#He was still working in the/a museum by the time she was born so it's likely that it was pre-code purple

[eideticmemory]

LATE NIGHT TALKING | MATTHEW GRAY GUBLER

The best man and maid of honor hooking up? How cliche!!

Word Count: 8k

Warning/Includes: Ridiculous amounts of flirting. Very “omg just fuck him and get it over with” vibes. The wedding of a fictional couple that I got way too invested in! Smut! Named after this song because I was listening to it when I got the request lmao.

Shout out to Matthew for literally being in someone’s wedding while I was writing this. I love you, baby ❤️

Hattie Welsh is a city girl. She was born and raised downtown where she would walk herself to school during the week and had a route for maximum weekend shopping. An only child to two parents, a dad who stayed home when it was Not the norm, she got anything and everything she ever wanted. Her dad would meet her on the front porch with her bike after school and they'd cruise around the neighborhood. On weekends, all three of them would take the 10 minute drive to the local park where they'd bike the same 8 miles every Saturday. At the end of the trail was an ice cream shop. Birthday cake was her favorite. She'd get three scoops in a cone but her dad would always end up finishing the last scoop for her.

It was memories like these that inspired Hattie to use her business degree to open an outdoor supply company. She named it after her parents. Alan & Eva's Co-op. It started very local. But Hattie was always good with promotion. She had an excellent marketing team and connections formed around the state. A year into business and Alan & Eva had three locations.

With this sudden growth, Hattie had to seek out more intensive financial advisement and she requested the services of LF Corporation - financial consultants of companies like North Face and REI.

This is how she met Cole Briggs.

Cole was sent to meet with Alan & Eva's CEO. He knew her name, he knew her qualifications, he knew the context of their meeting. He did not know how gorgeous she was so he was immediately caught off guard. His palms were sweaty by the time they shook hands.

"Oh, wow!" he remarked as he saw the bike mounted on her wall. "A Schwinn? I had the same one as a kid but in green!"

"Oh my gosh, yes! That's actually my childhood bike!" she beamed. She leaned over her desk with a bright smile. "I've kinda outgrown it."

He laughed, "I grew up in Pullen Park neighborhood so my friends and I would ride the trail at-"

"Warren park?" she gasped. "My parents and I used to go every weekend, still do!"

"No way! Where-where are your parents?"

"Downtown, near the natural science museum."

"Ah, yeah, yeah. We didn't get downtown often but we would occasionally have family dinner nights at Kaleidoscope."

"Oh, we love kaleidoscope. The lobster-"

'Mac and cheese! Are you kidding? I can inhale it in one bite. Sometimes my dad would pick it up for me on the way home.”

She cackled. She looked at him lovesick. "How have we never met?"

"What high school did you go to?"

"Hollis. You?"

"Ah, okay. I went to the Day School."

"Ooh, fancy pants."

Blush crept over his face and flustered, he set out his briefcase and took a deep breath. "So you're looking into financial assistance for all three locations?"

She stared at him for a moment, "That's right."

And that was it.

Immediately after Cole left the room, she called you. Her best friend, her confidant, her person. You had your hands busy at work so you tucked the phone between your ear and shoulder, “Hello?"

"[y /n]! Hi, you busy?"

"Uh, a little. But I can chat. What's up?"

"I think I just met my husband."

You paused. "Okay, I'm not busy."

Cole proposed while they were on a hike. A week before, he had asked for your blessing. He said, "You'll be the first one she calls so I just didn't want you to be surprised."

Though, when she facetimed you to show you the diamond rock, you still pretended to be surprised.

A formal ask to be her maid of honor was completely unnecessary. You were born to do it. Who else would it be? Still, she made you the cutest basket, filled with perfume, a travel mug, some candles, some candy. You happily accepted.

And happily planned her engagement party and bridal shower and bachelorette party. You got the dress she wanted you to wear. And when the weekend finally arrived, you traveled nearly an hour into the country to get to the wedding venue.

10 acres of privately owned land sequestered down a dirt road. The ceremony site was a simple platform with an arbor placed in front of rows of benches. Surrounded by trees. Hiding right beside it is a wooden home designated for the newlyweds. The reception site is about a mile away, covered by a tent. There is a garden of roses and daisies. Further down the property is a large barn with rows of tents. It is absolutely everything Cole and Hattie wanted. It is so them.

You help set up for the rehearsal dinner. The parents of the bride and groom have arrived. Your friends and fellow bridesmaids are mingling with the groomsmen. Hattie would be so much more stressed without Opal. Opal is a an older woman, short but strong and a prolific wedding planner. She ushers the men around like pieces on a chess board and directs the caterers without so much as a glance.

As you chat with the happy couple, she calls, "Cole." It's not exactly friendly. She marches up and takes a firm hold of his arm.

"Yes, ma'am?" Cole shakes and Hattie glances over at you with a small smirk. You have to contain your laughter.

"Where is the best man? We are way behind schedule and losing daylight."

"I know. I know. I'm sorry. He had to fly in but last I heard he was on the road from the airport."

"Okay, can I get an ETA on that?"

"I, uh...I don't... have one."

"Babe!" Hattie whines.

"Hey, I'm sorry! Look," he glances at all three of you, intimidated by your pressed faces. "T'll give him a call."

"Wonderful idea," Opal watches closely as he steps away, his phone in his hand, quickly pressed to his ear. She turns away from Hattie, mumbling,

"You update me on that, okay?"

"Yes, Opal," she nods and turns to you with a huff.

You giggle, "Are you sure this guy's real?"

"Oh, I'm sure."

"Okay, well," you throw your hands up in a shrug, "Can't we just start without him? It's hot and we're supposed to be eating already."

"No, we can't. It throws off the flow of the ceremony. Plus, Cole really wants him here."

"Mhm and where is this guy coming from again?"

"Matthew."

"Huh?"

"His name is Matthew."

"Okay. Where is Matthew coming from?"

"New York. I told you he's an actor."

"Yes, yes," you roll your eyes. "Surprised he could find time in his busy schedule to come to his friend's wedding."

"He loves Cole. Cole loves him. More than me, I think. They've known each other forever."

'Mhm. Quick question, does Matthew know Cole's getting married tomorrow?"

She shakes her head and laughs, beaming at Cole as he walks back over. "Hi, baby. Did you talk to him?"

"Uh...no..." he feels bad saying it. "But! I'm sure he'll be here any second."

"Cole!" it's a shriek from the distance that instantly silences the crowd. The crunching of leaves under hurried feet, rustling through the trees, "Cole! I'm here! I'm here!"

"See?" Cole says to Hattie with the brightest smile. "I told you, I told you! Matthew!" he waves.

And out of the trees comes what you can only describe as a colorful slenderman. He's tall and dressed in a sage suit, in accordance with the dress code. He nearly trips coming down the steps but he catches himself, just in time, stumbling over on the tip of his toes. The center of attention, pulling all eyes towards his entrance, which you think would annoy the bride and groom. But no, you look at them and they're just delighted. Grinning ear to ear, Cole's arms outstretched to catch Matthew in a great, big hug.

"Oh, man!" Matthew huffs. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. My flight got delayed and then I couldn't get a rental and then I got lost, I'm so sorry!" he instantly releases Cole to give Hattie a kiss on the cheek and a hug, "I'm so sorry, please don't kick me out of your wedding."

Hattie cackles, “Oh, we could never!”

You watch as his expression transfers from guilt to a sweet smile. You watch him rub your best friend's back and give her one final squeeze before his eyes cut up and accidentally meet your gaze. He couldn't help but wonder where the pretty sandals and pretty dress would lead, but once he sees your face, he can't look away. He stands up tall and takes a small step around Hattie just to get to you. "Hi," he holds out his hand.

"Hi," you smile and your hand fits in his like a glove. You only take a second to memorize the features of his face, the tip of his nose, the stubble on his chin, the light in his eyes. But it feels like an eternity.

Behind him, Hattie and Cole watch the spark catch flame. She nudges his arm and they look at each other with knowing smiles. Cole nods, "Uh, Matthew, this is Hattie's best friend and maid of honor, [y/n]. [y/n], this is my best friend and best man, Matthew."

"ly/n]." Matthew says breathlessly. "Hi."

"Matthew. Hello, nice to meet you."

"Now," he slyly puts his hand over yours to keep it in place. "That is maid of honor, right? Not matron?"

You giggle, "Yes. I'm completely and totally unwed."

"Good, good. Excellent. Love to hear it."

You giggle, again, and it's the most ridiculous sound. Cole and Hattie could not enjoy the show any more. "You two will actually be walking down the aisle together," Hattie says.

"Oh, wow," Matthew exclaims. "Had I known that, I would've been here way sooner."

"So not funny, dude," Cole shakes his head but you think it's hilarious.

"You're laughing?" Opal's voice cuts the laughter short. "The sun is setting, the food is getting cold and you're laughing?"

"Sorry, Opal," Cole frowns. "This is Matthew, the-"

"Matthew, [y/n], I need you two right here," she interrupts and with a hand on Matthew's shoulder, she gently pushes him to the side. She pushes him directly into you and it's almost instinct for his hands to take hold of your waist. Just as much so for your palms to fall on his chest.

"Oh no," he whispers. "This is... terrible."

You laugh and take a step back but he holds onto to your wrist, places your hand around his bicep as he faces forward.

"You feel at home being directed all over the place?" you ask, anxiously straightening out your dress.

"Um, actually I prefer to do the directing."

"Oh, have you considered wedding planning?"

"I offered to plan for these guys but they turned me down. I mean, what the fuck?"

"Well, I think that would've required you to be on time. Early even."

"Oh, then I'm out."

You cackle, a lot louder than you mean to, and once again here's Opal. "You two need to switch sides."

"Hm?"

"Switch."

"Oh."

You feel Matthew's hand linger on your back as you step around him, your hand instantly latching onto his opposite arm.

"We're so good at this," you shrug.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, right? Right? You'd think she'd cut us some slack."

Despite all the fuss leading up to it, the ceremony rehearsal itself is only 10 minutes at most. You and Matthew are the last to make your entrance and it is an odd feeling to separate. He stands on the opposite side of the arbor and as the flower girl practices her walk, he catches your eyes and mouths: miss you.

"Wonderful!" Opal cheers. It's the first time you've seen her smile all night. Once Cole and Hattie have finally taken their places right in the center. "Absolutely wonderful. Now, if everyone will head over to the reception hall for dinner. There is a lukewarm meal awaiting you all," and she cuts her eyes at Matthew.

"Again, Opal, so sorry about that," he shakes his head. You seem to be the only one who finds it funny.

Hattie gives Cole one big kiss and turns to you, "How weird was that? Me walking down the aisle? Did I look stupid?"

You take her hands in yours, shaking your head, "You looked beautiful. It's gonna be beautiful."

She shrieks, a long "eeeek!" of excitement that ripples amongst you and your friends. The group steps down from the platform, followed closely by the groom and his party. Matthew takes the opportunity to grab Cole's arm and whisper, "How long have you known [y/n]?”

"Uh, pretty much as long as I've known my fiancée." he laughs.

"And you were... what? Just hiding her from me? Not cool."

"You were hardly in the proper condition for someone like [y/n]. She's, uh, how do I say? Very grown up. Very focused, like her best friend.”

"And now? What condition am I in now?"

"The kind of condition where...I literally had no choice but to let you meet her?"

"Fuck off," Matthew shoves him and Cole stumbles with a cocky laugh.

"Sooooo," Hattie says as she interlocks your arms. She notices you looking back and she knows exactly who you're looking for. "Little lady?"

"Yes, little miss?"

"What do you think of Matthew?"

Your stomach flips at the sound of his name. "What do you mean?"

"Don't do that."

"What? What are you talking about?"

“This was you the whole rehearsal.." she sticks her finger between her teeth and mocks your giggle, "Tee-hee. Oh, tee-hee-hee-hee.”

"I was not!"

"Oh, but you were. You're quite smitten."

"I am not!"

"He's smitten with you, too."

"Whatever," you roll your eyes. But after a brief pause, you ask, "You think so?"

Clink-clink-clink.

You watch as Hattie rises from her seat, her doting fiancé standing beside her, to give a toast. You look up at her and it's not until this moment that you realize she's getting married. Not when she tried on her dress, not when she did a practice run down the aisle. Here. Now. With Cole's arm around her waist.

"Thank you all so much for being here. We're so grateful to have all our closest friends and family by our sides through this crazy weekend. I know some of you traveled very far and some of you are probably wondering when this whole thing will just be over but," she laughs along with the crowd. "Soon. Very soon. Thank you all for being readers in our little fairytale. Particularly these people sitting up here beside us, I know my friends have gotten an earful about Cole over the years."

"What did she say?" Cole interrupts, jokingly cutting his head towards all of you which earns him a burst of laughter.

"Seriously. Thank you all. Tomorrow wouldn't be possible without you and we can't imagine any other way. So…" she raises her glass glass and, because she's the bride and everyone must obey, everyone raises theirs as well. She looks Cole right in the eye and gives him that same lovesick smile she gave them the day they met. You glance away for only a moment and Matthew is looking at you the same way.

You tilt your head at him, furrow your eyebrows.

"To you," Hattie says. "To me. To us. Cheers."

"Cheers!" you toast, looking directly at Matthew who raises his glass to you, you alone, before taking a sip.

At the end of the night, the bride and groom are meant to retire to their respective areas. Cole and his groomsmen have a cabin on the other side of the property. Hattie and the girls have reign of the barn and an array of tents just in case they're feeling particularly outdoorsy. Yet, when the time comes, you and your friends sit on the barn's porch and watch Hattie and Cole embrace each other for a long time.

"I change my mind," she tells him. "We should just spend the night together. Let's go to our tree house."

He giggles and gives her a gentle kiss, "Ah, you just wanna get in my pants."

"So?"

A cackle now, "Goodnight, future wife. I love you."

"Noooo!"

"I love you!"

"I love you!"

Hattie waits until he's out of sight, and even then, she stands there and wishes for him to come back.

"H! Come on, honey," your friend calls to her. "It's late. Big day tomorrow!"

So she reluctantly walks up the stairs and begins the process of unwinding. It's not easy. Every second something pops into her mind and she hops up, ready to spring into action. It's a group effort to reel her in. Eventually, it's just you and her, lying in a cozy bed and she can barely keep her eyes open. She's trying though.

"Okay," you sigh. "I should probably get going. You gonna be alright?"

She nods, "I'm getting married..."

You grin, "Yes, ma'am. You are. So you need to get some rest," you kiss her forehead and rise out of bed, groaning as you straighten yourself up. "You need anything?”

"Mm-mm," she shakes her head. "I'm okay. See you in the morning."

"See you in the morning."

You're one of the few who chose to rough it in a tent for the night. There's a small heater and a platform bed. It's not a whole lot but the bedding is comfortable. You snuggle in and despite all your exhaustion, you spend the next chunk of time scrolling on your phone. When you hear a faint knock on the scaffolding of your tent, you’re suddenly hyperaware of the fact that you're in the middle of the woods. Alone. Quite a distance between you and the next tent. You sit up slowly, unsure if your mind is playing tricks on you. You take timid steps towards the opening and flinch as a shadow passes by.

You hesitantly pull down the zipper and when you see Matthew wondering around, you breathe a sigh of relief. “Fuck, dude. You scared the crap out of me."

"I'm so sorry," he instantly returns and lowers himself down to your level. "I didn't mean to."

"Um..you do know this is the bridal side of the property, right?"

"Mhm. I was looking for you."

"Me?"

"Mhm. Wanna go for a walk?"

"A walk?"

"Yeah, with me?"

"With you?"

"Okay, just assume I mean everything I say from now on."

You giggle, "I just met you a few hours ago...you want me to walk some random trail with you in the middle of the night?"

"All true, yes."

You tilt your head at him, "Fine. Okay."

"Don't sound too excited."

You turn around briefly to grab a hoodie. You throw it on and step out of the opening, taking Matthew's hand as you step off the platform. He takes your hand and he doesn't let go. He'd hate to lose you in the dark.

“So,” he says as you start down the trail. Your face is gently illuminated by the lights along the pathway and he can’t stop staring. “How do you know Hattie?”

“Technically high school, but I think we were separated at birth.”

He chuckles, “Best friends, huh?”

“Oh, best friends. Went to college together, too. Lived together for a while, didn’t kill each other.”

“That’s rare.”

“I know. I don’t see her nearly as often as I’d like but that’s my girl. How do you know Cole?”

“Drama camp.”

You stop in your tracks, stop both of you in your tracks. Still, Matthew doesn’t let go of your hand. “Drama camp?”

“Yes? You didn’t know Cole was a theater kid?”

You continue walking but your face is absolutely flabbergasted. “Cole? Finance bro Cole? A theatre kid? You’re fucking with me.”

“Oh, I am not. He was quite good actually,” he laughs. “He could’ve been a star.”

“Wow…” you shake your head. “Wow. You think you know someone.”

“And then you find out he was in a summer production of Fiddler on the Roof.”

You stop again. You feel like you could fall to your knees. “Matthew. Please. Please tell me there are pictures.”

