iolaus, drenched in sweat, grime and bruises. He dangled by the chains which were wrapped too tightly around his wrists, toes barely touching the stone ground. The bright light shone over his golden hair that covered his face as he leaned forward, exhausted and afraid. Helpless.

“We have a visitor,” Ares said.

The utter rage in (Y/N)’s veins was replaced by electricity, excruciating and scalding. Her limbs were thrust straight out from her body as she was lifted into the air by Ares’ power. It took all her strength to hold onto her bow as he brought her further into the cave and closer to him. One by one, her fingers flew open until only her thumb and forefinger grasped her weapon. 

“This is not who I was expecting,” Ares said, perfect white teeth bared and shining. 

Distantly, (Y/N) heard Iolaus say her name. His voice was thick with disbelief and weakness and it shot even more pain through her chest. Unable to move her body, she watched him out of her peripheral. As her strength was being drained, his was returning. His eyes burned with defiance and he wriggled and yanked at his bonds, renewed hope dancing in his features.

“Let her go!” he yelled.

Ares shook his head, rolling his eyes at Strife’s maniacal laughter. “This is too much fun.”

(Y/N) snarled through her clenched jaw, trying to pull her limbs back into her body. It was as if her hands were magnetically opposed to each other. She felt her muscles strain and tendons tear, tears welled in her eyes, but she managed to nock her arrow. Stretch, aim, loose, then straight into Ares’ hand. The electricity shocked through her anew before she landed on the ground with a hard thud, his power draining from her as he tore her arrow from his godly hand. He bared his teeth once more, this time without a smile. 

“How dare you!” He bellowed, throwing his arms back before sending his power her way again. She dodged the blue lightening, rolling to the ground and back to her feet. Again, he shot his storm toward her, but this time, she was shielded. 

“You were supposed to wait for us,” Hercules said from her side as he blocked Ares’ blow with his wooden shield from the academy. 

“Come on, Herc,” she said with a smirk. “I wait for no man.”

“Time, tide and (Y/N).”

A harsh blow sent the shield hurdling into the pair. They flew through the air until their backs crashed against the stone wall of the cave. (Y/N) gripped her ribs, gasping for air with flattened lungs. Through the tears in her eyes, she could see Iolaus frantically pulling at his chains. She darted to him, bent over for lack of air and dodging the flying blows from Ares as he fended off both Hercules’ and Jason’s attacks. 

When (Y/N) reached Iolaus, her hands found his sides, his arms, his chest, anything she could touch to comfort him. “Iolaus-” She hissed at the pain in her shoulder as she reached for the chains.

“Are you all right?” he asked, brows glued together and dimples showing in a wince of concern.

“Me? Just fine. Are you?”

He scoffed. “Just fine.”

She bit back another sharp, pained inhale and examined the lock above his head. “Can’t let you out of my sight for a moment, can I?”

“Let me guess, you were reading? Sorry to have disturbed you.”

“You owe me.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” He was smirking at her as if they were in the barn of the academy instead of in a cave with a vengeful and violent god trying to kill them. The curve of his lips soon fell. “Herc!”

(Y/N) turned over her shoulder to see Hercules roll in pain on the hard floor of the cavern. Jason was lying unconscious on the north side near the entrance. 

“And now for the brat,” Ares said, chuckling wickedly before holding his sparking, blue hand in the air.

(Y/N) spun to face him, standing in front of Iolaus. She nocked an arrow and aimed straight for the god.

“You can’t beat me,” Ares said.

Hercules tried to stand and fell to the ground, clutching his side with a bleeding hand. She was alone now, except for the suspended prisoner behind her. She retreated until her aching arm met Iolaus’ chest- solid and warm.

“Then let me take his place,” she said.

Iolaus roared. 

She dropped her weapon, wincing as her muscles twitched and shifted.

Ares grinned. “What a good little girl.” He snapped his fingers and Iolaus’ chains rang out as they dropped to the stone below her feet. 

She whirled, catching Iolaus’ chest as he fell to the floor. Shining metal shackles  appeared around her own wrists and she yanked her hands from his vest, out of his view.

“You can’t do this,” he said.

She smiled. “It’s already done.” She blinked, frustrated at her brimming eyes. “And besides, you’ll find me.”

“No one will find you where I’m taking you,” Ares said, but (Y/N)’s eyes never left Iolaus’.

He shook his head, golden curls shaking about. “(Y/N)-”

She lifted her fingers to his smooth jaw, ignoring the clinking chains. “You’ll find me.” 

“How do you know I’ll be able to?”

“Because I refuse to live a life without you in it.” 

She kissed him. He fell into it as if being suspended for that long affected his sense of gravity and he was being pulled by a new force. Something warm and soft and safe. (Y/N). He hated himself for closing his eyes because when he opened them, she was gone.

***

(Y/N) was also alone when she opened her eyes. All she could see was a galaxy of black. It took long moments for her eyes to adjust from Iolaus’ bright blue gaze and golden waves to the extreme darkness that now lie in front of her like a bottomless pit. She shifted against the heavy chains over her wrists and the metal glinted and clinked as she moved. A hiss escaped her when her back collided with what she guessed was stone. It was scalding hot, leaving sizzling skin in its wake. Tiny embryos of dread and panic grew into slithering demons that controlled her every thought as sweat dripped down her face and gathered in the hollow of her neck and the small of her back. Could Ares... did he actually have the power to bring her to Tartarus?

Her stomach flipped, begging to jump from her throat and escape, leaving her alone in this underworld. The already low hopes she had simmered to nothing. If she was in Tartarus, no one could save her, not even Zeus himself. She squeezed her fingers together, clicking the nails anxiously to stop her tears from catching in her throat. She couldn’t loose what water she had to useless tears. 

It was impossible to know how much time had passed- there wasn’t even a glimmer of light from the outside world- from any other world. She didn’t know if it was day or night, all she knew was that her exhausted, dehydrated body pushed her to lie down on the hot rock and sleep some time away. She rolled to her side, wincing at the shoulder injury she’d sustained trying to save Iolaus. Iolaus. 

She’d barely closed her eyes before cool hands were shaking her awake. “(Y/N)! Wake up.”

Her eyes snapped open, seeing first a glowing white smile and then brilliant blue eyes. She was lifted to her feet like a rag doll. “Iolaus?” She reached for his face. He was real.

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” he said. He smiled at her like a machine.

“You- you found me,” she said. His arms were like ice around her despite the onyx fire roaring behind them. “You’ve come to get me? To get me out of here?” Her fingers ran over the oasis of his full lips and she marveled at their frozen texture. Tears of relief streamed down her cheeks. “You came for me.”

“No.”

“W-what?”

He took her chin. “No one’s come to save you because nobody cares.” He grinned before his face froze blue with frost and cracked, shattering like glass and landing on her hands, cutting her. Wicked, thin fingers clamped onto her arms when she tried to run away. “They gave up on you. They will never find you.” Iolaus’ honeyed voice grew shrill with every word and his golden hair was scorched to black. 

“Strife,” (Y/N) spat. “Get away from me!”

With that, the god vanished but his maniacal cackling echoed off the stone around her as she curled into a ball and tried to think of the Iolaus she knew.  

***

Iolaus stared at the fingers he let (Y/N) slip through. He should have held on, sacrificed himself. He should have never left the academy that day. Then none of this would have happened, (Y/N) would be by his side as she always was. 

“She’s gone,” he said.

Hercules rolled off the ground and limped over to Jason who was finally coming around to consciousness. Harsh breaths and grunts echoed in the tavern as two glued themselves together and one fell further apart. 

“(Y/N)!” Iolaus screamed towards the sky with a force that burned his throat. “Bring her back! Come down here and fight me!” He picked up her bow and quiver, feeling where her hands had smoothed the wood about the grip. “Cowards! You’re all cowards!”

“Iolaus, we’ll get her back,” Hercules said with Jason leaning on his arm. 

“How? How do we even know where he took her? What he’s doing to her?” His voice shattered at the thought. He dashed out of the cave, ignoring his friends’ protests and the bright light that struck his eyes. “You had no right to take her!” he screamed. He looked to the bow in his hands- this thing that shouldn’t survive while she was gone. 

Footsteps from behind him pulled him from his thoughts. “Where’d he take her? Can’t you- you’re related, can’t you feel it or something?” he asked Hercules.

“He’s not telepathic, Iolaus,” Jason said. “And even if we knew where Ares went, how are we going to take down a god? It’s impossible.”

Hercules took the bow from Iolaus and studied it with narrow, judging eyes. “It might not be. Follow me.”

***

(Y/N) formed and slaughtered a hundred different escape plans as she sat in the burning darkness. The shackles around her wrists were her first obstacle. In her weakened state, she was unable to break them, unable now to even move them as uncounted hours passed without food or water. As long as she was chained to the rock around her, there was no hope of her escaping... Tartarus. She’d remember where she was and her plans would fizzle to nothing. No one could escape Tartarus. 

Then a soft click, scrape of footsteps. This was new. Since she’d been left here, she’d only seen various forms of Strife and he made no sound when he appeared. Was this Ares? Finally coming to visit her and torture her like he did Iolaus? Until now, he was leaving her alone to starve and boil. Her eyes widened and worked to see through the thick darkness but she was too exhausted to move and change her fate.

“There she is,” she heard in the galaxy of black fire.

A last burst of adrenaline rushed through her when she saw him. Again. But, no, it was impossible. It was only Strife.

“(Y/N). You ready to get out of here?” Leather creaked and tan skin glowed as Iolaus reached out to her. No. Strife reached out to her.

“Get away from me,” she growled.

“(Y/N)?” Jason asked.

Did Strife have the power to shapeshift into two different, complete people simultaneously? She studied Jason. He looked like himself, sounded like himself. But so did Iolaus, who was reaching for her hair. 

“I said get away from me!” she screamed. A hand clamped over her mouth from behind and she bit down hard, drawing blood and a curse from Hercules. No. Strife and Discord. This was all their doing. “Don’t touch me, Strife!”

“If they hear her, the plan’s ruined,” Hercules said.

She cowered from them, her chest heaving. Just as she was about to scream again, Iolaus took her shoulders. “It’s me, (Y/N). It’s Iolaus. I’m not Strife, we’re not here to trick you. We’re here to rescue you.”

“No. No one cares to- he said no one cares.”

“I care. We all care. Look at me, (Y/N).” He was smiling at her. It was different from Strife’s magic, mechanical grin. “It’s me,” he said, placing a warm kiss between her brows.  

Metal shattered behind her. “I got it,” Hercules said, holding the chains he’d ripped free from the rock that kept (Y/N) prisoner. “Let’s get her out of here.” He lifted her shackled hands, looping her arms around Iolaus’ neck so he could carry her.

“But we’re- how did you get here?” she asked, leaning her forehead against Iolaus’ neck that was hot and dripping with sweat- just as he should be. “How did you get to Tartarus? You didn’t-”

“We’re not in Tartarus, (Y/N). We’re in one of Morpheus’ dream worlds.” Iolaus stood, following Hercules and whispering, “We only have to get far enough away from Ares before Chieron will guide us back the way he did with Herc before, remember?”

She hummed, the sound losing pitch and breath. He felt the hot chains against his neck as her arms fell slack around him.

“Herc. Herc, we gotta get her out of here. She’s... we’re losing her.”

Hercules’ hand landed on her back that was soaked through. “We’ll get her out in time. Follow the plan.”

The three rescuers shared a look and a nod before Hercules led the cavalcade through the darkness. Iolaus, in the middle of Hercules and Jason, lost sight of their leader once he was out of arm’s reach. He focused, listening for the soft clink of Hercules’ belt to follow, the soft scrape of Jason’s shoes behind him, and the shallow, labored breaths of the one in his arms. Stay with me, (Y/N), come on, he chanted in his head, not daring to say it aloud, should Ares hear him and their plan be ruined.

The black nothing in front of Iolaus turned into glowing blond hair and a red vest when Hercules halted with a stuck out hand. Then he motioned, waved, and crept along the rock, careful not to touch the scalding surface. They were inching ever closer to the center of the burning underworld. Jason’s hand reached forward until Hercules looked back to receive his questioning eyes. Hercules only nodded. This was where they needed to be.

Iolaus diligently followed, the fury churning in his gut giving him the strength to hold onto (Y/N) despite his aching arms and the sweat beading and pooling in the corners of his eyes. There had been only a few hours between him losing (Y/N) and finding her again, and that was all it took for Ares’ torture to possibly take her life. She grew limp in his arms, as if her bones were melting in the heat. He chanced a quick look and winced at her hallowed cheeks and eyes and yearned to see her smiling at him again.

Once more, Hercules stopped. He turned with wide eyes. This was it. If the four of them could stay hidden here, in the epicenter, Chieron could guide them out of the dream world of Tartarus and back to the Academy. Hercules was the only one who’d done something similar before when Ares first brought him and the cadets to one of Morpheus’ dream worlds. However, the plan was for him to escape last. He set a hand on (Y/N)’s shoulder and nodded to Iolaus.

“You have to be calm and relaxed in order to receive Chieron,” Hercules had told him before they left the academy. “Jason and I will be there to guard you as Chieron guides you through the dream worlds.” Close your eyes. Be calm and relaxed. Listen.

Iolaus did as he was told. He forgot about the impending danger, the gods, the dream worlds. He concentrated on the weight of (Y/N) in his arms, her heat, her smile, her quips, her sacrifice. Distantly, he heard Chieron’s low, smooth voice calling his name. The intense heat of the onyx blaze started to cool, like clusters of clouds licking and kissing his skin, carrying him away. 

“Iolaus,” he heard. “Come this way. Iolaus. Iolaus. Just who I wanted to see. Just who I wanted to see. Iolaus.”

But he was pushed, shoved into the sweltering rock behind him and he felt his back sizzle and burn. He hissed, wrenching open his eyes. He was still in the dream world of Tartarus, and so was (Y/N). Bright blue light blinded him, until Ares came into view.

“Just who I wanted to see! Baby brother came to save his girl.”

Iolaus growled at that and squeezed his girl in his arms. 

“She has nothing to do with this. You want me. Let them go,” Hercules said, putting himself between Ares and Iolaus. 

“She gave herself to me. Voluntarily, might I add. She seemed quite excited to get away from you.” Ares laid out a hand that sparkled and danced with electric power. “We had fun with her, didn’t we Strife?”

The pale, lesser god materialized beside Iolaus with a loud, descending cackle. Thin fingers rolled down (Y/N)’s arm before Iolaus could yank her away and send a harsh kick into Strife’s side, forgetting the god would see it coming and disintegrate. Iolaus staggered until Jason caught him and steadied him. 

“They won’t get away with this,” Jason said lowly. 

“Actually, we will!” Ares said, sending a bolt of power shooting toward Hercules. The half god dodged it and rolled to Iolaus’ side, sending him and (Y/N) further into the epicenter. 

“Get to Chieron. All of you. This is between me and Ares.”

“No one else is sacrificing themselves today,” Iolaus growled, shrugging away Hercules’ strong hand. He glared at Strife who was floating in the corner, cool as ice, dancing and watching Ares as he summoned another ball of electricity. “Watch out, Herc!” Iolaus said, shoving Hercules out of the way of a hurdling blue globe with his shoulder.

He watched helplessly as Hercules ran and flipped out of the way of Ares’ hits. Every blow was focused to him, leaving Jason and Iolaus to carry out the rest of the plan.

“Give it to me,” Iolaus said to Jason. 

“You think you can do it?”

Iolaus passed the unconscious (Y/N) over to Jason who held her easily. “I know I can. She’s been giving me lessons,” Iolaus said, taking the bow off Jason’s shoulders and sliding a single arrow out of the quiver on his belt. Though he didn’t have time, Iolaus took a breath and ran his fingers through (Y/N)’s damp hair before he fell into his stance. 

Hercules was sent plummeting to the ground by one of Ares’ power balls. Strife was encouraged to giggle as Ares stalked closer to his brother, grinning and holding another threatening, life ending nest of fire. He kicked Hercules’ shoulder and he rolled on the ground in agony. 

“Gotcha, little bro.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Iolaus said, barely moving his lips so as not to alter the arrow he had aimed at Ares. He closed his left eye and inhaled deeply as (Y/N) taught him.

“Have you learned nothing today? You can’t kill a god with an arrow,” Strife said, laughing.

“Not with an ordinary arrow, no. But this arrow has been dipped in Hind’s blood. Which will kill a god. Slowly and painfully,” Iolaus said, thinking of (Y/N)’s voice telling him to push his palm into the bow.

“Oh. Well, that is something,” Strife said, patting his fingertips against his cheek in thought. “Bye Unc!” He called before he vanished completely. 

Ares’ brows fell lower with his nephew’s disappearing act. He glared at Iolaus with a glowing hand. “No one can kill a Hind and survive. Hera would eviscerate you before you could leave her forest.”

“You don’t need to kill a Hind in order to collect enough blood to soak an arrowhead,” Iolaus said, arm aching from the strain of the bow after carrying (Y/N) through the dream world. 

Hercules rolled and stood, grunting on his way up. “You only need a drop, really. And I happen to be friends with one of the only Golden Hind’s left in Hera’s forest.”

Ares stepped back, eyes flicking from Iolaus’ arrow to Hercules’ smirk. “I don’t believe you.”

Iolaus stalked forward, arrow poised to loose. “Do you want to test me?” he ground through his teeth.

The blue sparks in Ares’ hand dimmed until they were extinguished. He retreated, eyes boring like daggers into Hercules’ taunting face. “We’re not done here,” he said.

“We never are.”

Only when he was sure Ares was gone, Iolaus returned the arrow to Jason’s quiver and tucked the bow around his shoulders. “Let’s get her out of here. Chieron will know how to help her.”

***

“How did you find a Hind in time?” (Y/N) asked, tucked into one of the beds in the Academy’s infirmary with her friends huddled around her.

“We didn’t,” Jason said.

Her eyes blew as wide as shields. “You lied! You tricked the god of war?”

“We just really hoped he wouldn’t call our bluff,” Hercules said. 

“That’s brilliant!” she said. 

Her eyes were even more brilliant, Iolaus thought. She was weak and thin, having sweat away some of her weight in the dream underworld, but her eyes were as bright and shining as ever. He watched her, clean and pale, leaning back on the pillows behind her. The over sized tunic hanging off her was quite different from her usual leather vest, and he wondered if this was the first time he’d seen her hair out of a braid. He could only compare her to an angel. 

“It was all Iolaus’ idea,” Hercules said, bringing him out of his daze.

“Something that clever could only come from Iolaus’ head,” she said, her laugh weak.

“Clever and conniving,” Jason said. 

A familiar bell rang out, alerting the cadets to their dinner. Hercules and Jason stood. “We’ll bring you some popovers,” Hercules said to (Y/N), shooting a hand out to keep Iolaus where he was.

Iolaus nodded, listening to his friends’ footsteps clicking and fading until silence remained. He coughed and turned, realizing he was staring at (Y/N) and she had raised a brow against his intense gaze. He reached under the bench, wincing from the burn he’d received only hours before. “I brought you this,” he said.

“Ah, the book you interrupted me from,” she said with a smile. It fell when nothing she did cracked his stern countenance. 

He sighed, bunching her blanket in his hands. “I can’t help but be angry with you. You put yourself in such danger-”

“I couldn’t stand by and let you suffer. Just the thought of it- it’s unbearable-”

“How do you think I felt when he took you away?” he yelled. He rocked on the bench, immediately regretting raising his voice at her. He wanted to give her space to heal and wrap her in his arms at the same time. She took his hand and his body fell still.

“I knew you’d find me,” she said.

“Well, you’re stuck with me now. I refuse to live a life without you in it.”

She sent him her usual smirk, but it grew into a wide smile that she tried to hide by turning her face away from him. He scoffed at her, proud of himself, and brought her hand to his lips. 

“It’s a good thing Ares didn’t call your bluff,” she said. “Even if you did have the Hind’s blood, you’d never hit your target with the way you lift your hand as you loose. I’ve told you, it sends the arrow to the left every ti-”

He set a knee on the bed and kissed her, sliding his fingers around the back of her neck to keep her close. He was warm- lips and hands, the way he should be.

Taglist! @emrfangirl​ @misslongcep​ @raindancer2004​ @ladybugg1235​ @xxbyimm​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @fizzyxcustard​ @fire-flv​ @nerdbirdsworld​ @dashesofink​ @teagarages​ @dark-angel-be-thirsty-af​ @zulfiya-the-warrior-princess​ @winchesterandpie​ @cassiabaggins

[sworn-unbeliever]

28 - Irenic

((Dear @abeat​ requested a story where Teremy and Joey make up after their fight in Argy-bargy. Here it is! Also, this entry was supposed to be short. What happened?))

wc: 2,462

As soon as Teremy stepped into the Pugilist’s Guild, box of goods in both arms, a familiar blue-haired lalafell wearing green and white gear waved to him.

“Teremy, is that you? Long time no see!”

Teremy placed the crate down gently on the receptionist’s table and turned to the lalafell. To her, Teremy placed his right fist in his left palm and bowed. “Nice to see you again, Chuchuto.”

Upon hearing her name, the lalafell smiled and returned the bow. “Yes, it has been quite some time since you’ve last stepped into the guild, hasn’t it? I can tell that you’ve kept up with your training. You’ve grown bigger in more ways than one. Your sleeves hardly fit you.”

Teremy scratched the back of his head. He had no idea how to respond to that statement.

“However,” Chuchuto pointed a finger to her mouth. “There’s something different about you that I can’t quite put a finger on. Here, kneel down so I can see your face better.”

Teremy did so, now crouched down in a squatting position. Chuchuto placed her hands on Teremy’s cheeks and looked deep into the miqo’te’s eyes.

“Yes, I believe I understand now,” said Chuchuto. “You finally look like you’ve gotten some sleep and are more well rested. You’ve finally toned down that crazy training schedule of yours, have you? Youth is wasted on the young, so Master Hamon says. It’s good to see you so dedicated, but not to the point you’ll burn out before your time.”

Those words… they sounded oddly specific. Teremy narrowed his eyes slightly. “How would you know about that.”

“So I am right?”

“... How did you hear about this?” Teremy folded his arms.

Like a true martial artist, Chuchuto didn’t flinch at the first sign of danger. She remained as calm and composed as before. “A friend of yours stopped by the guild a few days ago.”