“My mom recorded the whole thing, there’s a cassette tape somewhere.”

“Oh my god!” you cackle. “You’ll have to show me.”

“Fly out to Vegas with me at the end of the weekend. I’ll show you all the good stuff.”

“Oh. You’re planning on taking me to your hometown already? To meet your mom and everything?”

“You can meet my mom, you can meet my dad, you can meet my stepparents, you can meet my sister, my brother, her husband, his wife, my nephews.”

“Woah!”

“Oh, they’d love you.”

“I just wanna see Fiddler on the Roof!”

You’re not sure how long you stay out with him. The trail lights make it seem like no time has passed at all. You fill the air with so much chatter that it’s a shock when you loop around to the barn. As you near your tent, Matthew’s steps grow smaller. Slower, following close behind you with your hand still tight in his.

“Well,” he sighs. “Thank you for accompanying me. I was scared to walk alone.”

“Oh, is that why you invited me?”

“I just thought I’d get lost by myself. Needed backup.”

“Mhm,” you nod. “You do seem quite helpless.”

“You have no idea.”

You giggle and as you step up to your tent, you’re not ready to go inside just yet. So you turn to him and he is dangerously close to you. You can feel the heat radiating from his chest.

“Well, I had a nice time,” you smile. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

It’s going to happen. You raise yourself on your toes. He takes a firm hold of your forearms. His nose touches yours. Then you hear the sharp sound of a zipper slashing open. You both flinch and look over to see your friend, poking her head of wild hair out the opening of her tent.

You bashfully step away from Matthew, crossing your arms. “Hi, Gina.”

Gina squints, yawning, “[y/n]?” She rubs her tired eyes and looks at you. Then at Matthew. Then you. Then Matthew. “Uh…what the hell are you two doing?” she smirks.

“Nothing,” you tell her. “Go back to sleep.”

She looks at you. Then Matthew. Then you. You. And she ducks her head back in.

You chuckle shyly and shake your head. Moment’s gone but he still looks pretty under the moonlight.

“It’s late,” you whisper. “I need my beauty sleep.”

He scoffs, “To get even more beautiful?” he shakes his head jokingly as he backs away. “[y/n], that’s just greedy.”

You laugh, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes. You will,” he waves as he walks away. Blowing you a kiss, “Goodnight, [y/n].”

You wait until he's out of sight, and even then, you stand there and wish for him to come back.

“Ahhhh!” Hattie screams once you rise in the morning. You step into the barn, groggy and sluggish, but when you see her rushing towards you, you can’t help but smile. “Hi! Good morning!”

“Good morning, beautiful bride!” you give her a tight hug.

“We’re having a little breakfast. Here’s your mimosa.”

You glance down at the glass, taking it from her hesitantly, “It’s eight in the morning?”

“Hey, everyone has to do what I say today!”

“Okay, okay,” you take a quick sip and she beams, sitting down beside you at the table.

You fill your plate with food and seamlessly fall in conversation. None of it about the wedding, ironically. You have the rest of the day for that. Right now, in this moment, it’s gossip. It’s silly. It’s so relaxing that you don’t even realized you’ve finished your mimosa.

“I thought it was pretty cozy,” Gina shrugs. “Not sure what [y/n] thinks but then again she was out with Matthew all night.”

There is an immediate halt. Forks hitting the plate, a stunned silence falling over the room and all eyes on you.

“You were?” Hattie gasps.

You stutter, “It…wasn’t…all night. We-we just went for a walk.”

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?” a friend chimes in.

“We went for an actual walk!” you exclaim. “It was nothing.”

“Ohhhh, yeah,” Gina laughs. “It sure looked like nothing when I caught you two making out.”

Instant gasps.

“We did not make out!” you insist. “We didn’t even kiss!”

“H, how do u feel about making this wedding a joint thing?”

You look down, picking at your food as your face burns red and Hattie is just grinning at you.

Across the way, Cole receives a text from his bride, saying: Ask your friend wtf he was doing last night

Cole raises his eyebrows and spots Matthew shaving in the bathroom mirror. He slyly walks in and crosses his arms. He tries his best to be nonchalant, leaning back against the wall, eyeing Matthew in the mirror, “So. You have a good night?”

Matthew furrows his brows at him, “Yeah? Bed was comfortable.”

“Mhm. And…you didn’t…didn’t sneak off anywhere?”

Matthew completely turns his body around, “You and the wife talking about me?”

“My wife and her wife are talking about you, I think.”

He can’t help but smile to himself, “Well…cool…”

Cole laughs, “What’s the plan here, dude?”

“The plan is…to see [y/n] again as soon as humanly possible.”

Cole shakes his head, breaking a smile, “You do know that this is my wedding, right?”

Matthew laughs as he pats his face clean, “Yeah but…I don’t know, I was kinda thinking we could make it a joint thing?”

Once everyone’s hair and makeup is done, it’s silly to you that you have to pretend to do it all for photos. The makeup artist holds her brush to your full glam face just so the photographer can take a shot and it takes everything in you not to laugh. But it’s what the bride wants. You and the girls get into your dresses. You twirl and giggle like a game of dress up. Until Opal announces Hattie’s entrance. Then suddenly it’s very real.

Hattie walks downstairs in her gown, a ballgown specifically. Poofy, but not too big, a corset holding up her breasts, a diamond necklace on her chest to match her earrings. Her hair is put up and curled. Her makeup is done to perfection.

Oh. She is just perfect.

It moves everyone to a fit of squeals but you clasp your hands over your mouth and just stare at her. You go to wipe the tears from your eyes but remember your makeup so you fan your face. She laughs as she walks directly to you and takes you a tight hug. The photographer captures your sobbing face in all it’s glory. Hattie will frame that one for sure.

When Hattie’s dad comes around to escort her to the ceremony site, you take her hands in yours.

“It’s not too late,” you tell her. “We can still run.”

She laughs. “You know…I thought I might for a second there but…nah, I don’t wanna. I wanna marry him.”

You have to shake your head to keep from crying, “Okay. Okay, then let’s get you fucking hitched.”

Guest have arrived. Each chair is full and the forest around them is positively buzzing with excitement. The florals accentuate the atmosphere beautifully and now all that’s missing is the blushing bride.

You walk down the pathway with your friends, each of you holding up your dresses to protect them from the dirt. Your dress is by far the shiniest. Though all of yours are a variation of green patterns, yours is solid and laced with golden glitter tulle. The maid of honor must stand out. Matthew catches sight of you immediately but not just because you’re the maid of honor, not just because you’re shiny. But because it’s you.

And you look amazing.

It’s like everyone and everything around you fades away. Like he’s watching you walk towards him in slow motion. Your hair flowing in the wind, your lips stretching out into a smile just for him. When you step up to him, he has to take a moment because you just smell so good.

“Wowww,” he breathes out. “Look at you.”

You blush, “Look at me? Look at you!” you don’t even think about it, you just touch his clean shaven face. Run your knuckles over the smooth skin and he revels in it, closing his eyes for just a second. “You clean up nice.”

“Thank you. I only do it when absolutely necessary.”

You laugh and lean into him a bit, totally fixated until you notice the other bridesmaids watching you both from the sidelines. You cut your eyes at them and take a step back. You’re grateful when Opal comes in with her iron fist, arranging you all in order and demanding you stay there.

The music starts, you take a deep breath. You gave Matthew’s arm a squeeze, “You remember anything from rehearsal?”

“Nope, not at all. Just winging it.”

There is not much to say about the ceremony itself except that everyone - everyone - is in tears by the end. It is only thirty minutes but after it all, Cole and Hattie are married and nothing has ever felt so right.

Matthew links your arms as you make your exit behind the newlyweds and you can help but laugh at the tears staining his cheeks. You grin as you wipe them away with your thumb.

Pictures.

So many fucking pictures. So many poses. So many arrangements. So many beautiful backdrops to stand in front of and smile and live in awe of the bride and groom. Eventually, Cole and Hattie go off to take their own portraits and unsurprisingly, you wind up eating a plate of hors d'oeuvres with Matthew.

“You know her?” he asks you, nodding his head towards a guest who stays seated, fanning herself with her wedding program.

“Yeah, that’s Mia. We went to college with her.”

“It’s, like, not that hot out here, right? Am I crazy?”

“Asshole,” you swat his arm. “She’s pregnant.”

“Oh…oh. Oh, she is?”

“Yes!” you giggle. “You just can’t tell because she chose the poofiest dress to wear today.”

“Oopsie,” he cringes. “Hey, is that something you might consider?”

“Hm?”

“Getting pregnant?”

You nearly choke on your bite of food but promptly clear your throat, “What the fuck? Is that a threat?”

“No. No, it’s an offer,” he grins.

You shake your head at him, ducking your hesd down so he can’t see your heated face. Your smile. “You have your speech prepared?" you ask him.

"Speech?"

"Uh, yeah. Your best man speech?"

"I was supposed to write a speech?" he exclaims.

Your jaw drops in shock and horror and you're dangerously close to scolding him until you see a smirk form on his face.

'That's not funny!"

"Of course I have a speech. You think I'm nuts?"

"Yes!"

"I have a speech prepared that is going to bring absolutely everyone in attendance to tears. They might as well go ahead and pass out the tissues now."

"Oh, real confident there, huh?"

"My speech is gonna kick your speech's ass."

You cackle, "It's not a contest, you freak. We're declaring our love for our best friends and their new spouse!"

"Sounds like you're nervous. Sounds like you can't take the heat."

"What heat? You know what? I'm not doing this with you. I'm gonna deliver my speech and as long as Hattie loves it, I'm content."

He nods, “…bawk-bawk-bawk-bawk."

"Stop it!"

"[y/n]!” you hear from behind you and you whip your head around. Hattie is running up to you, dress lifted, feet fast. "[y/n]!"

You run right to her, catching her in your arms as you collide, "What? What is it? What's wrong? What are you doing? You're supposed to be getting ready for your grand entrance!"

She huffs, catching her breath, "I know. I will. I am, whew..." she catches her breath. "I just had to tell you," she pants. "I just got fucked in my wedding dress!"

"Oh!" you cover your mouth to conceal your burst of laughter. "Oh my god! I thought this was a classy party!"

"Well, we wrote it into the schedule. We even finished with three minutes to spare. Both of us!"

"Oh my god!" you repeat, hunching over in laughter as she runs off.

You and Matthew hadn’t prepared anything especially elaborate for your reception entrance. But the DJ makes the best man and maid of honor sound like such a big deal that you have to do something. Anything. And utimately, he just ends up twirling you around in front of him. Your dress flows through the air, this wide smile on your face and he so casually wraps his arms around you to prevent you from tripping in your heels.

Seriously. Could you two make it any more obvious?

Cole and Hattie are greeted with an uproar of applause and cheers, the photographer right in their faces, an outpour of love coming from all around them. You clap your hands incessantly and right in your ear is Matthew cheering, his hands on your waist, your back against his chest like it’s no big deal.

You sit down to eat with your friends and it’s one big round table of alcohol, gushing, yelling and laughter. Matthew’s called up to give his speech and he makes sure to walk by you on his way up. “Watch and learn,” he whispers.

You shake your head, roll your eyes, but you’re watching him. You’re watching the way he instantly takes control of the room and radiates this light under the night sky. You’ve got to give it to him. It’s a good speech. From beginning to end, it’s captivating. The emotional cadence in his voice ripples across the room and there is actually, literally a box of tissues being passed around.

He’s applauded by every guest and he immediately runs up to Cole and Hattie to give them a tight hug. He walks over to you and holds the microphone out for you, “Beat that.”

You eye him as he walks off and the giddy smile on your face quickly disappears when you make eye contact with Gina. She pinches her fingers and knocks her hands together, puckering her lips and making kissing sounds.

“Stop it,” you whisper.

You’re not as used to the spotlight as Matthew so when you stand up in front of everyone, you freeze for a moment. You struggle to get the words out. It’s not a contest, but you’re already losing. So you look at Hattie, the one person you are doing all of this for. It makes it a lot easier to just, speak your truth, “Hi. I’m [y/n] and Hattie is my very best friend.”

Hattie’s a mess instantly.

That’s the fun part about being the bride’s best friend. You know all the best parts of her relationship. You also know all the worst parts but those don’t need to be spoken today. You know how it’s made her happier, stronger, glow in a way she never thought possible. You know better than anyone that this is where she’s meant to be and who she’s meant to be here with.

She can hardly wait one second after you finish to run up to you and give you a big hug. She squeezes you so tightly that you think she’ll never, ever let you go. You escort her back to the sweethearts table and throw a smug look towards Matthew’s way. He puts his hands up in surrender. You win.

After a while, when the grandparents and kids have left and the hour for the fun adults has arrived, you’re just buzzed enough to dance. And you do. You let Hattie shake her ass on you a bit and for a while, you’re just girls again. No one’s wife, no one’s employee. Just girls. It wears you. You take a seat just to down the rest of your wine and catch your breath.

“You all danced out?” Matthew asks as he approaches you. He holds out his hand, “Or you got one more left in you?”

You tilt your head, drunkenly smirking at him, “I think I can squeeze you in.”

“Yeah?” he pulls you to your feet and into his arms. “Squeeze me into where?”

You giggle. You shamelessly fall into his chest, “Take me to the dancefloor.”

He does, he lead you right to the center. He puts his hands on the small of your back and cradles your hand against his chest. He breathes in the scent of your hair and sighs.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do once I have to part from you tomorrow.”

“Just put me in your pocket,” you whisper. “Take me to the big city.”

He chuckles, pulls you closer, putting your bodies flush together. “I will, in a heartbeat. Just say the word.”

You grin. You stare into those beautiful eyes of his and inhale the center of his chest and exhale with a soft hum, “The word.”

He smiles. You smile. You take a look around and then you two make your exit.

Off to the side, the bride and groom are slow dancing. The rest of the world has faded away. Though their feet are a bit uncoordinated, everything feels properly in place.

“Sooo,” Hattie puts her nose to his. “You’re thinking the same thing I am, right?”

“Thaaaat we have three more minutes of fun time? You wanna go now?”

She cackles, “No! About Matthew and [y/n].”

“Ohhh, right. Them. You were right. I owe you five bucks.”

“Mhm. For the rest of your life.”

He smiles softly, rubbing her back. He looks around the area and furrows his eyebrows, “Where…are Matthew and [y/n]?”

Hattie giggles, singing, “I know where they are.”

“No…” Cole gasps. “No…you think?”

She shakes her head at him. Sweet, dumb Cole. “Oh you are just so cute!” she kisses his nose.

In the solitude of your tent, Matthew stands behind you and slowly unzips your dress. He plants soft kisses on each spot of your skin as it’s revealed and you hum under your breath at the gentle contact. His hands latch onto the thin straps and pull them over your shoulders. He kisses your neck and runs his hands over your chest as he pushes the dress down your body. All that’s left of you is a strapless bra and seamless panties that he sticks his hands in. You step out of them and turn to face him.

You touch his face and look at him with these hooded eyes, smiling softly as you push his jacket off of his shoulders. You undo the buttons on his shirt and touch all over his exposed chest. He nuzzles his nose into yours as you take off his pants and he falls back on the tiny bed, letting you pull them off his legs.

He stretches out his legs but his feet hang off the edge so he bends his knees, “I don’t think I fit,” he chuckles.

You grin as you casually straddle his lap, running your hands over his arms. “We’ll just have to make you fit,” you whisper.

He gives you the faintest little whimper, leaning in to you with his mouth open. And just like you had meant to last night, finally, you kiss him. You kiss him. You touch his tongue to yours and place your hand on his throat, engulfing his entire mouth in yours. Both of you release these deep, guttural moans and Matthew gasps as you roll your hips on him.

He grips onto your waist, readjusts to get the right angle and you can feel him getting hard between your legs. It's almost juvenile, the way you both get so hot from dry humping. The way your mouths are so hungry that there's no coordination.

There's moments where you go in for his lips and catch his cheek instead and he pushes his face into yours so quickly that he only catches your bottom lip. He goes to grab your hair to keep you in place but he doesn't want to mess it up so he holds the back of your neck. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, take a tight grip of his hair and lean your entire body on his. There, the friction is perfect and you moan directly into his mouth.

Matthew shifts his focus to your jaw, gently nibbling on the skin from your ear to your neck as he unhooks your bra. You whine quietly, rocking your hips against him and leaning your head back to expose your throat. He wants to fucking bite you. He has the quickest impulse to sink his teeth into you but he doesn’t want to leave a mark so his hands land harshly on your ass as he groans in your ear. You gasp, your back arching and you think: fuck this.

You put your hand on his chest and push him back on the bed. He lets you but he whimpers. He wants to be kissing you. Needs to be kissing you. He looks up at you with wide eyes, his jaw dropping when you free his cock from his briefs. He licks his lips, nodding, begging, “Mm…mhm, mhm, mhm, mhm.”

You giggle at him, but that giggle is cut quickly by the ease in which his cock slides into you. You both gasp and he catches you as you fall into his arms. You feel just as good as he thought you would. Better. Even better. You watch his eyes roll to the back of his head and you try to kiss but your mouth are wide open. It’s mainly just heaving breathing and teeth on teeth.