“A friend?” Teremy repeated. Who? Alex? Maroda? Holly?

Or possibly…?

“A dunesfolk lalafell with blonde hair and donned in dalamud red garments?” Chuchuto asked. “At any rate, he came to the guild asking for advice about a friend who had been overtraining to the point his nerves had reached an all-time high and disrupting his sleep schedule. By the sounds of a physically taxing eight-hour day, this schedule sounded suspiciously like yours.”

Teremy glanced to the side. Was his training schedule that infamous that even Chuchuto took notice? “What did he ask?”

“He asked for advice on how to help his friend ease into a more relaxed schedule. Still physically demanding, but less so as to not overtax one’s body.” said Chuchuto. “He sounded greatly concerned. If I didn’t know better, I’d say even worried.”

Worried.

Teremy’s list of suspects narrowed down to one. His companion. His friend. The one who had picked a fight with him out of the blue over this.

Joey. He had been asking around?

* * *

His mind still brimming with questions, Teremy once again found himself unable to sleep. Once again, he thought to take a walk just outside Cedarwood. And once again, he found himself perched upon the same rock as before. At this rate, he may as well just lift the rock and hold it over his head until his body caved in. Perhaps he rock would fall on his head and knock some sense into him.

Thankfully, a less fatal solution appeared with the sound of a young, familiar voice. “I thought you’d be here. Are your nerves still keeping you up?”

Teremy glanced to the side and saw that Joey had suddenly appeared and now sat beside him. “What’s your excuse?”

“I just have weird sleeping hours.” Joey rubbed his eyes. He lied. Teremy knew that the lalafell had stayed up to see him. Or so the miqo’te’s ego assumed. “I heard it takes at least three months for the effects of overtraining to start wearing off. You know, the heightened nerves and all that.”

“I heard from Chuchuto at the Pugilist’s Guild that you were asking about that.”

Joey’s red eyes opened wide. “Oh, you heard about that. Eh heh…” He pressed his stubby fingers together. “Yeah, I went to the Pugilist’s Guild, the Gladiator’s Guild… even that Widargelt guy. They all had something to say. After that, I asked Reo about her advice and she made that plan.”

At first Teremy was about to get up in Joey’s face at the mention of this overtraining thing. But when Joey continued to talk, that anger subsided into wide-eyed surprise. So Teremy’s ego hadn’t assumed things. “You went through all that trouble—”

“—for your sake, yeah.” Joey nodded once.

Teremy stared at the ground by his feet. “I-I don’t know what to say.” Here Teremy had thought that Joey was acting like those people who gave unsolicited advice for the sake of doing so. But not only had Joey been worried, but had been asking around to formulate a plan to help him. Teremy had no idea what to say. Or think.

Joey looked up at the sky. “The other day, you asked what would I know about protecting people and fighting in matters of life or death. I thought about telling you many times, but I guess now is as good of a time as any to tell you. Of what I'm going to talk about, you don't have to believe me. But please hear me out.”

The lalafell stared up at the sky as he gazed upon the stars for words and answers.

"I'm a dimensional traveller. I work for a being outside of time and she sends me to various worlds on missions. In this case, it's to find our missing friends who had died from a rebellion I took part in. According to her findings, some of them have reincarnated here on Eorzea.”

Joey took a deep breath and paused, his hands clenching his knees.

“In my home world, mages, if found, were persecuted. Experimented on, forced to have their energies reversed. All by this group that called themselves strong people and deemed us weak. I was part of a group that tried to find and shelter them. We were always on the run. And many of us were kidnapped and killed, some right in front of my eyes. Some of their souls… were even…”

Teremy heard a quiver in Joey’s voice. He looked down to see the lalafell’s red eyes staring not at anything, but a distant past somewhere beyond the reach of a normal gaze. His tiny hand trembled on his lap. Unsure of what else he could do, Teremy put his larger hand on Joey’s to hopefully help the lalafell feel more grounded.

“In the end, many of them will never reincarnate. Some will. But many won't. But in the end, only two of us survived, one being me. And I will never forget those times they had died. I could have saved them, but I didn't.” Joey shook his head. “I won't make that mistake again. I, too, have many people I want to protect, and that's all the weak people like me who can't call themselves strong. Who have been beaten down and who can't fight for themselves.”

Had Joey told this story to anyone else in Eorzea, would he have had a hand waved at him? Told he was delusional? What kind of bard’s folk tale did he conjure off the top of his head and all that. All to justify his weird quirks? But to Teremy, every word Joey said explained so much about the lalafell. From Joey’s hatred of strong people, his fear of training, his utmost instinct to throw himself into the heat of battle like a desperate animal on its last legs with nothing else to lose. Joey’s desire to help others. Bolster and take care of him.

A same kindness that extended to Teremy himself.

“If I can help it, I don't want to see someone else die. Not while I still have the means to fight,” said Joey. “I want to show weak people like me that we, too, have worth. We, too, can fight.  Perhaps individually we are weak, but together we can join forces.”

I get that. Is what Teremy wanted to say. But his words failed to leave his mouth. All he ended up doing was wrap his arm around the tiny lalafell and hold him close in a tight embrace. The same kind that Aunt Jocelyn used to give Teremy so many years ago. Joey hiccuped, his chest trembled, and soon the emotions he could no longer contain flooded out in a well of tears. Teremy hugged him tight. Not that hugs could bring back anyone from the dead or beyond. All Teremy could do now was give some meager comfort to this tiny lalafell’s immense sorrow.

The two sat like this for an unspecified period of time. Perhaps minutes. Perhaps hours. Joey continued to cry and Teremy continued to hug him. Soon, the stars faded out from a greater radiating brightness as the sun rose into the horizon. With the dawn marked a new day. Like hope. Or perhaps a reflection of a new revelation—a past way of looking at Joey that Teremy could no longer unsee.

Joey wiped his eyes on his coat’s forearm. “I'm probably talking nonsense and wasting your time right now. Only one person outside of this ordeal has believed me before. I’m sorry. I’m not sure why I told you all that. Maybe to tell you where I’m coming from too. Anyway, gonna be tired all day, but what can you do. Insomniacs just have to deal. Thank you for hearing me out.”

Teremy had a feeling to let go of Joey. Before Teremy could say anything, Joey flew off into the distance on his flying chair, no doubt manually hovering to Gridania to give himself time to think. Teremy would have done the same had he possessed his own flying chair. But as for now, Teremy continued to perch on the rock. What could Teremy have possibly said in regards to all that? During their fight, the miqo’te lashed out at Joey from his own anger. His own conclusions. And now his perceptions had turned into a large question mark.

All Teremy could do was get ready for a new day at Fortunes & Fancies. No doubt Joey would be there. Then what? Feeling the weight of his guilty world on his shoulders, Teremy trudged back to his apartment.

* * *

The next day, Teremy showed up at Fortunes & Fancies right on time. He pushed the door open with a half-awake palm strike and tied his apron around his narrow waist once the door let him through. Right away, he heard chatter from Reonora the store owner, Rosemary the retainer, and Joey. As soon as the trio saw Teremy, they halted their conversation and turned to face him.

“Mornin’.” Teremy nodded to them.

The trio looked up to see Teremy at the door.

“Good morning, Teremy.” Reonora smiled.

“Good morning, Mr. Teremy!” Rosemary waved.

“Hey, neph-neph!” Joey raised a hand in greeting.

A pang of guilt stabbed Teremy in the chest as soon as he saw the dunesfolk. Teremy steeled his resolve as though facing off against a powerful foe. Do or die. “Hey… uh… Joey, I…”

Joey tilted his head slightly.

Reonora looked between the two males in the room. She smiled, knowing—or hoping—about the event that may or may not transpire. “All right, let’s rally tasks for today.” She clapped her hands and winked at Joey. “Come with me, Rosemary.”

“Yes, mistress!” Rosemary smiled cutely and curtsied.

After Reonora’s many hugs, kisses, and gushing over how cute and adorable Rosemary was, Reonora picked up her plainsfolk retainer and headed downstairs. Soon, the oriental partition downstairs slid shut.

The silence between the two only lasted a moment. “Now your turn to hear me out.” said Teremy.

Joey hopped up on the counter so he could look at Teremy face to face.

Teremy performed an eastern bow.  “I was wrong. About you.”

“Eh…?”

“I misjudged you. I have no excuses. You’ve been looking out for me since we’ve traveled together through Norvrant and I’m the one who slapped your hand away because I… you’re right. I always think I’ll never be good enough.”

Joey scratched his cheek. “And I did say you underestimate yourself too. Which you do.”

“There’s that! But… ah… I…” Teremy took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I’m really. Truly. Sorry. I’ll make things up to you sometime.”

Joey narrowed his eyebrows. He folded his arms and looked back at the miqo’te, eye to eye. Suddenly, Teremy felt a sharp sting on his left arm. Not even telegraphed. No, Teremy had seen that punch coming. The miqo’te’s guard had been completely down; he had left himself completely at Joey’s mercy so that he had told his senses to not do anything. Joey looked up and smiled a little.

“There. Play punch. Now I forgive you,” said Joey.

Teremy chuckled and returned the smile. “Fair,” he said and rubbed his arm.

Joey’s smile immediately melted into concern. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

Teremy pretended to wince. “I deserved that. I’m gonna feel that all month. You’re stronger than you look.”

And concern immediately burned into anger. “I TAKE IT BACK! I DON'T FORGIVE YOU ANYMORE! HIGH INSULT!!”

Teremy laughed. The lalafell pounded on his ‘wounded’ arm, but Teremy felt nothing but bats from a kitten’s paws. As Teremy laughed, he felt all the tension ebb away from him—that feeling of being scolded. Nothing more than concern. That feeling of that he was wrong. Yes, he had been. And he had people who cared about him enough to make things better for himself. And that feeling that he had fought with a friend with his insecurities as a guide. Seeing Joey’s honest reaction made everything feel better.

Still, Teremy had one more thing to say. The miqo’te took a deep breath and calmed down. “… Hey, uh, Joey…”

Joey tilted his head slightly again.

“I just wanna say...” Teremy scratched the back of his head again. “I have no words to express about what you told me. I can only imagine. That must have been hard for you. But you’re not alone anymore either. I’d like to imagine I’m sturdy. This body is made of tankbusters after all. And I’m too stubborn to die. At the very least, I’ll be around.” He jabbed a thumb at himself. “You can count on me too. For anything. Except talking. My itty bitty wit meter runs on a single-digit daily quota.” He cleared his throat. “Need something or someone taken down? Just give me a call. I’ll be there.”

Now it was Joey’s turn to smile. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

[thelastspeecher]

Recoil - Chapter 2: Ricochet

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4   AO3

So, I’ll be updating this fic weekly on Thursdays, it looks like.  Y’all have three more weeks of scheduled uploads, then it’s back to my regular bullshit.  Anyways, the Fiddle boy finally shows up in this chapter, Stan shifts into Ultra Dad Mode, and Ford uses his cuteness as a weapon.  Enjoy.

(Again, this fic was inspired by “1 Step Forward, 20 Years Back” by @infriga)

Ricochet (noun): a shot or hit that rebounds one or more times off a surface

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              Ford sat on the couch in his study, abruptly feeling drained.  Was it the leftover exhaustion from the last week or so?  A side effect of becoming a child?  Children did need naps, after all, though Ford had no idea whether children of his current biological age did.  Or was it simply that Bill filled him with a panicked energy, and sharing the information with Stan had helped to ease that burden, share it?  Ford wasn’t sure which one, but as a tense silence fell, he resisted the urge to look at Stan, sitting next to him.

              “Okay.”  Ford stared at Stan, surprised by the single word response.  Stan’s expression was thunderous in a way that Ford remembered from their childhood.  It was the same look Stan would get any time someone messed with Ford.  The implication was dumbfounding.

              Does…does Stanley want to punch Bill?

              “I had no idea what to expect when I came here, but this sure as hell ain’t it,” Stan said, putting his hands on his knees.  His eyes were still stormy, but he plastered on a lighthearted smile as he looked at Ford.  Discomfort began to uncoil in Ford’s stomach.

              He’s treating me like a child.  From the moment he’d awoken, Ford had gotten the feeling that Stan was, so to speak, using kid gloves.  He’d banished that feeling, telling himself that it was just his misperception of Stan’s protective nature.  But he could no longer dismiss that possibility.  Not with Stan smiling at him so reassuringly after being told his own brother had made a deal with a literal demon.  Ford opened his mouth to tell Stan off.  Although, isn’t this better?  Their brief reunion as adults had been tempestuous and violent, and all Ford wanted at the moment, no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, was a calm voice speaking warm words.

              “Why are you taking this so well?” Ford finally asked.  Stan shrugged.

              “I’ve been through a lot,” he said vaguely.  “This is the weirdest thing I’ve seen, yeah, but it’s not the worst. Nah, that’d be…”  Stan shook his head.  “Never mind.”

              “I just told you that if I fall asleep, I could become possessed by a demon!” Ford protested.  Stan raised an eyebrow at him.

              “Then why didn’t you get possessed earlier?” he asked.  Ford flushed with anger.

              “You don’t believe me.”

              “No, I do.  After seeing you get turned into a kid, I can wrap my mind around this weird shit. Also, you’re a terrible liar,” Stan added.  Ford flushed again, but this time from embarrassment.  “Seriously, why didn’t you get possessed when you fell asleep last night?”

              “I- I don’t know,” Ford confessed.  “Maybe it’s because my body was so weak that Bill deemed it pointless to control.”

              “Brute force isn’t the only way to get things done.  If he’d taken you over and asked me to turn on that – what was it, a portal?  If he’d asked me to turn it on again, I woulda done it.”  Stan spoke casually, like he wasn’t discussing events that could bring about the apocalypse.  “You say he’s a smart guy.  He coulda found a way around you being stuck like this.”  Stan poked Ford’s small, hairless chest.  “So why didn’t he?”

              “I…”  Ford was lost for words.  Stan’s logic seemed airtight.  Bill had billions of years of experience.  Ford being stuck as a child wouldn’t have been a major hurdle, just a minor annoyance.  But Ford couldn’t think of a single reason why Bill didn’t do anything while he slept. Ford rubbed his eyes tiredly.

              “You look like you could use a nap.”

              “I can’t sleep.  Not until we protect the house from Bill’s influence.  Otherwise, he could possess me this time.”

              “Can he?”

              “Stanley-” Ford started.  Stan held up his hands.

              “Think about it.  Are you still the same person Bill made a deal with?”

              “Why wouldn’t I be?” Ford demanded.

              “For one thing, you’re a kid.”

              “I- yes.”

              “Minors can’t sign contracts, y’know.”

              “I highly doubt Bill would care about the finer points of legal arbitration,” Ford snapped.  

              “Fair.”  Stan was now looking at Ford with a careful eye, like he was trying to find something out of place.  “I don’t think you are.”

              “You don’t think I’m what?” Ford sighed, tiredness beginning to seep back.

              “The same person that Bill made a deal with.”

              “It doesn’t matter whether I’m not physically the same person, mentally, I am. And Bill’s domain is the mind.”

              “Are you sure about that?”  Stan’s voice was soft, careful.  Like he was prodding at a wound to see how severe it was, prepared to retreat the second it began to throb.  Ford was silent.  He waited for Stan to elaborate.  “You, uh, I think you don’t remember this, but when you first got turned into a kid, you had a breakdown.”  Fuzzy memories began to surface in Ford’s mind.  “And not like, a breakdown that you woulda had if you were an adult.  The kind a kid has.”

              Ford could see it now.  Stan crouched next to him, his face and voice infuriatingly calm.  Instructing him to breathe in and out, to let his mind lay still until he could collect himself.  Ford pulled his legs up and close to his chest, feeling his face burn from shame.

              I fell apart like a child in front of Stanley.

              “Hey.  It’s okay.” Stan rested his hand on Ford’s shoulder. “You’re a kid.  Nothin’ wrong with that.”

              Yes, Stanley’s always enjoyed spending time with children.  Even when they were teenagers, Stan would jump at the opportunity to mentor kids younger than them.  Ford could remember clearly one brisk autumn day, Stan telling a long story to a group of children that, by the time he was done talking, had more than doubled in size.

              “You should be a babysitter,” he’d teased Stan that day, once all the children had dispersed.  Stan had flashed him that crooked grin he always kept locked and loaded.

              “Nah.  This is just for fun.”  A contemplative look had brushed across his face then, an expression Stan rarely wore. “And, I guess, for practice.”

              “Practice?  For what?”

              “…Being a dad,” Stan had answered softly, like he was worried saying it would prevent it from happening.

              “A- really, you want to be a dad?”

              “Yeah.”  Stan had hunched his shoulders up then, retreating into his defensive, closed-off position.  The conversation was over.  “Nothin’ wrong with that.”

              “Uh, Ford?”  Stan’s voice drew Ford out of the memory.  He blinked up at Stan.  “You kinda disappeared for a second there.  You okay?”

              “Yes.  I was just…remembering something,” Ford said quietly.  Stan seemed like he wanted to press further, but he dropped it.

              “Well, like I said, I really don’t think you’re the same person Bill made a deal with.”

              Right.  We were discussing Bill.

              “I sorta wonder…can you feel him?”

              “Pardon?” Ford asked, still recovering from the abrupt tonal shift between his fond memory and the present.

              “In movies or TV or whatever, if someone gets into your mind, you can feel them.”  Stan’s eyes bore into Ford.  “Can you feel him?”

              “No,” Ford answered truthfully.  He frowned.  “Wait.”

              “What?”

              “I- I should be able to sense his presence at the back of my mind. I haven’t warded myself or the house against his influence, after all.”  Confusion colored his voice.  “The only reason I wouldn’t be able to detect him would be if the deal had been broken.” Ford looked up at Stan again. “…You might be right.”  Stan merely nodded.  “Of course, if Bill were to possess another person and come after me-”

              “How did you summon him?”

              “I read an incantation off a cave wall.”

              “And what are the odds someone else would do that same thing?” Stan asked. Ford had to think about that for a moment.

              “Even in Gravity Falls, I’d say low.”

              “So he’s not a problem, then.”

              “He most certainly is.”

              “Yeah.”  Stan’s expression had turned thoughtful.  “But not the biggest one right now.”

              “…That would be an apt assumption,” Ford grumbled.  “I suppose the pressing matter is returning myself to my appropriate age.  I’ll need to examine the portal, go over the output data from while it was running, and I should probably-”

              “Uh, no, Sixer,” Stan said, interrupting him.  “The biggest problem isn’t that you’re small.  It’s that you’re dead on your feet.”

              “I’ll be fine.”

              “Yep.  After you rest.”

              “I don’t have time to-”

              “You just admitted you did,” Stan said quickly.  Ford scowled at him.  “If you have time to spend working on turning yourself into an adult again, you have time to spend resting.”

              “I don’t-”

              “You’ve been a kid for less than a day,” Stan said in a pleading voice. Taken aback by the plaintive tone, Ford was quiet.  “I’m not your dad, I’m not your legal guardian.  But I’m already half-convinced that Child Services is gonna break down that door and take you away.  And then the cops’ll throw me in jail for child neglect.”  Stan’s voice hitched slightly.  “I’ve got a lot on my record, but I’ll be damned if I let that get added to the list.”

              “But-”

              “You’re a kid,” Stan said firmly.  The pleading was gone, replaced by determination.  “And not just any kid.  You’re my brother.  That means you’re under my jurisdiction.  So here’s what we’re gonna do.”  Stan met Ford’s eyes.  “You’re gonna take a nap.  I’m gonna fix the broken heater.  When you wake up, we’ll have food and clean up this sty of a house.”

              “Since when have you cared about cleaning?” Ford mumbled.

              “There’s pieces of rusty metal on the damn floor.  You’re not gonna get tetanus on my watch.”  Stan took a breath.  “And then we’ll go to bed.  And we’ll do those things for however long it takes for you to get back on your feet.  Then we’ll try to turn you back.”

              “I don’t see the point.”

              “Kids can’t handle this stuff!” Stan said, gesturing at Ford.  “They’re not designed to live on coffee.  You need sleep and you need food.  So that’s what you’re gonna get.  Whether you like it or not.”  Part of Ford wanted to continue arguing.  But the rest of him was simply too tired.  He rubbed his eyes again.

              “…Very well.”  Ford yawned widely.  “We’ll revisit this tomorrow, though.”

              “Sure.  We can do that.”  The fervent passion that had filled Stan moments ago seemed to have faded.  He watched Ford with a fond expression. “Let’s get you to bed.”  He picked Ford up.

              “Stanley, you don’t…need…to…”  Before Ford could finish his sentence, his heavy eyelids closed.

----- 

              Sometimes, Stan wondered how things might have been.  There were a lot of scenarios that he would play in his mind while he waited to fall asleep in the latest dingy motel room.  But there was one he kept coming back to, particularly with the current situation.  As he attempted to comb Ford’s unruly hair, Stan wondered what would have happened if those pregnancy scares he’d had with previous girlfriends hadn’t been false alarms.

              He always felt stupid wondering about it.  He wasn’t the type to get tied down, and it was for the best that he didn’t knock up the women who left him and stole from him, sometimes in that order, sometimes in the reverse order.  Stan felt like an idiot for merely thinking about it, so he did his best to quash the small part of him that wanted it.  That wanted to be a dad.  It was difficult to suppress, though, and felt especially difficult right now.  Stan set down the hairbrush and crouched down to Ford’s eye-height to look intently at him.

              After only two nights of full sleep, Ford seemed healthier, though still much more sickly than Stan ever remembered him being at this age.  At least the circles under his eyes were hidden by his glasses.  The plan was to use some of the money Ford had left to buy some groceries, but Stan had been uncertain of whether he’d take Ford along, depending on what shape he was in.  Stan managed a smile and ruffled Ford’s hair.  Ford pouted.

              “Why bother brushing my hair when you were going to mess with it right after?” Ford asked.

              “It’s what people do to cute kids like you, Sixer.  Better get used to it,” Stan replied, straightening to his full height. “I think we’re good to go.  You sure you remember the way to the grocery store?”  Ford bobbed his head.  “Good. So, what are the rules?”  Ford sighed.