He takes full advantage of the angle in his knees, keeps his hands on your ass to spread you open and push all the way into you. He likes the sound you make so he does it again. Again. Pulling all the way, pushing all the way in. Again, a little deeper. Again, a little harder. Harder and harder until you’re squeaking against each other’s lips uncontrollably, the one thing that’s louder than the sound of his skin slapping into yours.

He looks into your hooded eyes and begs, “Kiss me.”

So you do. You kiss him with a sloppy mouth and once again, there’s no coordination. You’re rocking around the tiny bed so carelessly that it might break. But even then, you wouldn’t stop. It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to think. You just push yourself back on his cock, meeting him at just the right time that you’re entire body twitches violently.

“N-not…fuck…” you stutter against his lips. “Not…gonna…last…long…like this…mm, fuck.”

And he grins, delighted at the thought of getting you off. So quickly, so easily. Still, he pleads, “Oh…” he bucks his hips up into you. “Can’t we just…m-make it last forever? P-please…please, please, please…”

You shut him up with another kiss. You grab onto his hair and grind on him eagerly, chasing your high for what feels exactly like forever. The way the tension builds first in your thighs and then your belly and radiates throughout your entire body, you can hardly comprehend it. You tighten your grip on his hair and breathe out, “Matthew.”

“[y/n],” he breathes out and it sounds so helpless that you can only reply with a whimper. You increase your speed, your rhythm becomes sloppy but Matthew is rock solid. He cups your face in his hands and repeats, “[y/n].”

“O-oh, fuck. Oh…god…” you latch onto his wrists. You can’t take it anymore, “Mm…” and you come on his cock with a loud and visceral moan straight from the back of your throat. The way your pussy tightens around him has him matching your volume and the kiss you give him is so dirty that he will taste it for weeks.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it until your body is all but convulsing. He only stops to prevent himself from coming inside of you, instead raising your hips to shoot his load all over his stomach. His knees tense up and tighten against you as the weakest groans escape his lips. You hum softly to yourself and you lower yourself down the mattress, licking the mess off his stomach as you make your way back to his lips. He’s stunned but rewards you with a kiss. He wishes the kiss could last forever. He tries his best to make it so.

But you crash on his chest, panting loudly and allowing your body to finally relax. Your head rises and falls with every heavy breath he takes.

“Let’s get married,” he huffs and you laugh, sitting up to look at him. “No?”

“Mm-mm,” you shake your head.

“Ugh…worth a shot.”

It’s so peaceful. A calm after a storm - a hurricane. Until your phone illuminates the dark space and you reach over his body to check the text. It’s from Hattie -

As soon as youre both done, my husband and i would like to make our outro! :)

“Oh, shit!” you exclaim and that’s all Matthew needs to hear.

You both hop up at lightening speed. You somehow get dressed even quicker. You rush out of the tent, nearly tripping over your feet, hand in hand.

“Wait,” Matthew says and when you pause to look at him, he fixes the clip in your hair and then he gives you a kiss. You look back at him with a smile as you run back to the reception.

You catch Hattie and Cole just in time. They are already lined up and ready to go when you two reappear. Matthew grabs Cole’s shoulder and laments, “Sorry about that, dude. I-I got caught up. Sorry.”

“Oh yeah,” Cole smirks as he keeps walking. “I can tell. Your jacket’s on inside out.”

After Matthew remedies that, you two casually clap and cheer as the newlyweds walk through the crowd of excitement. They promptly load themselves up on a golf cart and you watch them disappear into the night.

Matthew sighs, turning to you, “So…I guess our jobs are done for the night.”

You sigh in return, shrugging, “I guess so.”

“You gonna be lonely in that tent tonight?”

“God...” you shake your head. “I hope not.”

And that night, you are far, far from lonely in that tent.

You wake up together. Matthew made himself fit in that bed once again. You get dressed together. You both clean up the tent and step out together. And once again, there’s Gina, catching you in the act. She doesn’t say anything. But when she walks past you two, the tiny smile on her face says it all.

Back at the reception site, Hattie and Cole serve a light breakfast and deliver a toast that is short and sweet. Blah blah blah, thank you all for coming. Blah blah blah, we love you so much. Blah blah blah, we have a plane to Cabo to catch. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here!

They go around to say their goodbyes and while Cole is distracted, Hattie intentionally saves you for last. She gives you a long hug, “Missed you last night.”

“Yeah, uh…” you blush. “I am so sorry about that.”

“Oh no, don’t be,” she gives you a quick kiss on the cheek. “It all went according to plan.”

“To-“ you stutter. “Hattie Jane Welsh…”

“Aht-aht!” she grins as she walks away from you to join her husband. She flashes her rings, “Hattie Jane Briggs. I already changed it on instagram and facebook!”

You jaw is dropped in absolute shock and you can’t pick it up. In fact, your mouth is still wide open when Matthew approaches you.

“So, pretty lady, what are you doing after this?” he asks.

“Got a train to catch back home.”

“Oh, a train? How far is the drive?”

“About an hour.”

“I have an hour…” he says. “And a rental car.”

A sweet smile spreads across your face. He mirrors it right back to you. You take hold of your suitcase, step over to him, stand straight up and wrap your hand around his bicep. You’ve had a lot of practice.

“Okay,” you nod. “Let’s go.”

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part seventeen: dream a little dream of me

word count: 1.6k

warnings: tooth-rotting fluff

sixteen | seventeen | eighteen

The second date should’ve felt more awkward. It didn’t.

Alex had picked a science museum of all places—not exactly romantic on paper, but the look on his face when he pointed out the replica Mars rover was too earnest to judge. He had this habit where his whole face would light up like a lightbulb the moment before he got excited about something, and Y/N had already learned to clock it like a warning siren.

“So, technically,” he was saying, hands jammed in his jacket pockets as they strolled past a massive display on deep-sea robotics, “the algorithms used for this submersible’s sensor mapping were adapted from AI software developed for self-driving cars.”

“Technically,” she echoed, teasing, “you should probably just work here.”

He looked sideways at her with a crooked grin. “I applied when I was sixteen. They didn’t take me.”

“They’re clearly still recovering from that mistake.”

He tried to play it off cool, but she caught the slight flush of his ears.

She liked him more than she expected to. Not in the way you decide to like someone—more like how you step outside one day and realize the air smells like rain and suddenly, you’re soft and open and all the windows are down. He was like that: unexpected and quiet and warm around the edges.

They made their way through the rest of the exhibits in no particular order, weaving between dwindling crowds of families and groups of students on field trips, neither of them in a hurry. He let her take her time at the forensic anthropology section, where she ran her fingers along the raised edges of a reconstructed skull, and she let him lose himself in the physics wing, where he explained, with ridiculous enthusiasm, why the double pendulum was so cool. It was there that the nickname Professor Albon was born.

At some point, he took her hand. It wasn’t a big deal. He just did it naturally, without hesitation, like it had already been a habit, and for a moment, that simple touch made her feel warm all over.

They ended the night sitting cross-legged on the floor of the museum café, long after it closed, surrounded by vending machine snacks and a half-solved crossword puzzle she’d found in her bag. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a dim glow over the abandoned chairs and tables, but neither of them seemed eager to move. They laughed about everything and nothing, the kind of laughing that came from being tired but happy, the kind that made her lean into his shoulder without thinking.

"Okay," Alex said, tapping the eraser end of his pencil against the page. "Eight-letter word for ‘illuminates or clarifies’?"

As she took a moment to think it over, Alex watched in his periphery as she counted off the letters of her word on her fingers. "’Explains’ fits," she mused, popping a purple skittle into her mouth.

"Hmm." He scribbled it in. "Not bad. Maybe I should keep you around."

"Yeah, yeah," she nudged his knee with hers, grinning. "You just like me for my crossword skills."

"Wrong. I like you for your crossword skills and your terrible puns."

“My puns are great, thank you very much.” She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

He liked her brain. She liked how funny he was. They made a good pair—two academically overworked people who laughed at obscure engineering memes and played footsie under café tables without meaning to. When they said goodbye that night, he kissed her like he was trying not to smile through it. Like maybe this could really be something.

It felt easy.

And in the days that followed, it stayed easy. He texted her every night.

alex: Made the Mars rover jealous. Can’t stop thinking about you.

Y/N: did you just say that unironically. because I might have to stop seeing you on principle.

alex: Too late, I’ve already added you to my will. You get the Lego Technic collection.

Y/N: wait nvm i’m back in

They made time. Even when they both shouldn’t have.

He’d bring her coffee before her class–something with cinnamon and oat milk in it. He’d scrawl dumb physics jokes on the lid just to make her roll her eyes. She started keeping his schedule in her head without meaning to. She knew which nights he had his advanced systems class and which ones he spent buried in the lab. He’d text her when his simulations crashed at 3AM. She’d send him memes about courtroom drama tropes in return.

He had an engineer’s sense of humor—dry, sneaky, often deeply specific. It took a while to catch on, but once she did, it felt like discovering hidden easter eggs in his sentences.

“You know,” he’d murmur as they lay back in the grass near campus, watching clouds roll over like they weren’t chilly out here in the autumn breeze, “you statistically reduce your lifespan by two minutes every time you eat instant ramen.”

“Cool. So I’ll be dying a noble, sodium-rich death then.”

He turned his head toward her, smiling with closed eyes. “Hmm, a martyr.”

“A hero.”

“Buried with your books and MSG packets.”

She shoved his shoulder. He let her.

On Thursdays, she’d sit outside his lab, cross-legged on the cold tile floor with flashcards in her lap, quizzing him on his presentation slides about failure analysis and impact resistance.

“Okay, explain to me like I’m five—what is a stress-strain curve and why should I care?”

“Because,” he’d say, crouching in front of her with a smirk, “it tells you how close something is to breaking.”

“And that’s relevant to your research…?”

He gave her a confused look, until it turned sheepish as he scratched the back of his neck. “I’m… not entirely sure about that bit, actually.”

She started looking forward to the moments in between—the walks across campus, the shared bag of chips while sitting on the hood of her car, the ridiculous voice memos he sent when he was overtired and delirious.

They kissed in stairwells and library corners and once,perhaps ill-advisedly, on a park bench in the middle of a thunderstorm. The rain had soaked through their clothes, cold and unrelenting, but he had just looked at her and said, "I think we should be stupid about this," right before he leaned in. It was impulsive and dramatic and made her laugh until she had to cover her mouth, their faces inches apart. Her hair was soaked, his glasses fogged up, and they almost dropped his backpack in a puddle, but the moment stuck—sharp and golden and untouchable.

They talked about future dates like there’d be dozens of them—bookstores they wanted to browse together, a tiny Thai place he swore by, a stargazing night he promised would be “scientifically optimized for romance” depending on the cloud cover. She rolled her eyes at that one, but her heart still fluttered.

They were still in the sweet spot—the space between maybe and more, where everything felt bright and possible. 

It wasn’t perfect – but it was promising.

The third date was dinner—some hole-in-the-wall Thai place with flickering neon signage and laminated menus stained with old curry thumbprints. He’d gotten lost on the way and sent a flurry of frantic texts.

alex :) : I passed the restaurant. Twice. There’s a cat staring at me through a laundromat window. I think it’s judging me.

Y/N: be strong. you can beat the cat.

alex :) : Negative, Sargeant. It’s very confident.

He’d arrived breathless, slightly damp from a drizzle, and holding a single packet of Skittles “for your efforts,” he’d said solemnly. She called him an idiot. He looked delighted.

That night, they talked about things that didn’t matter—TV shows neither of them had finished, foods they pretended to like for the aesthetic, the sheer horror of Alex’s undergraduate group project from hell (“We had a guy who thought duct tape was a structural solution”). 

And then, slowly, they talked about the things that did matter.

Like how she used to want to be a journalist when she was little, because she thought it meant you got to ask as many questions as you wanted and never had to apologize.

Or how he still wasn’t sure what kind of engineer he wanted to be—just that he wanted to make things that didn’t break when people needed them most.

“You know,” he said, nudging his glass in slow circles across the table, “you’re not what I expected.”

Y/N looked up. “Is that a good thing or, like, a 'you’re secretly a serial killer' kind of a thing?”

He smiled. “It’s a good thing. Really, really good.”

By the fourth week, they had a rhythm. It wasn’t just dates anymore—it was Hey, want to walk home together? and I saved you the last chocolate chip muffin, but only because I like you more than I like muffins. But barely.

It was him reaching for her hand without thinking, her resting her head against his shoulder on the bus when she was too tired to hold it up.

It was a shared Spotify playlist for when studying is ur 13th reason.

It was early Saturday morning sun filtering into her apartment while they quietly read their own books, his socked foot nudging hers on the side of the couch almost every ten minutes.

It was good.

But between the sleepy smiles and the shared muffins and the texts that kept getting longer instead of shorter, the truth was that they both had dreams. Big ones. All-consuming ones.

And no matter how much you wanted something—or someone—there were only so many hours in the day.

a/n: one of my more favorite chapters! an unfortunate lack of lando though :/ what did you think of it?

[r3ynah]

The people we lose along the way;

A prompt where Danny's old middle school lab professor was the Joker (from Batman: The Killing Joke) and Danny and his classmates call him Professor J, Him and his wife Jianne was born and raised in Amity Park, so overtime being surrounded by large amounts of ectoplasm, Professor J. became a liminal.

And Prof J. was actually a good teacher, the kind of teacher that will let you eat in his class, give you snacks at random times, and someone you can seek solace and peace whenever you get stressed.

Him and his wife always were there for everyone as a shoulder to cry on or just a helping hand, they were dearly beloved by the whole community.

Professor J was actually very funny, but his humor was only circled around amity park due to the fact it's a town not very social with other city, towns, social media, or the net, and they are famously known to keep to themselves.

Nonetheless everyone saw the potential in Professor J, and supported him to the fullest, why they ended up in Gotham was a mystery (some excuse that'll I'll probably come up later, but I'll let you guys do the imagining).

I like to think Gotham has very toxic ectoplasm so when He and his wife moved there he couldn't handle the toxins and it affected him mentally and physically.

after they moved everything started to go downhill, prof J first worked in a lab, then he quitted his job and became a comedian and sadly failing, Jianne almost who was almost due to give birth sadly died due to an accident, and then the Joker happened.

Now a couple a years after the comic took place, the amity parkers (they don't know what happened in these past years, they only know that the professor J. they know became a well-known comedian, or so he says) still in touch with Prof J. continued to talk to him through phone calls, messages and letters most of the time it's just his students that call, and some of his few close friends there, they tried to ask on how was Jianne doing, only to get abruptly interrupted by the rogue, who just says that she's doing better than ever or that she's resting, which they believed because they trusted their Professor.

Sometimes the joker also sends gift to his former students, Danny sometimes gets planet themed items, Sam gets mailed plants that are not native in amity park, Tucker gets new technology, Paulina gets a new plushie for her plushie collection, and so on

So, as payback they decide to go to Gotham to search for their professor J, which made them meet new friends along the way, Danny with Jason Todd, Sam with Poison Ivy, Tucker with Tim Drake, Paulina with Barbara, Star with Steph, etc..

And they're very vague with their reasoning, just only saying that they're visiting their former professor and surprising them, and then they get kidnapped in like a museum or charity event or something that has a lot of people gathered, so the amity parkers alongside other civilians became hostages.

And of course, the Bats ad Birds immediately went out to save them, only for Joker to reveal himself to everyone, and he locks eyes with the amity parkers who looked at him in realization, betrayal, and horror, and Joker stared back at them with a taken aback look that merged into panic, his grin still plastered on his face.

They couldn't swallow the reality that their professor became the person, he promised he wouldn't be, he promised to them (Because you know damn well the adults from amity park couldn't care for their children). and to see the only trusted adult in their town become one of the most disgusting and horrible human beings to ever step foot in the earth was truly heartbreaking for the group.

And for once, Joker felt like he was burning inside out because of their stares that they emitted. he mourned as guilt, sadness, and grief swallowed him for the person he used to be.

He treated those kids like his own and he and Jianne loved those kids to bits, so he did the only logical decision he could think as he pushed aside his crazed rogue tendencies, and made his last decision as a friend, professor and father and ordered his goons to take the students away from this place safe and sound and threatened them to make sure not a single hair was pulled out of them or anything to cause harm.

He watched as Paulina cried for him, Sam with her brows furrowed at him betrayal etched in her face, Tucker not believing the reality of his favorite professor, Dash frozen in place, Star was holding on to Wes for support, and Danny looked at the Joker in betrayal and anger mouthing the words 'You promised, you promised to not be like them.'

As they were dragged away

Joker only looked away to face the bats, a smile still etched on his face but somehow it looked a little bit dimmer.

[blondejellykitty]

₊♡ ˚⊹ hidden deep inside ₊♡ ˚⊹

୨୧ percy jackson x mortal reader ୨୧ is it foolish to think that greek mythology is real and that your boyfriend is a part of it? find part one: i know all your secrets a/n: (1.4k words) finally part two is here! sorry it took so long x 🩷

A month. You had a month until your lovely boyfriend Percy Jackson had his birthday.

You'd walked through almost every store in your city eight times before realizing you had no idea what to get him.

As horrible as it sounded it was true. What kind of a girlfriend couldn't think of a good gift?

You'd quickly given up trying to find clothes he'd like. Which shade of blue would he like best in his shirts? Was it too easy to give him clothes in his favourite colour? What if you'd overdone it and he no longer likes blue?

No clothes then.

You'd look at jewelry, you knew he prefers silver over gold. but he didn't like things that jangled and made noise. A ring then. But as you looked at the prices of the few you thought he'd like. Your heart broke as each one rose higher than the last.

No rings then.

You'd thought about cologne, none of the stores had the specific one he liked most. 

Then you saw a store that sold skateboards but you knew his friend, Annabeth, was getting him one. she'd thankfully told you before she bought it what she was getting him so you knew not to get it.

You briefly passed a bookstore before remembering how Percy made clear how he had difficulty reading. 

Everything you'd thought of it just didn't feel right. It didn't feel enough. Percy always put thought into the gift he showers you in, and while you try to reciprocate that, his birthday was different. 

This had to be the gift.

He had mentioned a restaurant he'd found, one that served all his favourites and you'd tried to get a reservation but they were all booked out.

He'd told you stories about how his mother used to give him blue candy from the store she used to work at but when you talked to her on the phone she mentioned how she was gifting it to him once again.

He'd tell you of the times he'd go to montonk with his mother but you had no idea how to get him there without him noticing. 

Perhaps you should just tell him. Tell him you didn't have any surprises but you still wanted to spend time with him. You could make his favourite food and do whatever he wanted. You could stargaze and he could relax, he could tell you more stories and have a peaceful day.

Stories. Percy loved stories! Of course, if you couldn't buy him a present you could just make him one. He couldn't read English well, but you knew he could read Greek, ancient greek. 

You'd been on a date at a museum and there was a statue holding a slab of writing. Offhandedly you said that you wished you knew what it said, Percy automatically read it out. He'd quickly brushed it off that he was joking but you knew better than that.

Over the year you two had been together and the year prior you both were friends for, you knew to take notice of the odd little slip up he has. 

When he's asleep and mumbles something in another language, one you'd bet was ancient greek. 

When you both visit the beach and his tanned shoulders and back over various scars. the odd white streak in his hair that he never has to dye to stay there, and from the baby photos sally showed you, he wasn't born with it. 

And finally there was his father. You'd never met the man but Percy often talks about him, and the strange family business at sea he works for.

You were researching and trying to learn greek, modern greek so at least you might have a headstart on the ancient language next. Planning to write the story, his story in a language he could understand.

But the more Greek mythology you read the more foolish you thought you were becoming.

A part of you, the part who loved a good fantasy story enjoyed the idea of it all. Stories of tragedy, love and war. Of heroes and gods alike. It all seemed far fetched of course but a nagging part of you wanted to believe it to be true.

Which was ridiculous. How could both science and mythology be true at the same time? 

Could the Earth rotating on its axis be the reason for the sun rising or could it be Apollo and his chariot? 

The reason for thunder and lightning is that Zeus was having a bad day or that there's a buildup of electric charges in storm clouds? 

Do you dream because your brain still thinks it's awake while you sleep or because Morpheus blessed you with a dream?

Is it possible for both to happen at once? That the sun is both at once? That the lightning is both together? That dreams have reasons?

Surely not... that would be absurd.

However it would make more sense about the weird horse that follows Percy everywhere, seriously that horse has strange vibes. Like he can understand your questing gaze, not to mention if you looked at him close enough you're sure you can see wings.

Or the time you briefly met Percy's brother on the way to work. You were running late and Tyson, you later learned his name was, knocked on the front door looking for Percy. 

They had something to do at work together and had come to pick him up. You were in such a rush to not be later than you already were, it wasn't until later when you thought back on it. 

You were sure Tyson only had one eye, but it was blurry like one second he was fine then next his eyes shifted into one in the middle of his face, before quickly disappearing again. You just assumed it was because of the busy morning you had.

The more you remembered the more that deep nagging feeling in you got stronger. To the point of it almost hurting.

Nevertheless you kept learning and kept writing, it wasn't completely accurate (not by a long shot), you just hoped it was somewhat understandable.

By the time you were finished the entire book percy had almost spoiled the surprise for himself three times. You could tell he was becoming more and more suspicious especially when you would continue to brush his questions off.

But it would be worth it. Hopefully.

His birthday couldn't have come any quicker. You both promised Sally to visit and have dinner with them but you got him all to yourself in the morning.

Everything was going to plan.

You'd made him his favourite breakfast without any error. 

You'd both gone on a morning walk around the city just like he said he wanted to, all without any incidents. 

You'd both bought lunch to take back home where you two watched a movie he got to pick.

After all of that, you finally worked up the courage to give him his gift. You'd left to grab it where you'd hidden it away. 

You looked over the birthday wrapping paper double checking everything was still perfect before running back into the living room where percy patiently sat.

"I really hope you like it, Happy Birthday love" You mumbled nervously as you handed the wrapped gift to his waiting hands.

"I know I will, beauty" His easy smile soothed your worries.

He carefully unwrapped his present, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion before he flipped the book over. His eyes followed the greek letters on the handbound cover.

The Tales of Perseus Jackson.

A modern day hero.

Written by his love sick poet.

He delicately opened the cover to read the dedication page.

For Percy,

Whether love is a chemical reaction or a arrow shot by Eros

I love you more than words, although the muses can try.

Happy birthday my love.

He looked up at you, tears threatening to fall past his waterline. He looked at you like you'd just hung the stars in the night sky, suddenly you felt a little silly. Why were you ever worried?

He raced up to tightly hug you, his head buried in your shoulder. His whispers of 'I love you's and thank you’s' melted your heart. 

It was all worth it. The late nights, the travelling to libraries, the endless studying.

You realized you'd do just about anything to see that wide smile on his face.

[batsovergotham]

Chapter 10 Part 2: Inevitable Ends

"Born in blood, both of us, Angstrom was right. I thought I could change what I am, keep my family safe. But it doesn't matter what I do, what I choose. I'm what's wrong. This is fate."

Main!Mark Grayson x Psychic! Reader

warnings: SMUTSMUTSMUT, death, angst, mark is so supportive, mentions of childbirth, violence, blood

w/c: 10.5k

a/n: i have so many thoughts about this. i love all of you guys, thank you so much for your support <3

“You were supposed to be safe. You-” he chokes on it, burying his face into your neck. “You said it worked. You said you loved me. I thought…I thought that meant things was gonna be okay.”

He breaths in quick, like he’s ready to scream again, but nothing comes out.

Just air.

Just nothingness.

And then

A sound.

A voice.

“You know,” Angstrom adds, gently, too calmly, his palms wet with the remnants of the energy he used to murder you. “I wasn’t even aiming at her.”

Mark doesn’t lift his head.

Not straight away.

Angstrom tilts his head, peering down at the carnage like an observer at an art museum. “I aimed at you,” he continues. “But she threw herself between us. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe her power just recognized you. Maybe it reacted. Either way… well. Guess I hit the jackpot.”

That’s when Mark moves.

He rises with your body still in his arms.

He doesn’t glance at Angstrom.

Not yet.

He merely glances at you one more time. His thumb brushes beneath your eye. You’re already cold.

And then he sets you down.

Gently.

More carefully than he’s ever done anything in his life.

He sweeps your hair back from your face.

He kisses your forehead.

And then he stands.

The blood on his hands seeps down to his elbows. His eyes are crimson. Not from tears.

From fury.

And as he turns to confront Angstrom

He doesn’t say anything.

He just moves.

He propels himself across the battlefield, smashing the rock under his boots. The world tilts beneath the strain of it. Rex yells something. Robot moves to intercept. Kate flinches.

But no one stops him.

Not this time.

Because they all witnessed what occurred.

They witnessed what Mark lost.

And now?

They know what’s coming.

˚˙༓࿇༓˙˚˙༓࿇༓˙˚˙༓࿇༓˙˚

You can’t feel your body.

Not really.

Everything feels distant like you’re underwater, buried behind layers of static and blood and quiet. But somewhere beyond that numbness, you feel a vibration. A shift in the earth.

And him.

You feel Mark.

Something inside him fractures, and the sound it creates isn’t audible, it’s metaphysical. It resonates across your consciousness like glass shattering in a locked chamber. You’re too far gone to call to him, too feeble to reach across the bond.

But if you could, you’d scream for him to stop.

Because he doesn’t.

Because this isn’t a fight anymore.

It’s punishment.

Mark doesn’t recall flinging himself at Angstrom.

One second, he’s crouching over you, blood dripping into the earth. The next he’s moving. His eyesight is crimson. His fists hurt. His bones scream with effort. But none of it matters.

Angstrom doesn’t get to walk away from this.

He doesn’t get to live.

Mark comes at him like a missile, shoulder crashing into his belly, forcing him into the wreckage of the hole. Stone erupts forth in sharp fragments. Buildings crumble. Angstrom lets out a surprised grunt as he’s tossed across the battlefield, skipping like a stone over shattered ground.

But Mark’s already on him again before he can stand.

Before he can breathe.

Mark slams a fist into his chest, once. Twice. The third time, something fractures beneath his hand.

“I told you,” Mark screams, low and guttural, “you weren’t touching her again.”

Another hit.

“You stole from her-”

Crack.

Another.

“You used her-”

A strike to the face now, forceful enough to wrench Angstrom’s head to the side.

“And you killed her.”

The last hit is different.

It’s personal.

He takes Angstrom by the throat and pushes his fist into his face again and again and again, his knuckles breaking apart from the blow, teeth shattering in his own mouth from how tightly he’s clenching his jaw.

Blood flies.

Bones snap.

And Mark doesn’t stop.

He can’t.

There’s no reasoning left in his mind, no plan. Just a heat that flames through his chest like it’s devouring him alive. His eyesight tunnels. All he sees is crimson. The echo of your speech in his brain. The way your body went motionless in his arms.

He wanted to be better than this.

He tried.

But there’s a reason the Viltrumites wanted him.

There’s a reason he wins.

Because when Mark Grayson loses anything he loves, when you pull it away from him, he will never, ever let you walk away from it.

“Mark!” Rex shouts, from someplace behind him. “You’ve got him! He’s done!”

Mark doesn’t hear it.

Doesn’t sense the Guardians closing in.

He doesn’t see that Angstrom’s motions have started slowing not from injury, but from weakness. The flame in his veins is flickering. Dimmer than before.

Robot watches it.

Analytical.

“His absorption levels are declining,” he continues, tone inscrutable. “Something’s interfering.”

Shrinking Rae stares down from her hover platform, eyes wide. “Look-”

And then she sees you.

Or rather, your hand.

The fingers on your right hand twitch.

Once.

Twice.

The slightest movement. Barely noticeable.

But it’s yours.

Rae lands hard, landing near your corpse, shrieking over the static in her communications. “She’s still alive! She’s still alive! Something’s altering in the energy signature, her psychic field is fluctuating!”

Robot’s scanners flare instantaneously. “Confirmed. The transfer is shaky. Angstrom’s stolen resonance is unraveling.”

And Mark?

Mark doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t want to quit.

Even with blood on his face, even with his own hands shaking, he grabs Angstrom by the collar and raises him fist poised, ready to strike again. His breath is ragged, every muscle in his body throbbing with wrath.

Angstrom’s face is scarcely recognizable, swollen, broken, one eye shut entirely.

He breathes, coughing, still attempting to channel something still holding to power that isn’t his.

“She’s not dead,” he slurs.

Mark freezes.

His fist lingers, quivering millimeters from Angstrom’s shattered jaw.

“What… did you just say?”

Angstrom coughs, blood dripping from his lip. “She’s… still tethered. I felt her… drawing it back.”

And Mark’s eyes expand.

He whips around.

You’re still there.

Your hand moves again just barely.

Mark doesn’t think.

He throws Angstrom to the ground and runs.

“Rae-!”

She’s already there. “She’s trying to recover the psychic field. The connection’s still open she’s fighting.”

Mark goes to his knees beside you, clutching your hand. It’s chilly.

But you clutch his fingers back.

Weak. But genuine.

His breath catches.

“Hey…hey, I’m here, I’m here, you’re not done, okay?”

You blink once. Barely.

And Mark turns to the squad, voice cracking with urgency.

“We’re not finished.”

And this time?

He’s going to make damn sure you come back.

You aren’t breathing.

But you’re not gone.

There is no heartbeat. No oxygen going through your lungs. Your body is quiet and chilly, bathed with blood. Your mind lives only in fragments, scattered, half-formed thoughts flickering like lights along a dark hallway. But somewhere inside the silence…

There is a pulse.

Not the type you feel with your hand pressed against your wrist.

Something older.

It spreads slowly. Not like a flare. Like a horizon opening.

It doesn’t burn.

It unfolds.

It reaches out from your center and touches everything. Every fractured bone. Every bit of you that Angstrom took. Every memory bent and twisted by suffering.

And then

You twitch.

Your fingers curl.

Your body begins to rise.

Not in a jump, nor in flight, at first, it's like the ground itself releases you. The blood-stained earth beneath your back begins to split, dust rising in quivering motes. Pebbles tremble. A blast of wind howls fiercely through the crater as your body levitates, limbs limp, head leaned back, chest arching upward like you’re hung on invisible threads.

The Guardians respond first.

Shrinking Rae stumbles back from where she’d been kneeling over you, eyes wide. “What the hell-”

“Her energy is spiking,” Robot adds, his voice pinched with desperation. “But it’s not the same as before. It’s not stabilizing. It’s evolving.”

Mark doesn’t speak.

He’s transfixed, scarcely breathing, eyes riveted on you as you climb, slowly, methodically, your body wreathed in light.

The radiance originates under your skin. It pulses gently at first, like veins formed of gentle starlight. Then it spreads, down your arms, your throat, your legs. Gold, violet, indigo, shifting like a prism breaking light in real time. Your hair floats lightly off your shoulders, caught in the tide of something invisible.

And your eyes

They open.

Slowly. Deliberately.

They don’t simply shine.

They sparkle.

Not in a pretty manner. Not in a way that seems regulated or safe. The light is dense, deep, flowing in slow rings around the pupils, symbols that don’t belong to language circling in inconceivable patterns.

You are not confused.

You are not scared.

You are aware.

And your sight finds him.

Angstrom.

Crawling backward now, one hand grasping at his chest, the other dragging along the broken soil. He’s bleeding. Not simply from his body, but from the rift inside him. The mental tie that previously connected your power to his form is falling apart, threads unwinding like string drenched in acid. He can feel you in every nerve. In every crack.

You are undoing him.

And you haven’t even moved.

You don’t talk.

Your body stays suspended, your countenance inscrutable, lips closed. You don’t yell or rage or weep. You don’t proclaim what you’re doing. There are no demands.

Only your silence.

And your presence.

It is enough to unmake the air.

Angstrom gasps.

His shoulders jolt like he’s being electrified, and a terrible cry rips out of his throat, part scream, half gasp, part begging. His veins, once ablaze with the brightness of your stolen power, begin to fade. You aren’t taking it all back at once. No. This is slower. More deliberate.

The energy rips off him in tiny ribbons.

It looks like it’s being drawn.

Like it missed you.

Rae protects her eyes from the glare. Kate and Rex stand at the edge of the crater, immobile. Even Robot falters in his analysis.

Because no one knows what they’re looking at.

Not anymore.

The crackling of electricity becomes deafening.

You climb higher.

Ten feet. Fifteen.

And the city begins to quiver.

Not collapse. Tremble. Like it senses something larger than itself is nearby. Windows hum. Metal structures moan. The wind delivers dust in spirals that follow your ascension like circling debris.

Mark takes a step forward.

His hand raises like he wants to reach for you, but he stops himself.

Because your eyes never leave Angstrom.

Even as you hover.

Even as the force shivers back into your form, slowly, steadily, like it belongs to you.

And it does.

You aren’t stealing it back.

You are regaining what was always yours.

Angstrom glances up at you with eyes wide, his mouth hanging open. He seems little now. Desperate. His lips move around things he doesn’t speak.

He attempts to talk.

Tries to reason.

Tries to comprehend.

But you never answer.

You never look away.

You simply descend.

Slowly, methodically, your feet fall back to the broken stone, lingering just an inch over the ground before your boots rest with scarcely a sound. The crater quiets. The city stills. The storm clouds above split gently, allowing soft gold light pour through the sky.

You stand.

Tall.

Still.

Eyes gleaming.

Hair touching your shoulders as it settles.

And you witness Angstrom slump onto his back.

Not dead.

Not ruined.

But faded.

He breaths shallowly now. Trembling. The brightness has departed his skin. His body is a ruin of borrowed strength gone bad. He turns his face away from you like it aches to be seen by you.

And still

You do not move.

You do not talk.

Because this isn’t over.

Not yet.