              “We’re posing as a regular father and regular son visiting a relative,” he rattled off.  “The relative we’re supposedly visiting is actually me.”

              “And?” Stan prodded.  Ford scowled.

              “And I can act precocious, but I still have to act like a child.”

              “Yep.”  Stan dug his car keys out of his back pocket.  “Let’s go buy some food.”

              The drive to the store was uneventful, aside from the brief shouting match over where Ford would sit in the car.  While Ford was napping the day before, Stan had dug out the book on rules for the road that he kept in the glove box.  He couldn’t decide whether he was proud or embarrassed that the thing had clearly never been read.

              “I told you, the law is that people under thirteen can’t ride in the front seat,” Stan said for the twentieth time, looking at Ford in the back seat.  Ford scowled and slumped further down his seat.

              “Caring about driving laws is incredibly out of character for you,” Ford griped.  Stan turned his attention back to the road, biting back his explanation, that he was determined to stay out of trouble for Ford’s sake.  “Actually, caring about laws in general is out of character.  Or was it not you who stole multiple items of clothing for me yesterday?”

              “Kids’ clothes are expensive,” Stan grunted.  “So are speeding tickets.  All I’m doin’ is saving as much money as possible.”

              “Uh-huh.  Sure,” Ford muttered.  He simmered in barely controlled anger as the car was parked, they grabbed a cart, and up to the moment they walked into the grocery store.  One step past the automatic doors and Stan could feel small, six-fingered hands gripping his jacket.  Stan looked down at his brother.  Ford seemed terrified, but Stan wasn’t sure why.  He crouched down.

              “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.  Ford looked down at his feet.

              “N-nothing.”

              “C’mon, Ford, you can talk to me.”

              “Bill.”

              “Don’t worry, Sixer.  Even if he’s here – and he isn’t – I won’t let him hurt you.  Got it?” Stan said.  After a moment, Ford nodded jerkily.  He was still visibly nervous, but even the small reassurance seemed to have calmed him down a bit.  “Good.” Stan stood again.  “Any clue where the bread aisle is?”

              “Um…”  Ford looked around, clearly out of his depth.  “No.”

              “Guess we’ll just wander around until we find something, then.”  Before they could even begin their search, a woman swooped in and peered closely at Ford.

              “Well aren’t you just the cutest cutie to ever be cute,” the woman gushed. Ford blanched and hid behind Stan’s leg. Stan forced a laugh.

              “He’s a bit shy, Miss…?”

              “Susan,” the woman supplied, sticking out her hand.  Stan shook the offered hand, unleashing the wide, smarmy smile he used as a traveling salesman.

    ��         “Susan.  It’s great to meet you.”  Stan broke off the handshake and patted Ford’s head.  “Like I said, my son here is pretty shy.  Especially in new places.”

              “Oh, that’s right, you don’t look very familiar.  Where are you from?”

              “Vermont.”  Stan wasn’t quite sure why he’d chosen that state, but he went with it.  “Ford and I are visiting my brother.  He lives here.”

              “Isn’t that nice.”

              “Yep.  We don’t get to see him very often, so it’s a treat.  We’re actually here to pick up some groceries for dinner.  Do you know where the bread is?”

              “Of course!  Third aisle.”

              “Thanks.”  Stan winked at Susan, who giggled, waved at Ford, and then exited the store.  Stan let out a soft sigh.  “Now we know where the bread is.  That wasn’t too bad, was it, Ford?”  Stan looked down.  His eyes widened.  The boy that had been clinging to his leg a moment ago was gone.  “Uh, Ford?”  Stan spun in a circle, panic rising like bile in his throat.

              Don’t panic.  Don’t freak out.  Stan swallowed.  He’s still in the store.  Just look for him.  He can’t have gotten far.  Stan began to make his way down the various aisles, fear mounting as each one was distinctly free of twelve-fingered eight-year-olds.  He just finished the canned goods aisle when his ears picked up on a high-pitched voice.

              “But it’s me!”

              Ford.  Stan took off in a sprint, rounding the corner to see Ford talking to a visibly disheveled and disoriented man.  The man smiled weakly at Ford.

              “I told ya, sugar plum, I don’t know who ya are.  And I think I’d remember a lil one as cute as you,” the man said in a thick southern accent.  Stan walked up behind Ford and put a hand on his shoulder.  Ford froze.

              “Sorry, sir,” Stan said through gritted teeth.  Ford had the grace to act abashed.  “My son can get excited.”

              “Oh, that ain’t no problem,” the man said, waving a hand airily.  His hair stuck out in all directions and his clothes were visibly stained and torn.  Stan wasn’t sure what his deal was, but he was glad to see the stranger grab his basket and walk away.

              “You’re lucky I can’t ground you, because if I could, you’d be grounded for a month after that,” Stan ground out once the stranger was gone.  Ford turned around and crossed his arms.

              “I was merely talking to an acquaintance.”

              “You sure?  He didn’t seem to recognize you.”

              “Wh- of course he didn’t recognize me,” Ford scoffed, throwing his arms up in the air.  “I’m eight! The last time I saw him, I was my chronological age.”

              “Why were you trying to get him to recognize you anyways?” Stan asked. “I thought we were gonna be discrete.”

              “Yes, but…”  Ford looked away.  “He was my research partner.  He’s the one best suited for helping me with my situation.”  Ford drooped slightly, like he bore the weight of something.

              Clearly, something happened with Ford and that guy.  But we can talk about it at home.

              “We’re just getting food today,” Stan reminded Ford.  Ford nodded sullenly.  “Tomorrow if you’re up for doing things, we can try to find this guy again.”  Stan held out his hand.  Ford glared at him.  “You ran off. Either you’re holding my hand or I’m holding yours.”  Ford reluctantly took a hold of Stan’s hand.  “By the way, what’s that guy’s name?”

              “Fiddleford.  Fiddleford McGucket.”

----- 

              Despite Stan’s assurance that they would seek out Fiddleford the next day, they didn’t.  They didn’t look the next day, either.  Stan had taken one look at Ford both those days and deemed him too physically weak to go on a search.  Ford found himself unable to protest too vociferously; Stan was right that children weren’t built to run under the conditions Ford had been subjecting himself to as an adult.

              Two weeks had now passed since the initial incident.  Ford sat on the floor in the living room, perusing his journal for any information he might have missed, while Stan folded laundry.

              “Any luck?” Stan asked, neatly folding one of the T-shirts he’d stolen for Ford.  Ford scowled down at the journal.

              “No.  I told you, the only way to make any progress into a cure is to get outside help.”

              “Why?” Stan asked idly.  “I did all the stuff you asked me to do.  Grabbed the ‘data output’ from the portal, found the other blueprints that you hid in the woods for some reason.  How would this Fiddlesticks guy be able to figure out something that you haven’t?” That was a question Ford had been asking himself lately.  Part of him worried that the regression was blocking certain aspects of his mental faculties.  He understood all of his research, which was promising.  But when trying to reverse engineer conclusions he’d made previously, he found himself struggling with the logic behind them.

              It’s like I have all the information I need, but lack the reasoning and logical skill to connect the dots.  Ford realized that Stan had been waiting for an answer.

              “He’s…a very smart man,” Ford said quietly.  “His area of expertise is different than mine, so he might have some different ideas than I do.”

              “Makes sense.”  Stan set aside the folded T-shirt.  “C’mere.” Ford got up and plodded over to Stan. Stan pressed the back of his hand against Ford’s forehead.  “You’re still a bit warm.”  Ford pouted. Last week, Ford had caught what he insisted was a nasty cold, but Stan was convinced was something more insidious.

              Just because I had a slight fever, Stan acted like I was on my deathbed. Granted, I did feel ill and weak, but that’s what colds do!

              “I’m feeling better,” Ford argued.

              “Yeah, and you look better, too.”  Stan sighed.  His hand dropped to his lap.  “But I don’t think you should go running around town looking for Fiddlesticks.”

              “His name is Fiddleford.”

              “Whatever his name is.”  Stan took a pair of pants from the pile of laundry.  “We’re not gonna go on a wild goose chase yet.”

              Dammit, Stan!  Ford had learned by now that if he wanted to get his way, he couldn’t argue.  Stan would immediately shut down and refuse to listen to him.  The trick to successfully wheedling his brother was to do what Stan had mentioned at the beginning.  Weaponize his adorable appearance.  If that’s what I need to do, then I’ll do it.  I remember Fiddleford’s regular haunts.  I can convince Stanley to take me to one.

              “Stanley?”  Ford adopted a high, plaintive tone.  Stan looked up from the clothes.  Ford widened his eyes.  An odd look crossed Stan’s face.  “Could we go to the library today?”

              “Really?  You wanna leave the house?” Stan asked.  Ford nodded vigorously.  He felt his unruly curls bounce.  “You know that whenever we leave the house, you have to pretend to be my son.”

              “Yes.”

              “Okay, I’ll bite.  Why do you wanna leave?”

              “I’m bored,” Ford said.  It came out as a whine without him intending it to.  A small grin appeared on Stan’s face for a second before he stifled it. “You won’t let me do anything.”

              “Yep.”  Stan took another shirt from the hamper.  “Last time you did something, you made a deal with a demon and got turned eight.”  

              “Please, Stanley, I want to pick up some books to read.  Like I said, I’m bored.  I need to occupy my time with something.”

              “Well, you did say the magic word,” Stan said slowly.  “All right, we’ll head out after the laundry’s done.”  Ford crossed his arms.

              “Why is it that you’re suddenly so responsible?  I’ve never seen you do laundry without being threatened first.”

              “I got a kid to look after,” Stan said with a shrug.  “If I fuck up, I don’t just screw things for me, I screw things for you.  I’m done screwin’ things for you.”  He glanced at Ford.  Ford looked away quickly, preventing Stan from seeing his expression.

              “Well, how long do you think you’ll take?” Ford asked, in a carefully measured tone.

              “Dunno.  But it’d go faster if I had help,” Stan said.  Ford huffed again, but sat down on the floor and took a pair of pants from the hamper.

              “I’m not good at folding,” Ford muttered.

              “You’re a physicist.  You’ll figure it out.”

----- 

              The Gravity Falls Public Library was somehow even less like a library than Stan had imagined, which was saying something.  But the second they’d set foot inside, Ford had darted off to the Classics section, leaving Stan alone to wander around.  Stan ambled over to a pile of newspapers and picked up the one on top.  He was glad Ford seemed better after getting sick the week before, but knew that if Ford tried to push himself too hard, he’d end up bedridden again.

              People always said I was the stubborn one.  They were wrong.  We’re both stubborn as all hell.  Stan sighed and dropped the newspaper back onto the pile.  How Mom managed to raise us without tearing all her hair out, I have no idea.  He glanced over at the Classics section.  Letting him run off might not have been a good idea.

              “Please, just listen to me!” Ford’s voice begged.  Stan blanched.

              It definitely wasn’t a good idea.  Stan strode quickly in the direction of the Classics section.  As he approached, he could hear another voice speaking to Ford.

              “Cutie, I am listenin���.  And I think ya have a wonderful imagination.  But we should prob’ly find yer parents, okay?”

              “My parents aren’t-”

              “Ford,” Stan said shortly, finally catching sight of Ford talking to the same person he’d accosted at the grocery store.

              Fiddlesticks, right?  Something like that.  Ford glared at Stan.

              “Not now,” Ford hissed.

              “I told you to stop bothering people.”  Stan walked over to Ford’s side.  He placed a hand on Ford’s shoulder.  “Sorry about him, Mr.…?”

              “McGucket.  Fiddleford McGucket.”

              “Got it.  Sorry about him, Fiddleford.”

              “No problem,” Fiddleford said with a soft chuckle.  “It’s difficult to get upset with eager children.  They’re so excited to tell the world ‘bout every thought that crosses their minds.  It’s rather charmin’ of ‘em.”  Fiddleford looked at Stan.  A strange expression crossed his face.  His gaze became more focused, his eyes roving over Stan’s features.  “If we’re goin’ to be crossin’ paths this frequently, maybe you should tell me your name, too.”

              “Uh, Stan.  Stan Pines.” The effect was immediate. Fiddleford recoiled from him, backing into the shelf behind him.  A few books tumbled to the ground.

              “Pines,” Fiddleford rasped.

              “…Yeah.  That’s- that’s my last name.  Buddy, you all right?”

              “I- that- I knew yer face was familiar.”  Fiddleford kneaded his forehead.  “You wouldn’t happen to be related to that rat bastard Stanford Pines, would ya?”  Stan couldn’t help it.  A small snort slipped out.  Ford scowled at him.

              “He’s my twin brother.”

              “Why didn’t he-” Fiddleford muttered to himself.  He shook his head.  “Never mind.  I guess yer visitin’ him, then?”

              “Technically, yeah.”

              “And you brought yer son.”  Fiddleford shook his head again.  “That weren’t the best idea.  He’s not safe.”  A heavy discomfort began to settle in Stan’s stomach.  “It’d be fer the best if the both of ya left Gravity Falls.”

              “I mean…that’s the plan.  Eventually.”

              “No, do it sooner rather than later,” Fiddleford said firmly.

              “I have to help him with something,” Stan said.  Fiddleford locked his eyes with Stan’s, a sympathetic expression on his face.

              “Speakin’ from experience, the longer ya help him, the worse it ends up bein’ fer you.  Really, you should leave while ya still can.”

              “I- I can’t leave.”

              “Oh, really?”  Fiddleford crossed his arms.  “Why?”

        ��     “Because…”  Stan looked down at Ford.  Ford took the opportunity to step forward.  He took a hold of one of Fiddleford’s hands.

              “Fiddleford, it’s me,” Ford said quietly.  “I’m not Stanley’s son.  I’m- it’s me. Stanford.”  Fiddleford’s jaw dropped.  “There was an accident, and-”

              “I s’ppose you want my help,” Fiddleford said, his voice thick.  “Well, yer a world-class genius, right?  You can figure it out on yer own.”  He pulled his hand out of Ford’s grasp.  “Best of luck to ya.”

              “No, Fiddleford, please,” Ford begged.  “I don’t- I can’t do it on my own.”  Fiddleford now seemed conflicted by Ford’s pleading.  “I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done, but I desperately need your help, I-”  Tears sparkled in the corners of Ford’s eyes.

              Either he’s laying it on extra thick or he actually feels terrible about whatever happened.  Whether Ford was acting or not, it worked.  Fiddleford gently stroked Ford’s hair.

              “Okay,” he said softly.  “Okay. I’ll- I’ll at least hear ya make yer case.  I can’t promise I’ll help, but I’ll listen.”  Ford nodded tearfully.  He leaned against Stan’s leg.  “I took my own car here, so I’ll meet ya back at yer place.”

              “Got it,” Stan said with a nod.  He cleared his throat.  “Um, and thanks.”  Fiddleford stood.  His face hardened.

              “Don’t thank me quite yet.  I said I’ll listen, not that I’ll help.”

              “Either way.  I- we appreciate it.”

              “…Well, I ain’t exactly heartless,” Fiddleford mumbled.  With that, he walked away.  Stan looked at Ford, who was still using his leg as support.

              “You didn’t need more books, did you?” Stan asked.  Ford shot Stan a small grin.  Stan sighed.  “This is what I get for telling you that I could be manipulated by cute kids.”

[haiky-u-lously]

Mimi’s Gift--Chapter 1

Summary:

 It is said, that on your 25th birthday, one of your soulmate’s most embarrassing moments will appear to you in the form of a dream where you view as though being a fly on the wall. It is the night before your 25th birthday, and you are nervous because not everyone remembers the dream they have when they awaken. Will you?   

Themes:

Fluff, Humor, Soulmate AU

Warnings:

Embarassement, Teasing between friends, Self-judging (reader judges themselves on how they think about others).

Word Count:

~7,300 words total

Enjoy!

-Admin Red

__________________________________________________________

“No, Yama,” You chided your friend through the phone as you continued to prepare your bed for sleeping. “I do not need anyone to come stay with me to help make sure I remember my Soulmate Dream. If I remember then that is great, and if I do not then...well...let’s not think about that. Just I will remember, okay?” Trying to laugh away your worries, you draddled on.

“Well, if you really feel like that, I won’t pressure you.” He finally caved to your decision. “But you only know I keep asking because you made such a big deal when Hinata couldn’t remember his Soulmate Dream.”

You held back a laugh as you remembered how badly you screamed at Hinata when he called you freaking out. 

“But (Y/N)! I can’t do anything about it if I don’t remember.” His tone had been even, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, “Besides, this way they’ll just have to remember me from theirs, it's not a big deal.”

And despite what you’d thought at the time, and how you had gone to each of your shared friends begging for help to pull the memories from his mind, he had been right. Not even 2 days later, Kenma proved Hinata’s assumption correct. The game developer had waited nearly 7 months to come face to face with his soulmate, after they both would know they were soulmates...and the exploding tangerine had just not known. 

You giggled at the memory a bit more before listening to more of Yama’s explanation.

“And Tsukki only knew his because he recorded himself sleeping and caught what he said in his slumber. So, it is only because I care that I keep offering like this.”

Taking another moment to regard Tsukki’s situation had you rolling your eyes. After the almost Hinata fiasco™, Tsukki was the next of your group of friends to have his Soulmate Dream night. You were in a panic out of fear of him forgetting like Hinata without the benefit of his soulmate already knowing and also the added bonus of already knowing him. Everyone thought he had just ignored your worries, but when you all found out he only knew because he’d recorded himself sleeping, it sent you into a deeper panic. Worried that your friends were cursed to not remember their soulmate dreams on their own.

You were grateful when Kageyama and Yamaguchi’s dream days came around and they recalled every stark detail. Led you to believe once again that it was all just luck if you remembered or not. You had just wanted your friends to have the happiness you knew awaited them. Despite being so shocked at the first two’s experiences, the second pair’s relatively mellowed out your concerns.

Smiling to yourself, you could truly feel how heartfelt he was being and appreciated his kindness, “Thanks Yama, you are a great friend. But honestly, I am good. Actually, now my bed is ready so I’m going to sleep. Goodnight!”

“Night (Y/N)! Call me tomorrow whether you remember it or not!” He concluded before hanging up the call.

You pulled yourself into bed, turned off the night lamp on your bedside table, and curled up under the perfectly weighted blanket. You spent a few moments scrolling through social media, watching video snip-it one after the other. While watching a news update one you yawned, and quickly moved to the next. When you yawned immediately after swiping up, and realized your head was bobbing forward and eyes were closing on the video of innocent dogs being reunited with their owners, you decided that was enough.

Locking the device and shoving it under your pillow for safekeeping, you snuggled deeper into the soft mound. Letting sleep take over your body as the day came to an end and a new one was ready to begin.

***dreams***

It started with seeing the backside of a guy with spiky brown hair. He was in a red and black tracksuit and crouched down on the sidewalk. The vision slowly moved around to show a side view of the same image, as the boy was holding a fried chicken drumstick in one hand and trying to coach a dog to let him pet them with the other. His wide grin was a sight to behold but before you had time to contemplate anything else of the scene, the dog snatched the fried chicken from the boy’s hand and took off running.

Initially, the boy just held a shocked expression, before suddenly racing after the dog and screaming how wrong it is to steal.

The chase scene continued until the dog ran into what you presumed was a high school gymnasium. The boy glared into the open door for half a second before chucking his shoes off and jumping into the gym himself, in only his socks.

Hearing the male fall along with seeing him flat on his behind, you thought that’d be the end, but the scene continued.

As the boy was rightening his position, you looked around and realized you recognized this gymnasium as belonging to your friends’ old high school. Upon making that realization, you also saw Yamaguchi running up to the boy your vision had followed.

“Are you okay?” Your friend asked the brunet.

That dazzling smile returned as the questioned faced Yama, “I’ll be great once I get my chicken back from that thief!”

You watched as the boy turned towards a different part of the gym, saw as his eyes narrowed in on what seemed to be an innocent space, stared as he took off in the direction just as he had after the dog. Before finally gaping as he walked back out of a storage space, the dog hanging under one arm, and his chicken, now half-eaten, in the other. 

A dejected expression covering his features.

Other boys in red and black outfits, some tracksuits while others wore game uniforms were laughing at who you suspected was their teammate. 

Before you could make out what else was going on, the scene flashed twice and you were watching from Yamaguchi’s side of the court as a game transpired between the groups.

It seemed enjoyable for all involved, as the scores were extremely close. Karasuno having 31 points and Nekoma having 30 points as far as you could read from the scoreboard. The team in red had just served the ball, Yamaguchi received it and it went beautifully towards Kageyama, Kageyama set it to Tsukki who tipped it over a gray-haired tall boy and the spiked brown-haired boy from before. A player in red was able to get the ball with relative ease and when the ball was set to the brown-haired boy, you felt excitement coursing through you.

Only, the ball started arching at an odd angle, and fell lower in front of the brown-haired boy’s arm then his swing was positioned. The ball hit him square in the face and he fell backwards onto his butt once again.

This seemed to pull a blanketed pause across the court. But the brunet just laughed about it himself, breaking whatever tension was in the room. After a moment of all those on the court laughing, the boy moved to stand upright, apparently deaf to the shouts of worry from those around him. His foot landed straight on top of the ball that just hit him and he now sprawled over the floor. He’d fallen face first.

Once again the group on the court started laughing at the male’s expense and it was all you could do to try and keep his face at the forefront of your mind as the scene before you faded out.

***Real World***

The beeping of your alarm’s sound grew as your eyes opened, facing the sun’s light shining through your curtains. You slam the mute button on the clock to silence the squeals that brought you out of your slumber and slowly rose to a seated position.

Rubbing the lingering drowsiness from your eyes, you release a quiet yawn and stretch a few tight back muscles for good measure. Finished with the little wake-up routine you hop out of bed and make way to the bathroom to wash your face, brush your teeth, and complete the other morning rituals necessary to start the day properly.

As you were swinging the toothbrush over your teeth, mid brushing, your reflection showed how wide your eyes bugged out. Suddenly choking on the toothpaste residue in your mouth as you realized you only recalled pieces of your dreams from the night prior. 

Rinsing your mouth out in the sink, you managed to dash back into your room and flop onto your bed. Calling out, “No no no no no no!” As you rummaged under your pillows for your phone to note what you still remembered before it too was lost to the black hole that was considered your memory bank.