This is the moment before.

The one that chooses what comes next.

And for the first time since he arrived, since he perverted your power and attempted to use you into a weapon against the man you love

Angstrom is quiet too.

Because now, for the first time, he understands

You are not his invention.

You are not his weapon.

You are something different.

And he should never have touched you.

You are standing now.

But the earth doesn’t feel like it’s underneath you.

It feels like it’s recoiling.

Like the ground itself doesn’t know how to hold your weight anymore. Not after everything Angstrom took. Not after everything you became. The air is denser. The sky darker. The stillness louder.

You're not trembling.

But the city is.

Debris rattles beneath your boots in short, frenetic pulses, as though even the debris isn’t sure where it’s permitted to rest. Wind wraps strangely about your form, not harsh, not loud, but tight, like the environment itself has recognized a fault line emerging in the shape of a woman who has had enough.

Your veins sparkle. Not in delicate lines, but in jagged constellations, cracks of light pulsating in your flesh like magma pressing to the surface. It creeps beneath the flesh of your arms, your throat, your fingers, spreading out like roots of something that should not have sprouted but did anyway.

Mark doesn’t speak your name.

The Guardians don’t move.

No one does.

They can all feel it now.

This isn’t simply power.

This is you.

Unbound.

Angstrom is still on the ground, gasping, fingers curling in the earth like he can tie himself to anything.

But nothing is coming to help him.

There is no mechanism remaining to activate, no emergency escape. He has your blood on his hands, and your strength inside him is turning on him now, rejecting him like a virus. He grips at his chest as tendrils of incandescent energy spiral out from his core, fractured light hemorrhaging from a source that no longer desires him.

He dares to glance up.

And your eyes contact his.

It is not a look of wrath.

It is not even hate.

It's colder than both.

Like he’s already been weighed and measured and you’ve deemed him unworthy.

Your expression doesn’t alter. Your body doesn’t tremble. But the pressure in the air increases strongly enough to make Angstrom flinch.

The earth fractures under your next stride forward.

Not a stomp. Not an attack.

Just a step.

And the ground splits.

Hair now hovers around your form, slow and weightless, trapped in the low orbit of energy accumulating around your skin. Faint sparkles scatter from your fingertips. Your pupils are no longer visible, your eyes entirely overpowered by that deep, engulfing light, shifting between hues that don’t exist in the natural spectrum. The sound of your breathing is gone. All that exists in the air today is power.

And eventually, you speak.

But you don’t shout.

“First,” your voice comes, low and methodical, “you tried to take Mark.”

Behind you, his breath stops in his throat.

You don’t turn.

“Then,” you say, taking another step closer, “you came for my family.”

The wind bucks about you, crashing into the edges of the crater and throwing up a maelstrom of grit and dust that swirls around your shape like a cyclone. The Guardians move back instinctively.

“You tore through timelines like they were paper. You had me witness copies of my life fall beneath your touch. You made me help you do it.”

Another step.

Angstrom begins to crawl backward now, his fingertips dragging across the stone as his knees quiver beneath him.

He knows what's coming.

But you don’t stop.

Your voice doesn’t increase, but it deepens, heavy with something fundamental.

“And then… you came for my life.”

The light in your flesh flashes.

The earth separates wider.

All around you, the rubble begins to shake, then rise.

Chunks of fractured concrete. Fractured steel. Shards of glass, masonry, and circuitry, all drifting into the air with gradual, growing tension. Gravity loosens its grasp, as if the universe itself is reacting to your anguish.

To your violation.

“To tear me apart, piece by piece, and call it evolution.”

Your eyes never leave him.

He’s weeping now. Barely audible. His mouth twitches, but no words come out. He's still attempting to crawl, still trying to grasp how the item he broke is still standing.

Still speaking.

Still becoming.

“First Mark,” you murmur, “then my family…”

The light increases. A ring of psychological pressure grows outward from your body, breaking more of the earth. A adjacent wall *collapses* under the weight of it.

“…then my life.”

Your next movement is not a step.

It’s a command.

The rubble all around you erupts upward, kept in place by the sheer power of your determination. It swirls about you like satellites, hundreds of tons of broken metropolis pushed into orbit by your quiet.

And then, finally

Not words.

Not sound.

Power.

Your body arches back, your lips gaping to the heavens as an impossible shriek bursts loose from your chest. The scream is not human. It’s not even psychic. It is pure rupture, shaking the buildings at their foundations, sending a surge of light shooting up into the clouds and through them.

The clouds parted apart.

Lightning flashes in directions it should not.

Car sirens howl miles away.

Mark stumbles back two full steps, palm flung over his face as the heat of the energy rushes past him.

Robot’s sensors surge dramatically. “Seismic readings at—”

A wave of force flattens the region.

When the dust settles

You’re floating again.

Hair whipped upward. Fingers flexed.

And Angstrom is still there.

Crouched. Shaking.

His eyes wide, fixated on you.

He’s not dead.

You could have killed him just now, and you didn’t.

Because this isn’t the end yet.

This is the beginning.

And the city?

The city knows it.

You don’t descend softly.

You plummet like a verdict.

The instant your boots strike the earth again, the rubble surrounding your body stops spinning mid-air, frozen in place like time itself is following your sadness. The wind doesn’t wail anymore. It bows. The storm above still rages, but even it seems to do so around you, like you’ve become a fixed point in space the world can’t touch.

You stand there.

Alive.

Burning.

Unforgiven.

Your hands slowly curl into fists. The light under your skin pulses like air. Your body is still boiling with strength, too much of it for your form to contain without your limbs trembling but they do not shake.

You are not trembling.

You are steady.

Angstrom is still creeping.

His hands slide on blood-slick stone as he attempts to scurry away from you like a man attempting to evade the end of the world. But he can feel it, behind him, pressing down, increasing speed.

He turns, breathless, dread swimming in his eyes. “Y-You don’t have to-”

“Get up.”

You say it quietly.

But the sound hits like a hammer.

Your voice resonates over the crater, low and solid and bereft of whatever warmth it used to have. Not a plea. Not a demand.

An invitation.

He freezes.

Because he understands what that entails.

You want him on his feet.

You want him conscious.

You want him to fight.

Because you’re going to break him slowly. You’re going to make him feel everything you did and worse. You’re going to take back every second he carved from you, every instant of agency he took, every drop of authority he leeched like it was belonged to him.

And you’re going to accomplish it one piece at a time.

You take a step forward.

Another.

He scrambles upright, knees shaky, blood trickling from his mouth as he climbs on trembling feet. His arms tremble with the remaining vestiges of your stolen energy, flickers of light still flowing down his damaged frame like phantom embers.

He lifts his hands barely. His posture is weak. Desperate. He’s not ready.

You don’t care.

He shouldn’t be ready.

You want him to know the terror first-hand.

You want him to know what it’s like to stand before someone who sees him for what he actually is, not a genius, not a visionary, not a martyr. Just a coward who confused manipulation for brains.

“Fight me,” you say quietly.

Angstrom shakes his head, breathing shallow. “I-I tried to fix-”

You blink.

And as your eyes open again, the brightness intensifies.

“You tried to own me.”

The floating wreckage around you begins to shake wildly, whirling in unpredictable circles like shrapnel trapped in a magnetic storm. The crater itself seems to pulse outward, fissures spreading as energy drains off your body in heatwaves.

Mark doesn’t move.

He can’t.

He’s staring with his fists clenched, mouth tense, his countenance enigmatic. Not because he doesn’t care but because he does.

But he also knows he can’t stop you now.

Rex takes a slight step back.

Rae says something beneath her breath that no one hears.

Robot doesn’t talk.

Because even they know

This fight?

It isn’t theirs.

Angstrom stumbles into a half-charge, terror coloring his movements. He lifts a hand and shoots out a telekinetic bolt, wild and unpredictable, raw with energy. It snaps at you like a broken whip.

You don’t dodge.

You don’t even flinch.

The bolt crashes into your chest

And fades.

Just bursts apart against the barrier around your body, your own strength shielding you like armor. Like the same energy he intended to take had picked its side.

You tilt your head slightly.

He fires again.

Another explosion.

You stroll through it.

Step by step, his bolts crashing into your aura, breaking into harmless sparkles of gold and purple light. He backs away quicker now, breathing hard, voice cracking.

“I-I was trying to fix the timeline-! I needed you because you were the key-!”

You stop walking.

And smile.

But it’s not harsh.

It’s empty.

“You were trying to erase Mark.”

You raise your hand.

Just one.

And the entire crater begins to lift, debris and concrete and steel rising with your fingertips like you’re conducting gravity itself.

You flip your wrist.

A chunk of rebar smacks into Angstrom’s shoulder with bone-shattering speed, sending him flying across the wreckage.

He strikes the ground hard, crying out.

But you don’t follow.

You wait.

Silent again.

Because this is only the start.

You want him drained.

You want him desperate.

You want him to grasp for more stolen power, to burn through it all in dread, until there’s nothing left but him, bare, weak, pleading.

Because then you’ll make him understand.

He lifts himself up again, blood streaming from his temple, sparkles of fading light still flashing in his palms.

And you nod once.

A quiet cue.

It begins.

The final fight.

The second Angstrom’s feet leave the ground, the combat changes.

Not simply in scale. In meaning.

Because he doesn’t rise like someone prepared. Not like a fighter, not like a deity. He rises like a man who’s running out of time. Like someone who knows the soil will shatter his body if he stays too near to it. The final traces of your stolen energy pulse beneath his skin, striving to hold him together. Trying to matter.

But you?

You ascend like you belong there.

You don’t even try. The air lifts you as if gravity has decided you’ve earned your exemption. Your body shines brighter with every foot of altitude, the light beneath your skin accentuating your silhouette against the storm-choked sky. You move like you were born in this storm. Made from it.

And when you approach him

You don’t talk.

You collide into him.

Your fist slams into his side with enough force to shatter stone. He gasps, the oxygen pushed from his lungs, but he manages to twist free midair, sending a jagged lance of telekinetic energy up toward your shoulder.

It connects.

Pain tears over your back in a searing line but you don’t flinch.

You use the momentum, turn with it, and drive your knee into his spine, sending him flying backward through the sky like a meteor blasted off course with a sickening crunch.

The wind separates.

Debris lifts again from the crater below.

The city rumbles underneath you both as your shadows rip over the skyline, blurs of force, colliding again and again with speed and savagery that feels inevitable.

Angstrom recovers quicker than he should.

He’s still fast. Still vicious.

He’s pulling from the stolen shards of your former self, raw mental explosions that shatter the air, slashing toward you in waves. He hurls them like blades, his visage a mask of terror and passion.

You spin midair, evading some, catching others on glowing arms, your own telekinesis wrapping around his strikes and snapping them back like rubber bands. The sky is a battleground of shrapnel and sparkles. Every hit you land feels earned. Every scream he makes is fuel.

Above the ruins, two brilliant shapes dance through the air like gods formed of hate.

You grab a chunk of floating concrete, hurl it at him.

He shatters it with a thought.

He launches a blast of sheer force toward your skull

You vanish midair, teleporting in a burst of light and reappearing behind him.

Your boot smacks against his back.

He spirals downward, descending in a broad arc until he stops himself with a growl, hovering at chest-height, gasping, the flesh above his jaw already crimson and damaged.

“You don’t get it,” he chokes, blood on his lip. “You weren’t supposed to be this. You were meant to help me.”

You don’t answer.

You raise your hand.

And his bones fracture from the pressure.

Not physically. Not yet. Not with fists.

With your mind.

A mental vice clamps around his head, your power spilling out in a corona of light as you bend reality at the edges, just enough to make his cells recall who they actually belong to.

He shrieks.

You pull him toward you midair, your hands spread as blazing tendrils of electricity arc over the skyline, binding him to you like a puppet.

“You used me,” your voice is like thunder now, layered with something deeper than wrath. “You stole from me. And now you’re going to learn what it is to suffer.”

He attempts to fight it.

He puts a wall of strength between you, the last of your energy clawing from his hands

You walk through it.

Each stride breaks the rules of space. You aren't flying anymore, you're crossing through the sky like you're walking on glass, gravity breaking in your wake.

And when you approach him again, you don’t stop.

You don’t hesitate.

You unleash.

He blocks what he can, tosses back what he has left. But it’s not enough. It’s never been enough.

Every hit you land takes you closer to the truth of this moment

He doesn’t deserve an easy death.

Not after what he did to you.

To your timeline.

To the parts of your life he twisted simply to test how far he could break you.

He yells, one final desperate punch aiming at your chest

You catch his wrist.

Tight.

Glowing fingers stretched over his bones.

You glance into his eyes.

And this time, you talk.

Low.

Slow.

“You don't get to decide what I become.”

You let go.

And he starts soaring backwards into the air, slamming into the broken shell of a building behind him with a thunderous boom.’ The windows explode forth. Metal moans. And then, he’s gone from view.

But you’re not done.

Not yet.

Your feet hang above the shattered skyline, your body boiling with strength that refuses to wane, shining like a second sun.

And as you drift ahead, toward the debris where he disappeared, hands clinched, breath calm, pulse pounding

You don’t feel fatigued.

You don’t feel afraid.

You feel righteous.

And you are going to kill him on your terms.

No matter how long it takes.

You move through the air like gravity no longer knows what to do with you.

There’s no resistance. No effort. The sky separates softly about your frame as you plummet, heat draining from your body in sluggish pulses. The light hasn’t diminished. It’s changed. Stabilized into something more hazardous than fire. Something inevitable. A star that doesn’t burst but grows, gently eating its surroundings, consuming without the need to yell.

You don’t feel like you’re falling.

You feel like everything else is.

The crumbling city changes beneath your feet. Wind slithers through the ruins, strangely sharp, pressing against bent steel and cracked glass, whispering through the bones of once-proud structures like a warning to what’s left.

The Guardians are quiet.

Mark doesn’t call to you.

Because they all know this isn't over.

Not yet.

Your boots touch down on the jagged, splintered rooftop where Angstrom landed, and the entire structure groans with the weight of your landing. Metal whines. Loose concrete splits under you in spiderweb fissures. The earth reacts like the planet is preparing for a second impact.

But you don’t move with the tumult.

You move with intent.

Every step you take is weighty. Not in sound, but in consequence. Like every step is a ripple reaching across reality itself, altering the air around it just little. A microcosm of choice and judgment.

You travel along the tunnel of twisted steel and desolation. Glass crunches under your heel. Sparks fizz from a shattered junction box in the wall, stuttering like it doesn’t know what power source it's attempting to draw from anymore.

And then, you see him.

Slumped.

Collapsed against a twisted pillar of concrete and rebar.

Angstrom Levy.

The man who imagined he could sculpt the multiverse like clay.

The one who sought to shape you into something compliant. Predictable.

He doesn’t look like a visionary now.

He looks small.

His body is cracked. Shoulders sagging. One eye swollen shut. Blood trickles from his nose, collecting on the floor beneath him in a slow, sad bloom. His chest heaves, shallow and irregular.

You halt 10 feet away.

He hears you approaching.

But he doesn’t run.

He understands it’s futile.

Instead, he lifts his head.

Just barely.

One eye catching on to yours through the flood of light coming from your flesh.

You don’t shine with effort anymore. It’s not a shield. It’s not an attack. It’s just what you are today. The power underneath your body moves like a river, slow and purposeful. Not burning. Not flaring. But coiling. Like something conscious. Like the cosmos has stopped following physics around you and has begun listening instead.

And you gaze.

Not with hatred.

Not with empathy.

With truth.

You see him now. For what he really is.

A man.

Not a deity. Not a genius. Not a custodian of fate.

Just a man.

Tired. Broken. Scared.

You look past his injuries. Past the blood and the bruises and the short, fast gasps. You gaze through him.

And you see it.

The untruth at his center.

That voice, the one he’s used to rationalize everything, whispering that he was chosen. That by viewing the strands, he somehow wove them. That simply because he strode across timelines, he had the right to shape them.

You see all the versions of him.

You saw the one who died begging.

The one who succeeded.

The one who turned back too late.

And not a single one of them mattered.

Not in the manner he told himself.

Not like you.

You are consistent.

A pillar.

His narrative finishes in a thousand timelines.

Yours doesn’t.

And he knows it now.

You take another step ahead.

Angstrom’s hands twitch faintly. Not in defense. In instinct. The same way someone lifts their hands to cover their face from lightning, even though it won’t stop the hit.

“I was trying to fix it,” he murmurs.

You don’t blink.

“I was trying to save everything. Do you have any idea what I’ve seen? The planets I've walked? The incarnations of you I’ve-”

Your head tilts, leisurely, intrigued.

He stops speaking.

Because your expression hasn’t altered.

Because there’s no argument brewing in your eyes. No spark of comprehension. No pity.

Just inevitability.

And then, you speak.

Your voice is gentle.

Level.

But when it hits the air, the building trembles.

“You’re not part of it.”

He stares.

“What…?”

You walk closer. Your brightness illuminates the debris around you, throwing lengthy shadows behind him that flicker oddly. There’s no sun left in the sky now. Just the faint sheen of collapsing stormclouds and you.