Finding the device, and opening up a note page you spoke to yourself again as you typed, “Yama’s high school. Red uniform. Blinding smile. Dog and chicken. No no no, what else! Why can’t you remember anything more helpful? Stupid stupid brain!” You were chiding yourself continuously, regret seemingly pouring out from your entire body as you saved the note despite the sense of inadequate information.

Sighing in defeat, you managed to make your way back to the restroom to finish your morning routine.

[whimperwoods]

29-Day Whump /Challenge - Day 20

Day 20: Phobia Exploited || Public Whump

Time to be mean to poor baby Az again! But wait? Is that light on the horizon? Maybe. Or maybe not. Previous installments from days 2, 7, and 18. Prompt list by @yuckwhump​ and found here.

Tag list: @inky-whump​

tw: dehumanization, tw: fantasy racism, tw: side shows, tw: dissociation, tw: nonsexual nudity, tw: caged, tw: chained, tw: insults

*****

The cart started moving well before the sun, hours after Az had cried himself to sleep but well before he wanted to be awake.

The wizard was grumbling, too, sitting at the front of the cart with her hood over her head while the fighter drove the horses. The archer was in good spirits. The other man was silent, but hadn’t let him up to relieve himself before the cart moved, not that he’d had anything to eat.

Az stayed in the tightest ball he could manage, cold and miserable, dreading whatever the day had in store. He still felt numb, like his body was either too big or too small for him and he was floating half outside it. He was aware that his body was shivering, but it felt distant, like a concern for someone else.

They stopped as the horizon was beginning to lighten, the sunrise not far away, and the fighter immediately started hauling cages and crates out of the cart, piling the captives in their boxes on the ground beside the cart, while the wizard waved her hands and started setting a tent up by magic, the canvas floating into place as the frame assembled itself.

The archer kicked at his side before she picked up his cage, her foot connecting, only half stopped by the bars, and jolting him partially out of his numbness. He wriggled toward the center of the cage as she and the half-elf picked it up and started carrying him into the tent, the new ache in his side bringing him back to himself.

He wasn’t even sure it would bruise. It was almost unfair, becoming so aware of the filth coating his skin, the chafing around his ankles, the helplessness of his naked body, and not even having a bruise to show for that awareness.

The wizard stepped inside, her hood still up, but her face a little less grumpy than she’d looked when she peered into the cart to tell him she’d silence him if he cried and then he wouldn’t get any breakfast. She looked around the space and then ordered the other two to set his cage along one side of the tent, rattling off a list of the other cages and crates and pointing to where she wanted them.

Inside the tent, he couldn’t see the sunrise, though every time the tent flap opened it was brighter outside. Inside, magical lights floated where they were needed as the wizard made the space what she wanted it to be.

It wasn’t a large tent, and it filled quickly, Az feeling more and more trapped as other cages full of the creatures he’d shared the cart with filled the tent, with a narrow walkway between them.

“We’ll feed ‘em all once we’ve got a decent crowd,” she said, “Make a show of it. That way we can charge extra. Dinner time, too. Then the ones with less feel like they’re getting a deal paying a silver less for a view between meals. No reason not to come in, if they’re getting a deal.”

The archer snorted. “If you think they’re that dumb out here, sure.”

“They’re that dumb everywhere. Go help Goswin round up some customers. You know Paeris is useless for that sort of thing. Dunno why you stick with him, cousin or no.”

“Yeah, fine.”

The archer left the tent.

Az didn’t like the archer being in the tent. He didn’t like being alone with the wizard. He didn’t like any of this.

*****

The first of the townsfolk came into the tent in a huge group, laughing and chattering, shrieking as they saw the first of the caged monsters, pointing and holding each other’s hands and listening to the fighter explain in that warm, booming voice what they were passing and how it had been caught.

As the crowd approached his cage, Az tried to shrink back away from them, but all of a sudden, the archer was crouched behind his cage, clicking her tongue at him.

“Tsk tsk. We knew you’d try that. Get up where they can see you!”

She jabbed an arrow through the bars, and he wasn’t fast enough to avoid it entirely. He wriggled to the front of the cage, the arrowhead digging into his back and leaving a shallow cut.

“Now this one,” the fighter boomed, “This one might not look like much, but he’s so dangerous we have to keep him muzzled. One bite from a goblin and you’re as good as dead. But, of course, we’d never let any of you get the plague.”

The crowd responded immediately, shrinking away from him with gasps that he would have thought were melodramatic if they didn’t seem to mean them.

“Some folks says goblins are almost human, building cities down in those caves and such, but anyone’s ever fought ‘em can tell you different. They run in packs, like dogs, and just when you think you’ve got one handled, another one’s behind you with something sharp, ready to rip your guts out. One goblin alone, though...” he laughed again, “Well, let’s just say even if he did get out, he’s nothing to worry about with us here.”

Az hated the eyes on him. He hated the glares and the gawking, the ones who leaned forward for a better look and the ones who shrunk away and glanced back in terrified little glimpses.

He tried to shrink backward again, only to find the archer’s arrow still behind him.

“Now, now, don’t make me pin you to the ground in there.”

He shivered, no doubt left in him that any of these people would be true to their word when they said such things.

After the first rush of people, a guided group huddled together, the rest of the day was a steady trickle, and people stayed longer at each cage, peering in.

A little boy shouted insults at him, telling him the plague was his fault, and he wondered how quickly word got around in a town like this. He wondered how many people knew he was here. He wondered how many people wanted a look.

His stomach grumbled, but he knew if there hadn’t been breakfast for him already, there wouldn’t be. Just like there hadn’t been dinner last night. His stomach ached and gurgled, and every instinct in his body said to stay curled around it any time the archer stopped prodding him to be more visible.

By midafternoon, the trickle was slow and the group had gotten lazy with the Wizard off at the tavern eating lunch. He heard the fighter send in a group of little boys at a discount ‘for kids’ and squirmed back into the back of his cage, hoping the archer would stay at the front where she’d been chatting with him.

The boys were loud, shouting and clanging into things and shoving each other. Maybe they’d be too distracted to notice him here. Maybe they’d miss him and move on.

They didn’t, immediately gathering at the front of his cage and peering intently into it.

“Whoa, it’s naked!”

“Of course it is, stupid, it’s a monster.”

“Don’t look like a monster.”

“Of course it does! Look at its ears! It’s like an ugly old bat.”

Az tried to hide his face in his arms.

“I wanna see better,” one of the kids declared. “Hey, goblin, I wanna see you!”

He didn’t move, hoping they’d believe he couldn’t understand.

He could hear one of them coming closer, squeezing around the side of his cage toward where he huddled at the back.

“Hey, Sig, don’t! Berto’s mom says goblins are real dangerous! She says the guy in here said they have plague.”

“That’s a buncha hooey. They wouldn’t bring it here if it had plague. I just wanna see.”

Suddenly, he was being prodded with the arrow all over again, and he glanced up, surprised, only to find himself making eye contact with a small boy with russet hair and green eyes. The eyes lit up in a way that reminded him of the archer, and he wriggled back toward the center of the cage, away from the boy.

“Hey!” the boy shouted to his friends, “They got his mouth all covered. I bet he’s got wicked teeth behind there.”

Something thudded into the back of his head, and another kid shouted, “Hey, look over here! I wanna see!”

One of the boys in the group hissed, “Don’t!” but the others picked up dirt clods and threw them at him again, even though he was facing them.

“Think he’s got balls?” one of them asked, suddenly daring. “I bet I could hit him in the balls.”

The one behind Az laughed, jabbing at him again with the arrow. “Hey, yeah. Show us your balls.”

Az’s face burned, but the cage was just big enough that the kids’ short arms probably couldn’t reach him if he stayed right in the middle. He just had to stay right in the middle.

He curled up tight again, tucking himself into a ball. The kid with the arrow kept prodding at him, never quite managing a good stab, but a couple of times getting enough purchase to scratch him through his coating of filth. The boys in the aisle continued pelting him with mud. He closed his eyes.

Even when they got bored and stomped off to rattle other cages, he stayed tucked that way.

As they left, he heard them complain that the goblin was no fun and wouldn’t even let them hit it in the balls with a rock. The archer laughed, and his blood ran cold.

He only knew it was getting toward dusk when he heard the fighter’s loud, booming voice outside, telling the townsfolk that the show was only going to be open a few more minutes before they had to get ready for ‘the big show,’ whatever that meant.

The last trickle of customers was hurried, and they seemed to look at everything but him, rushing past his cage. He wanted to feel relieved, but after everything else, it just seemed like another ill omen.

The wizard shouted about the big show as the fighter and archer started moving the other cages and crates out of the tent, carrying them out the back and presumably back to the cart. Az couldn’t hear her words over the grunts and chatter of the two moving the cages, or the noises of the creatures inside, hungry for their dinner even having eaten twice since he was last fed.

It wasn’t until his cage was the absolute last that he was certain of it - he was the show.

As people filed in to stand on the opposite side of the tent, he felt his whole body growing cold with fear. What was this? What could they possibly be planning to do to him that they hadn’t already?

The fighter’s voice rang out, filling the tent. “Now, some of you questioned whether we really caught these beasts. Some of you doubted we could contain them. Some of you even told your friends to carry knives on them in case we had a breakout.”

There was a soft muttering from the crowd, and the fighter laughed. “Now, don’t worry, we’re not angry. We understand! It sounds wild! But that’s why we’ve prepared one last little show for you. We liked this little town of yours, and you seem like good folks, so we thought we’d put those rumors to rest in case we ever come through here again.”

A bright light suddenly appeared directly on top of Az’s head, and he buried his face in his arms to get away from it.

“Behold!” the wizard shouted from behind him, “A real, living goblin!”

The crowd responded immediately, making shocked noises like they hadn’t already seen him earlier in the day.

“Now my friend Dania here is going to open his cage, and you’re going to see exactly why you’re so safe with us in town. The first time we caught him, he had his hands and legs free, and his mouth uncovered and ready to bite.”

That wasn’t true, and the wizard knew it. Az wasn’t sure he had the courage to risk being frozen like that again, trapped in his own body and not only in his chains. He whined in the back of his throat.

The wizard was still talking. “But of course, we’d never put our beloved patrons in danger like that! For tonight’s - entertainment, we’ll be showing you what would happen if his cage door came open - and we think you’ll find you’re quite safe on your side of the tent.”

The archer stepped forward, waving out at the crowd, and the wizard’s voice spoke directly into his head, making him squeak in surprise. “Make this look good or you’ll be riding into the next town with only half your skin. Make it look really good and I’ll let Dania take off the muzzle so you can eat again.”

He couldn’t. He couldn’t. Could he? But then the cage door was open and there was a crackle of sparks behind him, where the audience couldn’t see, and he crawled forward away from the noise as fast as he could, stumbling to his feet outside the cage and shuffling as fast as his shackles would let him toward the open tent flap beside the audience.

Women shrieked and men yelped, but he’d only made it a few steps before an arrow thudded into the ground just a hair’s breadth in front of his toes and he had to backpedal, ducking to the side and trying to weave to be harder to hit, even as his shackles kept him at constant risk of tripping. A few more arrows missed him narrowly, some coming closer than others.