“You were never part of this,” you say. “Not the multiversal. Not the outcome. Not the design. You weren’t chosen. You weren’t central.”

You pause.

Then, softly

“You were background noise. Unimportant.”

He reels like you hit him. And in a way, you did.

You’re not shouting. You’re not shouting.

But the words struck like razors.

“This was never about you,” you continue. “You stood at the edge of infinity and assumed that made you important. But you were only watching. Just a spectator in a play you didn’t construct, cheering when it suited you, yelling when it didn’t.”

You drop your head slightly.

“You tried to control something that didn’t even see you.”

And then, The wind winds up.

But it’s not from the outside.

It’s from you.

The force surrounding your body intensifies, and the air inside the structure shifts, pressured. The rubble begins to lift again, softly rising off the ground around you, smaller this time. Lighter. Controlled. Like dust stuck in a black hole.

You elevate your hand.

And the actual structure of the building responds.

Angstrom flinches as the floor beneath him tilts slightly. As if you could move the axis of the room merely by wanting it.

Because maybe now, you can.

And in the stillness that follows

You move your eyes back to him.

And say, softly

“This is my reality.”

The light pulses brighter.

Angstrom begins to weep.

Real, ragged sobs, short and quick, like he doesn’t really understand them himself. His voice shakes as he talks.

“You can’t… you can’t just eliminate me.”

Your expression stays still.

And your words cut deeper than any force ever could.

“I don’t have to.”

You take a breath.

And the air shudders.

“I just won’t include you.”

Angstrom’s lips move.

But no words come out.

He’s silent now.

You step past him.

Not to strike.

Not yet.

Because this isn’t his end.

Not when you still have anything to say.

Not while there’s still a planet worth reshaping.

Not when you're still choosing what comes next.

And for the first time

He realizes

He was never the architect.

He was only a stain on the blueprint.

And you?

You are the pen.

You don’t have to touch him.

Not yet.

You just breathe.

And the storm outside stops.

Not because it’s over.

Because it’s listening.

The wind goes still. The clouds above the damaged skyline freeze, suspended mid-roar, like thunder trapped at gunpoint. The rubble within the hole raises again, not frantically, not like before. It floats lightly. Silently. Like it’s being handled. Like gravity has decided your presence outranks it.

Angstrom doesn’t move.

He’s attempting to talk, maybe. Or weep. Or run. You can't tell anymore. He’s shaking too hard. He’s breaking in too many places.

And you’re not looking at him like an adversary.

You’re looking at him like a mistake.

One you’re finally ready to fix.

You step closer.

And the strength inside you gathers.

You don’t ignite like a bomb.

You rise like the sun.

The light bleeding in your blood is, not bright, but pure. Your aura spreads in steady, regulated circles, pushing forth with each beat of your pulse. Every fissure in the wall, every blade of shattered steel, begins to hum with it.

The universe itself knows this frequency.

Because it was born from it.

And in the heart of it all, your body becomes the constant. The nexus. The source. The truth. No longer the girl they attempted to confine. No longer the weapon he tried to employ.

Just you.

You raise your hand.

And everything starts to fracture.

But not the room.

Not the sky.

Angstrom.

His scream is immediate, and it's not physical. It emanates from somewhere beneath his body, like a frequency being dragged through broken radio static. He holds his skull with both hands and wails, twisting, bending inward as something inside him is being ripped out.

Because it is.

You see it.

Every timeline.

Every variation of him.

Laid naked before you like an autopsy over eternity.

The young guy who never left his home dimension. The broken one that perished in the first experiment. The haughty one who slaughtered his rivals to construct a multiversal reign. The version that stretched out to you with a shaking hand, and the one who smiled while seizing your power.

All of them.

All of them are here.

And you reach inside all of them at once.

Your fingers flex in the air.

And Angstrom’s body arches.

Not in one direction, but all of them. His limbs twitch fiercely as portions of him begin to separate. Not blood and muscle, identity. Concept. Continuity.

You flay him, not skin by skin, but thread by thread.

You peel away the version that deceived the GDA.

Then the one that broke dimensions.

Then the one who thought taking power made him worthy of wielding it.

They tear off him like wet paper.

His cries echo through realities. You hear his voice layered, crying out in hundreds of tones, from hundreds of hims. All begging. All breaking. All dying at once.

Mark, observing from the distance, turns away.

Because even he can’t watch this.

Even he doesn’t recognize you right now.

You’re not killing Angstrom.

You’re unmaking him.

He thrashes in place, his body flickering in and out of focus, young, old, mechanical, twisted, clean, noble, monstrous, all his lives spilling together like oil into water and then being burned away by your light.

You raise your other hand.

And his lips open in one last scream, one that has no sound.

Because now you’re peeling back the final-layer

The one that thought it had a right to speak.

You sense the moment it happens

The moment his name is no longer rooted in time.

The timeline trembles under you. Like reality is preparing itself.

And then

He begins to collapse.

The brightness in the center of him folds inward, imploding like a dying star. His shape, such as it is, begins to disperse, dissolving not into ash or blood, but into nothingness. Into a nothingness so pure it makes the air glitter with sickness.

You don’t weep.

You don’t smile.

You just watch.

Because this was never about revenge.

This is correction.

You’re not removing him because he wounded you.

You’re removing him because he doesn’t belong here.

And when the final fragment of him flickers, one damaged eye looking at you from across an infinite abyss of every form of him that ever existed

You speak one final time.

“Not in my reality.”

Then he’s gone.

No sound.

No light.

Just… absence.

And you’re left standing in the dust.

Not triumphant.

Not relieved.

Just entire.

For the first time.

And somewhere, deep in the structure of the multiverse, something sighs in relief.

The instant Angstrom is gone, you remain upright for barely a few seconds.

Hovering.

Radiant.

The remainder of your light pulses slow and steady under your skin, but it’s no longer a storm, it’s the ripple of a lake immediately before it freezes. The radiance is fading. The strength that once spilled from you in blinding surges is calm now, settled, submissive.

Complete.

You should collapse. Your body wants to. But something in you still clings fast, some unseen thread keeping you suspended while the whole weight of reality begins to slide back into place.

And then… the city shifts.

Not brutally.

Not even with sound.

Just quietly, carefully.

As if space itself has recalled the shape it used to be. And it bends now to that remembrance.

The wreckage, the twisted steel, the fragmented fragments of buildings all across the skyline, they begin to rise. Slowly. Softly. Dust lingers aloft in shimmering sheets, lit by the warm glow still flowing from your palms. It catches in your aura like stardust stuck in gravity.

Down in the crater, streets raise themselves from their shattered hinges, snapping back together with calm elegance. Pavement smooths like new clay with soft fingers. Lampposts ascend. Sewer grates return to their homes.

Shattered glass reverses its fall, climbs back into windows.

Walls knit themselves whole again.

And the flames?

They disappear. Not extinguished.

Erased.

Undone, like they were never lit at all.

No sound accompanies the miracle.

No roar of time reversing. No rush of energy.

Only breath.

Only quietness.

The Guardians watch from a neighboring rooftop, their looks inscrutable, a mix of amazement, uncertainty, and something more. Respect. Even fear. They don’t speak. Not even Rex, who always has something to say. Not even Robot, who is always analyzing.

Because there’s nothing to say when a city cures itself.

Not by design.

But by volition.

By you.

They all sensed the instant Angstrom died, or whatever phrase comes closest to what you did to him. But they didn’t anticipate this. They didn’t anticipate the world to follow your anguish home and decide to reconstruct itself in its image.

They didn’t expect you to fix what you never broke.

And Mark?

He hasn’t moved since he saw you fall.

The light in your body is going out now.

Your feet eventually fall, just inches, and touch down on the rooftop.

You sway.

You move forward once, slowly, like your body is forgetting how to be human again.

And then

You sigh.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s hardly audible.

Just a release.

The exhalation of something old returning to calm.

And suddenly your knees buckle.

You collapse all at once, body crumpling, energy gone, limbs too heavy to carry you.

But you never touch the ground.

Because Mark is already there.

He catches you with both arms, instinct faster than thinking, moving if the ground was pulling you away from him and he couldn’t allow it. His hands embrace your body with tenderness, like he’s cradling the lone remaining star in a fading cosmos.

He lowers with you to the rooftop, knees hitting the broken concrete, one hand wrapped around your waist, the other behind your head.

You’re unconscious.

Completely still.

But your face is gentle. Peaceful. Like the storm inside you has finally gone calm. Like you’ve scorched your way to tranquility.

Mark combs your hair back, softly, fingers delicate on your temple. There’s blood on your skin. Your suit is ripped, ribs bruised, hands shaking with the echo of a force your body wasn’t intended to hold.

But he doesn’t look away.

His forehead crushes into yours, his eyes clenched tight, breath trembling as he hugs you.

He murmurs your name, voice breaking in the center.

He doesn’t sob.

He doesn’t yell.

He just holds you closer.

As if doing so may protect the cosmos from claiming you again.

The Guardians begin to walk behind him, but slowly, like something sacred has happened here, and they aren’t ready to shatter the hush. Rae rubs a palm down her face. Dupli-Kate creates no copies. Rex is standing quite motionless.

Even Robot’s sensors buzz low and cautious.

Because the city is entire again.

As if none of it occurred.

As if Angstrom never touched it.

But they know better.

They know a deity went through it.

And then fell asleep in Mark Grayson’s arms.

Above them, the sky begins to clear.

The clouds split apart in gentle waves, allowing sunshine stream through for the first time since the conflict began. The gold strikes your skin and bathes you both in warmth.

Mark looks up at the city.

Then down at you.

Then draws you closer.

“I’ve got you,” he adds again, gentler now. Like a promise he plans to keep. “I’ve got you.”

And in his arms, you relax.

Not broken.

Not empty.

Just…

Done.

For now.

You wake up to white.

A sterile white that doesn’t hum with power, or crackle with broken time, or pulse with significance.

Just… cold light.

Flat ceilings.

Beeping.

The fragrance of disinfectant.

You blink once.

Then again.

It’s hard. Like lifting iron. Your eyes are crusted at the corners, lashes thick, the whites of your eyes hurting like you’ve been sobbing for weeks.

The lights are too bright.

Everything aches.

Your body feels like it’s been emptied and replenished with gravel, your joints hurt, your spine screams, and your throat burns with dryness. You open your mouth but only manage a rasp. Not a word.

Not even his name.

And suddenly the beeping changes.

A monitor someplace to your right rises with a startling alarm. You cringe at the sound. Everything feels wrong, too loud, too sharp, too small. The world isn’t moving like it’s meant to. You feel too huge for this bed, too sluggish for this time.

Panic surges in your chest like bile.

You try to sit up.

You can’t.

Your body won’t listen. Your muscles twitch but don’t activate. Your arms tremble. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know if you’re you anymore. Everything in your recollection is a blur of light and shouting and Angstrom and Mark-

“Hey.”

The voice cuts through everything.

Soft.

Breathless.

Familiar.

You move your head toward the sound, sluggish and shaky.

And he’s there.

Mark.

Sitting in the corner chair.

His back hunched, elbows on his knees, heavy bags beneath his eyes. His hair is longer than you recall, messier, like he’s been raking his hands through it in irritation or terror. His jaw is taut. He’s wearing a wrinkled sweatshirt and pants, neither of which appear like they’ve been washed recently.

And he’s gazing at you like you might disappear again.

You blink at him, your breath shallow.

You attempt to speak again, but all that comes out is a cough.

Mark rushes up, crossing the room quicker than he probably meant to, pushing the oxygen mask down over your lips before you can object.

“Don’t talk. Don’t move. Just breathe, okay?” His voice is trembling now. Rough around the edges. “You’re okay. You’re okay, you’re awake, you’re here.”

You blink again. Your fingers tremble against the blanket.

Your voice, raw and broken, barely makes it through the oxygen.

“…Mark?”

He lets out a laugh, quiet and choked, and bends down until his forehead meets yours, his breath shaking.

“I thought I lost you,” he murmurs.

You sense him. Not only the warmth of his flesh. The weight of his apprehension. It’s heavy in the air, sticking to him like a second skin. He’s been living within it. You know he has. You can smell it on him. Worry. Sweat. Sleeplessness.

He’s been here.

Every day.

“I’m-” you attempt, but your throat won’t cooperate.

He shakes his head. “Don’t. You don’t have to say anything. I just…God, I didn’t think-” His voice cracks again. “You were out for a month.”

That strikes harder than anything else.

A month?

Your eyes expand.

He nods before you can ask. “You passed out after the fight. They had to put you on life support. The GDA didn’t know what to do. They didn’t understand what you were, what you’d done, what you became. You fixed the entire city. They watched you do it.”

You swallow heavily.

The recollections are shards, fragmented and half-formed. Screaming. Light. The threads. Angstrom. The sound of Mark’s voice. Then quiet.

And then… nothing.

Until now.

You shift slightly. Beneath the blankets, you feel something unusual.

Your hand twitches toward your stomach.

Mark catches it quickly.

He swallows, his fingers softly moving yours to rest on your lower abdomen. There’s no bump yet. No shine. But something is there.

His hand covers yours.

“It’s okay,” he adds calmly. “The baby’s okay.”

Your eyes swell.

You’re too exhausted to cry, yet your body tries anyhow. Your throat constricts. Your chest rattles.

You remember…

You recall the flash, the cry, the pain. You recall the instant Angstrom attacked. The quiet that followed. You recall thinking, ‘it’s gone.’

Mark watches your face shift. He squeezes your hand.

“I thought we lost it too. I thought…” He fades off, breath hitching. “But the GDA did the scans. Two weeks after you went down. They couldn’t believe it. No harm. No anomalies. You…you brought it back. When you healed everything else. You brought back the baby too.”

You gaze up at him.

Not glowing. Not floating.

Just you.

A woman in a hospital bed, nestled beneath a tattered blanket, eyes wide with the weight of everything she almost lost.

You can’t talk.

So he does it for you.

He settles onto the edge of the bed, trying not to move you too much. His hand stays on yours. His eyes don’t leave your face.

“I didn’t leave,” he says. “Not once.”

You believe him.

His voice cracks again, lower this time. “I couldn’t. Even when they said you might not wake up. Even when Robot said it was too risky to keep you here. Even after Cecil said you scared the shit out of the entire planet…”

He exhales, one hand stroking lightly across your knuckles.

“I didn’t care.”

Silence settles between you. Thick with everything unsaid.

The hospital room hums with life beyond the walls. The GDA’s technology, sleek and clean. The glass boundaries. The faint thrum of sensors. But it’s just noise.

Because he’s here.

You’re here.

And something inside you, something deep, finally lets go.

You rest behind the covers. You breathe.

And for the first time in a month, the world feels possible again.

You close your eyes.

Just for a time.

And when you fall back into sleep, Mark is still holding your hand.

You don’t mean to fall asleep again.

But your body selects for you.

Sleep washes over you like fog, calm and silent, numbing the sharpest edges of your consciousness. The instant your eyes close, you sink into a weightless dark, not terrible, nor noisy, just... empty. Restful. No visions. No shouting. No changing threads or fracturing timelines. Just you, suspended in a silence your mind hasn’t experienced in years.

You don’t know how long you sleep. An hour. Maybe two. But when you wake again, it’s kinder this time. Softer. The light is dimmer. Someone must’ve turned down the artificial sunlamp overhead. The humming monitors still clock out your vitals in repetitive beeps. The machines beside your bed flicker with languid apathy.

But the most crucial thing?

He’s still here.

Mark sits in the same chair.

He’s in a clean shirt now, gray, a touch too large in the shoulders, perhaps something Cecil handed him from the GDA storage vault. He has one hand wrapped around a paper coffee cup, the other resting on the side of your bed. His head is cocked to the side, mouth slack with slumber. His whole body’s slouched forward like he simply folded into himself while waiting for your body to give him permission to rest.

You blink slowly, throat dry.

Your fingers tremble beneath the covers, the IV line straining at your flesh.

Mark’s head rises instantaneously.

He jolts awake like someone startled him. The coffee pours slightly over the rim, but he doesn’t care. He’s already leaning toward you.

“Hey…hey,” he murmurs, his voice raspy from lack of usage. “You’re awake again. Are you okay? How do you feel?”

You blink at him, eyes blazing a little. “Like someone dropped a building on me.”

That brings the tiniest puff of a smile from him. “Yeah. That’s... not far off.”

He’s closer now. His eyes roam your face like he’s re-learning you. He observes the bruises on your neck, the scars on your shoulder, the paleness that’s never fully left since the moment they carried your corpse off that rooftop.

“You’ve been out most of the day,” he adds quietly. “They didn’t want to move you yet. I warned them not to push it.”

You nod, voice barely audible. “Thanks.”

A pause descends between you. Not unpleasant, just full. There’s too much to say. Too much that can’t be mentioned. Mark doesn’t push. He never does. He simply waits. He’s so skilled at waiting when it matters.

You gaze down at your stomach.

Your hand trembles when you lift it from the blanket and lay it on your abdomen. Your breath hitches, not from pain, but from feeling something. Just a tiny adjustment. Not a kick. Not movement. But a presence.

Still there.

Still alive.

Mark’s hand covers yours again. He doesn't say anything. He doesn’t have to.

You murmur, “It came back.”

His jaw tightens. He nods slowly. “You brought it back.”

You don’t know how. You don’t recall doing it. The last thing you remember was Angstrom’s face as he broke beneath you, your name entwined in his dying scream, and then, nothing. Then Mark’s voice summoning you home.

You close your eyes again, breathing gently.

“…Is the city okay?” you mumble.

Mark moves his chair in closer. “Yeah. You… you fixed it. All of it. Streets, buildings, hell, even some trees came back. It was like nothing happened.”

You open your eyes slowly, gaze unfocused. “So no one's asking questions?”

Mark exhales. “Oh, they’re asking questions. The whole GDA went into lockdown for twenty-four hours after you passed out. Robot scanned your energy signature fifteen times. Cecil really tried to put a dampening field on the room until I threatened to tear it out of the wall.”

That earns him your first laugh, a quiet, broken exhalation that dies in your throat.

Mark shifts, staring down. “They’re scared. I won’t lie. You did something none of them can understand.”

You wait for the rest.

“And so are you,” he continues, quieter now.

You gaze up at him.

He doesn’t say it to blame you. It’s not allegation. It’s just fact. Observation. He knows you. He knows you better than anyone. Of course he sees it. The way your hands curl in on themselves. The way you cringe when the heart monitor leaps. The way your eyes haven’t stopped moving since you woke up.

You are afraid.

Because you don’t know what you are today.

You’re not what Angstrom sought to create you. You’re not the GDA’s broken mental weapon. You’re not just a woman with powers anymore. You saw too much. You touched too many strands. You twisted the world and rewrote it.

And now you’re awake.

Still here.

Still you.

But what does that mean?

You feel tears sting behind your eyelids.

Mark sees it too. He leans in, brushing a hand over your forehead softly, like he did on all those nights you never awakened.

“You’re not alone,” he replies, gently but firmly. “Okay? We’ll work it out. You and me. Whatever this is. Whatever you are today. I don’t care how many timelines you’ve touched. I don’t care if you’re a constant or a fixed point or a walking reality anchor.”

His voice drops. Warmer. A smile pulling softly at his lips.

“You’re mine.”

Your breath shudders.

And you start weeping.

Not loud. Not broken. Just quiet tears that trace down into your hairline, your shoulders trembling as he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses it tenderly.

“I’m here,” he murmurs. “I never left. I never will.”

You nod slowly.

You don’t know what tomorrow will look like.

You don’t know what you’ll become.

But tonight

You’re merely a woman in a bed, bearing a kid who shouldn’t be alive, carried in the arms of the man who waited for you.

You’re not sure when you stopped sobbing.

But Mark’s still here. Sitting in the chair near your bed, bent forward, elbows on his knees. He hasn’t moved much, and he’s not looking at you right now. His eyes are fixated on the wall, mouth set in that manner you’ve seen a thousand times, the silent sensation, the way he carries too much in his chest and has no idea how to say any of it.

He seems like he wants to run and stay at the same time.

Like if he opens his mouth, something’s going to come free he can’t reel back in.

“Hey,” you rasp, voice hoarse from disuse. “Mark.”

He blinks and looks toward you quickly.

“Sorry,” he says immediately. “I didn’t mean to space out. I just, I’ve been trying to find out how to… say something.”

You nod once.

He leans back in the chair, folding his arms. He hesitates.

“You know how I said you pulled me out of that other world?” he starts, voice quieter now. “Through the portal?”

You nod again, slower this time.

“Well… before that happened, I saw it. That full dimension. It was…different.”

He moves uneasily. Like the words don’t want to leave his mouth.

“Better,” he acknowledges.

The stillness that follows makes your heart halt.

He sees it on your face and waves his hands, like he’s trying to dismiss the weight of what he just uttered.

“Not better like better without you, I didn’t mean it like that. I just-”

He stops. Sighs. Rakes a hand through his hair.

“Everything was clean. Organized. People weren’t scared. There weren’t any threats hanging overhead. Just... peace.”

You wait.

Because you know this isn’t the part that’s bugging him.

He leans forward again, elbows on his knees, peering at the floor like he’s frightened to look at you as he says it.

“And there was a statue of you.”

Your fingers twitch. “Big one. In the middle of the capital. Marble. Perfect likeness. It said… something like ‘She gave everything. She still watches.’” He doesn’t say anything for a time.

You don’t either.

Because you’re not sure whether you can. “I didn’t get it at first,” he continues. “I thought maybe it was some tribute. I figured you probably worked with their version of the GDA or something. But then I realized… you were gone. That world only looked like that because you weren’t in it anymore.” You swallow heavily.

Mark exhales, massaging the back of his neck.

“And I met him. Their version of me.”

Your eyes locate his.

He shrugs. “He was... okay. Not insane. Just really put-together. Quiet. Controlled. Not exactly friendly.”

You attempt to envision it. Him, without the chaos, without the impetuous heart.

You don’t like it.

Mark doesn’t appear to either.

“He told me I reminded him of himself when he was young,” Mark says. “Said I looked like I hadn’t made the hard decisions yet.”

He chuckles, but there’s no fun about it.

“Whatever that means.”

Then his voice lowers.

“I met his kid.”

You freeze.

Mark doesn’t look at you. He glances forward.

“His name was Cael.”

The hush hovers for a long time. “He didn’t say it at first,” Mark says quietly. “That he was… ours. I figured it out when I saw his eyes. He was smart. Brave. A little weird. But he was trying. He looked up to Emperor Me like a god and didn’t even realize it. Just wanted to be better.” You’re weeping again.

You don’t notice it until Mark finally glances at you and his expression relaxes.

“I didn’t want to leave,” he says. “I didn’t want to stay either. It was... a lot.”

He leans forward again, forearms resting on the side of the bed, hands folded loosely between his knees.

“And when I saw you again, this you, it felt like someone pulled me back into my own skin. Like I’d been sleepwalking.”

You can scarcely breathe.

“But the worst part?” he asks, finally meeting your eyes. “The worst part was that in that world, Cael grows up without you. And I know he turns out okay. He’s strong. He’s a good kid. But he never got to hear your voice. Or see you smile. Or even know why you made the decisions you did.”

You hide your mouth.

Mark shakes his head, eyes red but unshed. “I don’t want that world. Not even if it’s perfect. I want this one. I want you.”

He states it so simply.

So simple.

No huge declarations. No fancy speeches.

Just Mark.

You nod.

“Me too.”

He grins. Not a grin. Not joy.

Just peaceful relief.

And for a minute, even in a hospital bed, even hooked up to machines, even raw from everything you’ve gone through

You feel like you’re finally home.

There’s a knock at the door.

Soft. Hesitant.

Mark straightens in his chair and glances over his shoulder, his hand still clutching yours, eyes a bit wide like he’s not ready for anybody else to enter this fragile area yet.

You move your head toward the sound, sluggish and tired.

The door creaks open a few inches.

And then she walks in.

Debbie Grayson.

She hasn’t changed much, and yet strangely, she has.

She’s still herself, that quiet power in jeans and a cardigan, hair pushed back in a manner that implies she hasn’t slept much, eyes that miss nothing. But there’s something different in her, now.

A tenderness that didn’t present before.

A tranquility that wasn’t there the last time you saw her.

And then she sees Mark.

Her face breaks.

Not with tears. With a grin.

It’s not forced. It’s not hurried. It’s the type of grin that pulls its way from deep inside your chest, the kind that’s only conceivable when someone you love is in front of you again, alive and entire and safe.

Mark gets to his feet but only halfway, like he’s not sure if he should go to her, or if she’ll come to him.

She answers that question for him.

She crosses the room in four rapid strides and takes him into her arms before he can say anything.

He stiffens, just for a second, then melts into it.

He embraces her back, hard.

“Hi, Mom,” he mutters, voice muffled into her shoulder.

“I told you not to scare me like that again,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling, her voice catching with passion. “You always come home half-dead. Just once, I’d like you to come back without bruises.”

Mark huffs a chuckle.

“I’ll try,” he says.

Debbie draws back and embraces his face, her hands on either cheek, thumbs caressing the slight worried scowl along his jaw. “God, you look like your father when you do that.”

He grimaces little. “Yeah, that’s a weird thing to say now.”

“I meant it as a compliment,” she smirks.

Then she releases go and stares at you.

Her smile alters, softens, and her eyes turn dewy.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says sweetly.

You glance at her, shocked by how much your chest expands at the sound of her words.

“Hi,” you say, your throat still raw.

“You scared the hell out of us,” she continues, and her voice wavers, only for a second. “They weren’t sure you were going to wake up.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” you say, and it comes out broken and little.

She approaches to your side, her hand lingering before resting softly on your blanket-covered arm. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

And then

A tiny person peers over the doorframe.

You blink.

[dontforgetukraine]

This month, Olena Vladymyrets, a Holodomor witness from the Vinnytsia region,celebrated her 95th birthday. Ms Olena was born on November 4,1929. She is the only one of 3 daughters of Oleksandr and Marta Tsvylyk who survived the Holodomor. Photo from Nina Vladymyrets' Fb page. "We lived in Tomashpil village in the Khmilnytskyi district, Vinnytsia region.There were 3 of us: the eldest, Larysa, born in 1927; me, in 1929; the youngest, Mariyka, in 1932. Both of my sisters didn’t survive. Mariyka was only 5 months old," she told our museum staff in an interview. During the Holodomor, she was very young, but she heard from her parents that before collectivization, people lived decently. "Those who worked, they lived..." But then, all their bread was taken away. "You know, as they used to say: 'Lenin told Stalin to take away the 'surpluses' but Stalin thought: take everything to the last crumb!' And so they did. My mother managed to earn a small amount of grain and put it in a pot to cook. She placed the pot in the oven, covering it with cauldron of water as if she were only heating the water. Activists broke in, poured out the water, removed the small pot of grain, and dumped it into their bag. Neither tears nor pleas helped. They took everything from everyone, and that is how the famine began." In 1946-1947, Olena Oleksandrivna experienced yet another man-made famine. "Mother and five of us, children, (four were born after the Holodomor) were already without a father (he died in the war). In the winter of 1947, Mother travelled to Western Ukraine seven times to trade some household goods for food." Ms Olena recalls. "She took all the essential items we had at home, including linens, towels, and various other things. It was a hard journey; they travelled in boxcars,got caught,and were forced off. And I, at 16, stayed home alone with the children. When Mum returned from the West, she brought a bit of grain. We kept a little for ourselves,then took the rest to the market in Bykiv, 8–10 km away. There, Mum sold the grain and bought clothes—jackets, skirts, dresses, scarves to go back to the West, as we had already sold out everything we had. I looked at those clothes and wanted a dress or a skirt so badly; after all, I was a girl! But what could I say to my mother? There were still younger children at home who were asking for food…" Today, Ms Olena, along with all of Ukraine, is going through another hardship—the war unleashed by Russia. Despite her age, she helps her daughter Nina make trench candles for Ukrainian soldiers. In addition, throughout the summer, the women made homemade treats for the soldiers they grew themselves: pastila, adjika, pickled cucumbers, tomatoes, fruits, vegetables, and berries! Although our birthday celebrant needs a walker to move, she actively contributes to volunteer work. She rolls cardboard for candles, peels fruits and vegetables, and assists her daughter as much as she can. Her daughter has also sent five drones to the front lines and provided medications, tourniquets and other essential items requested by the soldiers. We wish Ms Olena health,a long life,and a speedy Victory,which she dreams of more than anything else! May her dream come true! —Holodomor Museum

[wonderjanga]

C.C. and Diana

Anyways, this is just me wondering if the two ever met. Probably not, but hey, let me imagine. So for this to work, this is gonna have to be WW2 Wonder Woman who stayed for about a year after the war, working as a museum curator. She could’ve met a C.C. who apparently also was a museum curator. (see the photo at the end) Now, this could’ve been before Billy and Mary were born, but I like to think C.C. and Marilyn were childhood sweethearts because I want them to be super in love.

WW: “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr.Batson.”

C.C.: “Likewise, Ms.Prince.”

*They shake hands and then proceed to talk about whatever museum curators talk about for a couple hours. They then part ways and proceed to never meet again. Until they do. Sort of.*

Marvel: “It’s nice to meet you, Ms.Wonder Woman.”

WW: “Likewise, Captain.” *thinks Marvel is familiar*

*They also shake hands*

WW: “Say, do you have a liking for archeology?”

Marvel: “Ah. Yes, how’d you know?” (Billy got into it as a way to feel closer to his parents)

WW: “No reason.” (She’s not about to out the man’s “identity”)

*she corners him later in the Watchtower*

WW: “You know, I nearly forgot about you. How are you even alive still? I thought mortals aged quickly.”

Marvel: “Sorry, what?”

WW: “I thought mortals could only age to about one hundred before death.”

Marvel: “Uh… Yeah? I guess that’s true.” *nods head confused*

WW: *raises eyebrow* “Were you even a mortal at the time we met?”

Marvel: “No?” *wondering if she’s referring to earlier that day when Billy met her for the first time, or if she’s talking about something else*

WW: “I see.” *wondering if they met by coincidence or not*

Marvel: “Sorry, I’m a little confused. We’ve met before?”

WW: “Yes? In 46. After the Second World War.”

Marvel: “Oh. Huh. I don’t remember that.” (He wasn’t even born) *shakes head*

WW: “Really?” *thinking she confused Marvel with some random mortal* “My apologies then. I must’ve confused you for someone else.”

Marvel: “No, no, no! It’s fine. Promise.” *doesn’t want her to apologize*

Also after seeing C.C. in this panel… wow. The man is an archeologist, yet also built like a damn tank. This is also my first actual time seeing C.C. in a comic book panel so there’s that too. I mean, I knew Billy was supposed to be a copy of his dad, but I mean… my mind wasn’t connecting the fact that he was a copy copy of him.

[sadgayeddie]

I close my eyes and all I see is you, buddie, 3,5k words, mature

“Dad. Has anyone ever told you that you’re gay? I think you might be gay.” Chris finally asks the question we have all wanted to ask Eddie Diaz for years.

“Dad. Has anyone ever told you that you’re gay? I think you might be gay.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m just saying, Dad. It would kinda… track. You know. With your history and everything.”

“Chris, what are you talking about? I’m not gay.”

“Dad.”

“Why would you even think that? I mean, not that there would be anything wrong with that, obviously, I know a lot of gay people and I love them and you know I would still love you if–”

“Dad! I know that, but I’m not gay. You are.”

Eddie pulls the car over. They’re on their way home from the El Paso Museum of Archaeology. After Chris moved in with Eddie and quit playing chess, they’ve been using the newly opened time slot to try to mend their relationship again by trying different things together. Slowly but surely they’ve opened up to each other and Eddie feels like they’re almost back to where they were before everything went down.

They’ve been talking about Shannon. About Kim. You made a mistake, Dad. And I just needed some space. About how Helena and Ramon kept Eddie in the dark and how they had been doing the same to Chris, thinking they were doing what was best for them both. They had been wrong. What was best for Eddie and Chris was for them to just… talk it out. It might not have worked right after it happened, but if Eddie had been brave enough he would have made it happen sooner than this. But he hadn’t been brave enough.

You don’t need to protect me, Dad. But it was hard. Protecting Chris was engraved in Eddie’s whole being. He had sworn from the day Chris was born that he was going to protect him from everything bad this cruel world had to offer, but he had failed, over and over and over again. Leaving him with Shannon. Twice. Having her leave him with Eddie. Leaving for LA with no plan for Chris. The tsunami. Chris running away. Kim. Not stopping Chris from leaving. Not going after Chris when he left. Waiting for Chris to say he wanted to come home. Waiting too long to go back to El Paso. He had failed countless times. The car comes to a stop.

Eddie sighs. “Care to share why you’ve come to this conclusion?”

“I think you’re gay,” Chris says, smiling with his whole face. “And in love with Buck. You’re always talking to him.”

Eddie’s heart skips a beat. Buck? That is, in fact, hilarious, he thinks. He is totally laughing out loud right now, slapping-his-knee-laughing-out-loud. Hollering. Except he’s not. He just sits there, hands still on the wheel, staring at Chris with his eyebrows up to his hairline.

“Dad, come on. It would make a lot of sense.”

“Chris. You know I’m straight. I loved your mom.”

“See? Loved mom. That’s past tense.”

“I will always love your mom.”

“Did you love Ana?”

He hadn’t loved Ana. That’s the reason it didn’t work out. He had wanted to love Ana so badly. She was the picture perfect person for him, and for Chris. Everything he wanted. Or, everything he thought he wanted in a partner. “No, I didn’t.” He owes Chris to be honest with what he does know, after all their progress.

“And Marisol?”

“I– no. No.”

“And Buck?”

His heart skips a beat again. Of course he loves Buck. But not like that .

“Chris. I love Buck, but he and I are just best friends, you know that. Just because he came out as bi doesn’t mean I am too.”