The fighter moved toward him, taking one big, slow, menacing step toward him at a time so that Az’s heart started leaping uncomfortably in his chest and he had to duck backward defensively again, rerouting for a second time and trying to circle toward the faint sunset light of the exit instead of weaving straight there.

Then the magic touched him. Rosie’s magic. He’d know that particular arcane touch anywhere, now, and probably to the end of his days. He cried out, expecting to be frozen, but instead he found himself - floating?

He yelled out again in panic, trying to get back to the ground and finding that his desperate scrabbling did nothing but send him spinning, flailing as he moved through the air outside of all control.

“Dania!” Rosie shouted.

“Got it!”

Something hit him hard in the side, driving him through the air and toward the audience, and he’d barely had time to register that it had been blunt before a net sprung out of the arrow and wrapped around him.

A moment later, he was slammed suddenly to the ground, Rosie’s magic on him the whole time, thrusting him into the dirt harder than a mere fall would have and driving the breath out of him.

By the time he’d regained enough air to cry out, Goswin was looming over him, a long staff in his huge hand, and it was all Az could do to curl in on himself and pull his chained arms over his head before the staff was thudding heavily into him, hard crushing blows that he could only pray would stop before his ribs cracked.

He couldn’t beg them to stop with the muzzle over his mouth, but he whimpered through it anyway, trying to get enough sound through to the man that he’d know that Az had given up.

Of course he’d given up.

They’d known he would.

They’d known he didn’t have a chance.

His eyes filled with hot, stinging tears, and Goswin kicked him so hard he rolled halfway over and had to curl himself around the other way, his face turned from the crowd and the sunset, back to his cage and Dania’s perch on top of it, that cruel grin back again. Rosie was on a box, looking at the crowd like he wasn’t even here, but Dania’s eyes were fixed on him and he shivered at the sight of them.

He whined through the muzzle again, curling more tightly around himself inside the net, but the only response he got was another hammering blow to his ribs.

He continued to whine and whimper, making every noise he could get through the muzzle in the hopes that something, anything would make them stop, would take away the thousand eyes staring at him, peeling through the grime to burn into his skin.

He could still feel the magic on him, not dropped, just waiting, and Rosie stepped ever so slightly forward on her box, clearing her throat. Fear rippled through him again, cold and violent.

Before she could speak, a loud voice sounded from the entrance to the tent, behind him. It was twice as loud as Goswin was at his loudest, shocking the whole tent into silence.

“Enough.”

He didn’t even realize it was Paeris, the half-elf, until the voice continued, slightly more quietly, “I think you’ve proven your point. Put him back in the cage. There’s rumors at the temple that there’s paying work in the next town for folks like us.”

Az shivered again. He’d never heard Paeris like this. He’d never even imagined it was possible. And from the truly murderous looks on both Dania and Rosie’s faces, he didn’t think they had, either. He shrunk down into the ground, wishing it would rise up and swallow him before their ruined show came out of his own hide.

The magic on him abruptly cut off, and then the edges of the net were lifting. He turned his face, panicked, to see Goswin lifting him into the air, his face as impassive as the first time he’d bound Az and carried him dangling alongside his leg.

Az shivered, waiting for the man’s hand to drop him abruptly back to the ground and drag him, but instead everything seemed to snap back to business, Rosie hopping down off her box to wrap up the show as Goswin tossed him, net and all, back into his cage and Dania swung the door shut with a clang.

“You’d better cooperate later when I get my net back,” she growled at him as she locked it, “Or in the next town those arrows won’t miss. You getting shot is still a pretty good show, as far as I’m concerned.”

Az wriggled into the middle of his cage, pulled in on himself, and waited for the fallout, only half listening to the sounds of the audience, only certain that it mattered whether they were still talking, not what they were saying.

[fanficimagery]

Imagine wanting to leave, but your best friend Rick finally admits that he loves you right before you leave.

Prompt courtesy of @spilledcoffeestudios

Rick X Reader

You have been with the group since the beginning, learning and growing alongside Rick, Daryl, Carol, and Glenn. You were there to see everyone go from butting heads to calling each other family. You stuck it out through the ups and downs, watched as families were reunited and torn apart, and grinned as individuals could find love in such an ugly world.

And even though the years did their best to harden you, the others in the group did their best to make sure everyone kept level heads and didn't lose too much of their spirit that kept them human. Rick, as much as he could, kept you sane most days. Him and Carl and baby Judith. Daryl too, but he was mostly teasing you about how you seemed to adopt the Grimes family and protected them above all else.

But then you were taken to Alexandria- the town who had it's fair share of losses and then quickly erected walls around the place to restore some sort of semblance of life from before. The place seemed too good to be true and thankfully you weren't the only one to realize it. Rick, Daryl, Michonne, Glenn, and Carol all saw the signs and were ready to completely take over if push came to shove. Fortunately and unfortunately, Deanna soon saw reason and let Rick call the shots after the death of her husband.

You've now spent months in Alexandria and though you should be grateful for the safety and comfort your family now has, you only feel as if the skills you learned on the outside are slowly dulling. So the first time you slip up on a run-of-the-mill scavenging trip with Daryl, you seriously reconsider your option of leaving to be out on your own.

Sitting on a blanket near the town pond, you keep a watchful eye over Judith as she plays with her blocks. Normally the sight of her and the sound of her laughter would bring a smile to your face, but lately it's taken all you've got to not just drop everything and disappear in the middle of the night.

Someone screams off in the distance, followed by another blood-curdling scream and gunfire. You're immediately up on your feet, snatching up Judith from the ground and settling her on your hip as you start off in a jog towards your house. But halfway there you bump into Carol.

"Take Judith and barricade yourselves in the house."

"What's going on?"

"Intruders. Now go!"

"Carol!" The woman takes off in a sprint, pulling up a bandanna over the bottom half of her face and you curse quietly under your breath. Someone screams, this time a lot closer, and you glance down the street to see a fellow townie take an axe to the chest. "Shit."

You manage to make it to your house, only to find the door locked. Frantically pounding on it and shouting, the door is quickly opened and Carl yanks you inside. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"We're fine."

Enid immediately barricades the door behind you and Carl stands guard with a rifle. "Take Judith upstairs and hide," he says.

"Carl, I-"

"Please, Y/N. I can handle it down here. Just hide in a closet or up in the attic and play music through the headphones for Judith."

"I'm supposed to take care of you. Remember? I'm the adult here."

Carl looks as if he's going to cave and hand over his weapon, but he hesitates and shakes his head. "You can protect Judith far better than I can. If something happens to me-"

"Goddammit, Grimes," you sigh, knowing full well you won't win this argument. "Nothing better happen to you."

"It won't,” he nervously chuckles. “Now go."

After sparing Carl and Enid one last glance, you race upstairs with Judith. Choosing the master bedroom closet, you push aside what little clothing Rick owns and the boxes he apparently stowed away in there. Then grabbing a blanket from the top shelf you make a little nest on the floor in the very back and settle Judith down in it. Luckily for you, having her outside under the sun tired her out a bit so she doesn't put up much of a fuss as she slowly dozes off.

You can still hear the horror going on outside the house, but thankfully it actually never enters your house. Your anxiety skyrockets, but since you can't leave Judith you have to deal with it inside the small space. So bending your legs, you rest your elbows on your knees and clap your hands on either side of your head. Inhaling for three long seconds, you then exhale for three long seconds until you feel yourself calm down.

It seems like forever until you hear feet stomping up the stairs and you hold your breath until the closet door is yanked open and Rick's voice greets you. "Y/N?"

"Back here." The boxes are yanked out and Rick enters the space, you smiling feebly. "Judith's still sleeping. Take her, will 'ya?"

He seems to sag in on himself in relief before entering the closet fully, he then dropping into a crouch right in front of you. Meeting his gaze and seeing the concern slowly bleed out makes your throat tighten with emotion, and you feel your bottom lip tremble. Rick reaches out and grasps you by the back of your neck, he then bringing you forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

As he seems to linger there, your hands come up almost as if on their own and you grip his shirt. You hold him there for a few moments longer and when you release him you choke back a sob.

"Y/N?"

You shake your head. "Get Judith first."

Rick hesitates before grabbing his sleeping daughter and exiting the closet. You're slow to follow and when you do you find Michonne and Carl waiting outside as well. "You good?"

"No." Without meeting anyone's gaze you exit the room and head for your own.

You pace your room once and then twice, and then you throw open your own closet door to grab up a duffel bag that's been sitting there for a couple of weeks now. Heading over to your dresser you start opening drawers and grabbing what clothing you have only to turn around and shove it all into the bag. You grab a couple daggers from under your mattress and shove those into the bag as well.

"Going somewhere?" Rick asks as he enters your room.

And without missing a beat, you say, "I can't do it. I'm sorry, but I can't stay here anymore."

"Look. I get it," he says.

"You really don't."

"-but you're scared right now. We just had strangers break in and-"

Zipping up the bag, you shoulder the strap and whirl around. "Rick!" He immediately shuts his mouth in surprise. "I- you knew this was inevitable. I've never been comfortable in Alexandria and I only stuck around because of you- because of this group. But after today?" You shake your head and mentally curse when you feel your eyes prick with tears. "As much as I like you guys, I can't just sit on my ass and do nothing. I need to take the threat out before the threat gets you- before it gets to Judith or Carl or Daryl."

You and Rick continue to stare at one another, his eyes suspiciously glassy. His jaw clenches and he clears his throat as he averts his gaze, and you shakily exhale to keep yourself from completely breaking down. You only make it two steps forward before he mutters the three words that has you freezing. "I love you."

You meet his gaze in surprise, mouth falling open. "What?"

"I have for a while.. and I think you knew it. Hell everyone else does," he huffs. "You've taken care of my family- taken care of me," he says, stepping forward and reaching for you, "without having been asked to. Did you really not expect me to fall for you after all you've done for us?"

"I-I don't know. I had hoped," you mumble before shaking your head clear of all the scenarios you had once pictured Rick confessing his imaginary love to you. You close your eyes in embarrassment when his hand cradles the side of your face and you reluctantly lean into him with a sigh. "Why couldn't you just let me go. It'd have been so much easier, Grimes."

He chuckles lowly and you open your eyes to meet his own amused gaze. "If I had the heart to let you go, did you really think you'd make it passed Daryl? He'd hunt you down and you know it. Carl too."

Stepping closer, you wrap your arms low around his waist as his settle around your shoulders. "I could have bribed Daryl and Carl's not that good of a tracker anyway."

"Hey!"

Your eyes widen and Rick snorts. "Go downstairs, Carl! And take your sister with you," he shouts over his shoulder.

"Michonne's still up here too!"

"Way to throw me under the bus, kid." Against your better judgement, you laugh. Carl passes by the opened doorway with Judith in his arms and Michonne follows, she glancing into the room and winking. "It's about time. Now maybe you can move into Rick's room and I can move into here. Abraham's snoring is just too much over in the other house."

As Michonne disappears, you groan. "Our friends are terrible people. Why did we save her again?"

"Because she had much needed formula for Judith," Rick muses. You huff and he pulls you in closer to tuck under his chin. "Although she does make a good point. I have more than enough space in my room to accommodate you and you're already packed. No sense in staying in here all by yourself while we explore our newly admitted feelings."

"Yeah, yeah, Grimes. You had me at 'I love you' and you know it."