“I know that, dad. I said that you’re gay .”

He groans. “Please stop. We need to get home, it’s getting late.”

“Come on, Dad.”

Eddie signals and pulls out in traffic again. “I’m not gay. Okay? I’ve never even thought about it, anyway.”

Chris huffs. “Well, maybe that’s the point I’m trying to make.”

Eddie just shakes his head and doesn’t say anything. He’s not gay.

-

He’s… maybe a little gay, actually, when he thinks about it.

Eddie went to bed early. Chris was in his room on his computer anyway and was done hanging out with him for the day, and Eddie had no interest in rotting in front of the TV as he had done other nights. And Buck was on shift so he couldn’t talk to him either, not that he wanted to tell Buck about this anyway. He shifts in bed and tries to find a comfortable position, but everything feels uncomfortable. He tries for another ten minutes, maybe, before he gives in and grabs his phone from the bedside table.

“how do you know if you’re gay”

You feel sexually aroused when you see attractive people of the same gender as you. You've had crushes on people of the same gender as you in the past. Your past opposite-sex relationships have felt "off," uncomfortable, or not romantic or sexual. You have sexual fantasies about people of the same gender as you.

Eddie reads that third sentence again. Your past opposite-sex relationships have felt “off”, uncomfortable. Oh. He clicks in on the wikiHow article and scrolls down a little.

4. Reflect on your past relationships and how they made you feel. You can be gay even if you’ve had straight relationships in the past. Okay. Right. He continues reading. Think about who you dated in the past and how comfortable you felt in the relationship. Shannon. He loved her. Ana. She was nice. Marisol. Well. Ask yourself if you felt attracted to this person and what type of attraction you felt. This can help you figure out if you might be queer.

Eddie had been attracted to them. They’d had sex, and it had felt good. Maybe they’d never… done anything more than the normal stuff. He liked going down on them, them going down on him. He liked the way their soft skin felt under his fingers, and how nice it felt to be inside them. But anything else hadn’t really been interesting to him. With Shannon, they were still teens, and after she got pregnant, they tried to sometimes but it had felt wrong. And after Chris was born… he left. And then she left. And came back. And they used sex instead of talking. And with Ana... they didn’t sleep together until a while into their relationship, mostly because of Chris. But Marisol was a different thing. They had so much sex, all the time. But that stopped when he found out about the nun thing. But that was just the Catholic guilt, right? He scrolls down again until he finds something else that sounds interesting.

wikiHow Quiz: Am I Gay? Well. It won’t hurt. First question. Have you ever had feelings for a same-gender close friend?

These answers are… interesting. I think so. That’s why I’m taking this quiz. Well, he had never thought about it before. Wait, what’s the difference between a friendship and a crush? Shannon was his best friend when they got together. She made him feel warm and safe, and she made him laugh. She never made him nervous. Ana and Marisol had made him feel nervous. He had a panic attack at the thought of Ana being Chris’ mom. Marisol made him panic too, eventually. Oh. Don’t think so, but we’re so close people joke that we’re dating. Buck is his best friend. He makes him feel warm and safe. He makes Eddie laugh. Nope. We’re just friends.

He exits the browser and opens up the photos app and scrolls that instead. He doesn’t take that many photos, really, but the ones he has are of Chris, him and Chris, Chris and Buck. Him, Chris and Buck. Buck alone. Eddie takes a deep breath and sighs, long and loudly. Buck.

He rubs his eyes and chuckles, and opens up a picture he took of Buck a while back, standing in Eddie’s kitchen, apron on, holding out a dish looking so proud that Eddie just had to take a picture. Looked like one of those people who pose with a fish. But it’s Buck in an apron and Eddie is… so in love. He doesn’t need the quiz anymore.

He looks at the time and he really did go to bed early, it’s not even nine in LA. He calls Buck.

Buck answers quickly, and he sounds a bit worried. “Hey, Eddie, is everything alright? Is Chris okay?” Oh, right, Buck is on shift. He forgot.

“Everything’s fine! I just… um. How’s it going? You at work?” Eddie swears he needs to stop acting on impulse again.

“We just got back from a call, some kid got stuck in a swing. Got him out, safe and sound!” Buck’s voice is calm again and it makes Eddie’s whole body feel warm, knowing he will always want to know if Chris is okay first. Eddie loves him.

“That’s nice to hear. Kids, man.” Kids, man?

“So, what did you and Chris do tonight?”

“We uh– we went to a museum we haven’t been to before. It was fun. Nothing happened, really.” A lot of things had happened, actually.

“Eddie, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. I just wanted to… say hi.” He hesitates for a second and his voice goes a little quieter. “I miss you.”

Buck’s voice is soft when he replies. “I miss you too.” And then the alarm goes off. “I need to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Bye, bye, bye!” And he hangs up.

Eddie groans. How could he not know ?

Okay. So, he knows he’s in love with Buck. Chris was right about that. But the gay thing? Is he attracted to Buck? Is he attracted to men ? He had been honest with Chris that he had never thought about it. His mind had never even gone there. But Buck’s hadn’t either. He opens up his browser again, but this time he clicks incognito mode and grabs his AirPods. He only puts in one so he can still hear Chris if he needs something but he won’t risk him hearing what Eddie was about to do.

He’s familiar with the ordeal if he is in a rush to get off and his mind is tired. It isn’t often he does this, usually he does it in the shower. No clean up necessary, as a stress relief after work. When he does do this however, he searches for those real-life couple videos. He likes it when it feels like they actually enjoy it and there’s no exaggerating. This time, however, he adds “gay” to his search. His pulse goes up and he already feels his boxers tightening. Oh, that’s… interesting.

He clicks on a video with a good enough title and a thumbnail that doesn’t look too vulgar. He takes a deep breath and presses play. The two men in the video are on a bed, dressed in t-shirts and sweats, just kissing softly. One of them is stroking the other one’s face with his thumb and the other one’s hand is rubbing his side, fingers slowly exposing skin and Eddie shivers . He’s already hard. This does it for him? When he’s been watching porn before, he usually has to get to the actually fucking parts before he’s even there. He palms himself for relief.

The men in the video start grinding against each other and he can see their hard cocks through their sweats. The one who was rubbing his side slides his whole hand under the shirt and pulls it up, making them break the kiss to remove it. Sitting up, he can clearly see their tented sweats. Eddie groans as quietly as he can, looking over at the door to see that it’s really closed before he starts rubbing at his cock through his boxers.

He continues watching as they undress each other just to their boxers and the one on top has kissed his way down his body to mouth at the wet spot that’s clearly showing. Eddie’s sure his looks the same. He closes his eyes and thinks about Buck doing that to him. His lips would be swollen after all the kissing, his eyes would be big, the arousal making the blue almost disappear. He imagines Buck’s big, calloused hands, fingernails bitten down to the skin, stroking his hard cock through his boxers and he has to put his phone down to the side and put his fist against his mouth to stop the sound coming out from him. The audio keeps playing in his AirPod, but it’s enough. He finally slips his hand inside and wraps it around himself. He thinks about Buck, his hard cock rubbing against his own, their precome mixing, Eddie’s big hands wrapping around them both.

Oh. He’s definitely attracted to Buck. He’s just never… thought about it. And now when he is , he can’t stop. He’s thinking about his eyes, his lips, his birthmark that gets redder when he’s working out. How it would be intensely red during sex. Eddie’s stroking himself fast, imagining how Buck’s body would move against his, how good it would feel to kiss him, to touch him, to be inside him. Eddie comes. Hot and sudden and so intensely fast, just at the thought of fucking Buck. Oh, he’s down bad. The video is still playing in his ear and he’s pretty sure it hasn’t even been five minutes.

So. He’s definitely not straight. Maybe even gay, actually. And he’s in love with Buck. He should get Chris a present.

-

Buck calls him the next day when he gets off shift. Eddie’s dropped Chris off at school and he’s getting himself ready for another day of Uber driving. The only good thing about that is that he can choose his own hours, and right now he can be at home, trying to figure out what to say to Buck. It’s a FaceTime call. Eddie answers. Buck looks so soft.

“Hi.”

“Hey, Eddie. You good?”

He can be brave. This time, he can be brave enough.

“Chris thinks I’m gay. And in love with you.”

He thanks his impulses this time.

“W-what?”

“And he’s right. I am.”

“Eddie, what?”

Eddie takes a breath and he feels his cheeks burn, looking anywhere but directly at Buck.

“Chris asked me if anyone’s ever told me I’m gay. Which no one has, obviously. Never even occurred to me to think that I could be.”

“Eddie–“

“And you know I loved Shannon. She was my best friend.”

“Eddie–“

“And Ana, you know that story. And Marisol–“

“Eddie!”

He looks at Buck again.

“I-I think I’m in love with you too?”

Oh.

“I mean. I couldn’t– I wasn’t– you’re straight. Or was. Maddie told me it wouldn’t be so crazy.”

“You’ve talked to Maddie? About that?”

“Eddie. I-I couldn’t sleep in your house for days after I moved out of the loft. And then I couldn’t shut up about you to Ravi at work and then he brought me Tommy at the bar and w-we hooked up and he left after he accused you of being his competition! The whole time!”

Eddie’s heart beats fast. “You brought… Tommy to the house?”

“That’s not the point, Eddie. He implied I had feelings for you and I said, no, of course I don’t have feelings for you because you’re straight. But–”

“Was that your reason?”

“Uh–”

Eddie starts laughing. Wholeheartedly laughing. For real, this time. “Wait, when does Maddie come in in all of this?”

“I kinda ran to her place after Tommy left and told her what had happened. And I told her I was not in love with you. Because you’re straight.” He pauses. “But you’re not.”

“I’m not.” He feels so high that he doesn’t even try to stop himself from saying it. “I got off thinking about you last night.”

Buck goes bright red. “Oh?”

“I– It was like a light switch, Buck. I had no idea. I’ve never let myself think about it.”

There’s a spark in Buck’s eyes now. The same spark he had seen when he had flipped the iPad in Eddie’s kitchen. “What did you think about, Eddie?”

“Oh. I, um, I watched some porn.” He coughs. “Gay porn. And all I could think about was you. Doing those things. To me.” His face is still burning.

“And you liked it? Thinking about me?”

“You could say that. I don’t even think they were fully undressed by the time I came.” Eddie shifts in his seat, the picture of last night fully in his mind right now. “I only kinda half-listened to it. Was imagining you.”

Buck moans a little. “Oh, and uh, what did I do? In your mind?”

“We were in bed. You on top of me. Kissing my neck… touching me.” Eddie is straining against his jeans, desperate to touch himself. Buck looks like he is in a similar situation, his face flushed and, yeah, his birthmark does in fact, get redder during arousal. “I could fit my hands around us both.” He finally gives in and zips down his jeans, freeing himself and puts his hand around his swollen cock again. The relief is instant and he moans very loudly. “And then I lost it when I imagined fucking you.”

Buck groans at that. “ God , Eddie, I want you to fuck me.”

“I don’t want to think about God right now, Buck. Not in the same sentence as fucking you.”

Buck snorts. “Sorry. Forgot you have that Catholic guilt thing going on.”

That gets another genuine laugh out of Eddie. “I love you, Buck. No Catholic guilt about that. It’s in fact the most not guilty I’ve ever felt about anything.” And he means it.

He gets a soft look up at him. “I– I love you too, Eddie. I think I didn’t let myself think about it because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop, if I did.”

“Do you want to come and visit us soon?”

“What I would like to do, right now, is to come , Eddie. We can talk about visiting after. Please .”

Eddie scoffs. “Yeah. Okay. I’m right there with you.” He points his camera down at his cock. “See?” The precome is literally dripping.

Buck lets out a sound he’s never heard him make before and does the same. “I wish I could touch you. I want to suck you off. I need to suck you off.”

“Keep talking, Buckley,” he says, and the look he gets as a response is everything. His mind goes back to the night when Buck told him he was going to sublet his house and giving up a part of his life for him. Eddie loves him so much, and he wonders for how long he actually has. Probably always.

Buck is stroking himself fast now, panting into the microphone. The camerawork is under all criticism but Eddie doesn’t care. He knows he doesn’t need much now, either. Seeing Buck like this is enough. “I am going to suck you off until you see stars and then I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me so deep that you will never want to do anything else ever again.”

Eddie groans loudly as he comes all over his hand. Buck seems to follow right after, phone tossed to the side as the wet sounds stop. A moment later, he’s back on the screen, face flushed and his bottom lip caught on his teeth. They’re just looking at each other now, and they both chuckle. “That was… nice.” Eddie says. “Can’t wait for us to do it for real.” Buck somehow nods and shakes his head at the same time.

“Yeah. I have some PTO saved.” Buck says. “I think Bobby will gladly approve it, after these weeks. He too got an earful of your name the first shift after you left, not just Ravi. But he also kept calling for you instead of him. Poor guy, really, big shoes to fill. I should apologize.” Buck looks like he really feels bad about it.

“If we play our cards right, maybe he doesn’t need to fill them. Maybe he could join us instead.” Eddie smiles fondly as he says the next thing. “I have a feeling Chris would love it if you were to help me ask him if he wants to come home to LA after all of this.”

“Yeah?” Buck’s eyes literally sparkle.

“And I kind of want to keep this a secret until we pick you up from the airport, making a big scene of you arriving, just kissing you like we’re long lost lovers. Or something like that.”

Buck’s face scrunches a little in concern. “Are you sure you want to lie to him again?”

“I think this is the only thing he would find hilarious if we kept from him. As long as you visit, like, as soon as you can because I’m not sure I will be able to keep it a secret for too long. He will notice something is up. Oh, and you need to help me find something nice for him. I need to thank him.”

“For what? Making you gay?”

“For being the best kid in the world.”

[nipuni]

My dad died yesterday, he was 63

I would like to share a little about him and our story if anyone wants to read, this is not a happy story

My parents divorced when I was three and I went to live with my mom so I saw my dad's life in snapshots, once a week at first and then once a year when he moved abroad and I would spend the summers with him. Every time I would catch up with him he would have a different partner or apartment.

My time with him was always fun, he was laid back, adventurous and open, he would let me do all kinds of crazy stuff while my mom was the strict one. He was a genius to me, he taught me how to program my own games when I was nine, he would make me take computers and appliances apart and reassemble them to teach me how they worked, he made me love science, the outdoors and travelling. He was great at teaching and cooking and driving. He worked on tours for famous musicians as a sound tech, he made 3D films for museums and theme parks when it was all very new, he was a photographer, a programmer, electrician, mechanic, artist and could play many instruments and write poetry!!

The first crack between us was when there was a huge split between my mom's side of the family and his over money and a lot of ugly truths stared coming to light. I realized that when it came to money he was willing to put himself before me and the fights between him and my mom were awful. But in the end once the dust settled we both pretended it never happened.

One weekend I went to visit him and realized his current girlfriend would stick around at last and she had a daughter almost my age!! I now had a little sister and I loved it.

A year later the country fell apart and he fled abroad along with them and even though I missed them I would visit for months at a time every year. I saw him start his life over, he started his own company and I was so proud of him!!

Everything was great for eight years, until one day he told me that my step mom and sister left him and he would sell everything and come back to the country. This was the last time I would ever hear of them, they vanished, I mourned my step sister for years. This was also when his life fell apart.

At 17 adulthood came with a lot of revelations. My mom told me that my dad had been an addict since he was very young, before I was born, my whole life, cocaine and alcohol amongst other things, and everyone around him had been putting up with it and helping him but couldn't take it anymore. He had cheated on her when they had me and had cheated on my step mom too. He would lie to get what he wanted and trusting him was getting increasingly harder.

All of my memories of him were now seen through a different lens. I felt betrayed. I could now tell every time he had been high, and knew where the money he asked of me when to, I was aware of every little lie. I was angry and frustrated at him for the pain he caused my mom and everyone around him. And for squandering the potential I knew he had, for always making the wrong decisions, one mistake after another. And I hated feeling this way the most.

After he came back to the country alone he could never recover, he would relapse, overdose, refuse rehab or any medical help. He would escape psychiatrics facilities and hospitals in the middle of the night, he was a menace!! lmao.

Our relationship was still good despite all this, different but still standing, he had always been my friend even if he wasn't the best at being a dad or partner, I would always scold him and tell him of different job opportunities I came up with for him to try out but now there was this distance between us. I became the parent of the relationship in a way and he didn't like being told what to do. I saw him spiral and I was scared for him.

I've always heard all these stories about addicts finding purpose and fighting for their loved ones, so every time he would jokingly talk to me about how high he was and seemed to enjoy it despite my warnings and pleading it made me feel like I was not enough of a reason to get better, as self centered as it may be I was a teen and I felt powerless to stop him, insignificant. People could get better for their children, but not for me.

I knew this way of thinking was flawed and selfish and he was the one struggling, I knew he was a victim. I spent the last of my teenage years and early twenties trying to fight back this feeling so I could preserve our relationship, we always kept in contact but over time he changed and was no longer the person I knew.

He became a stranger, often times incoherent and delusional, his views changed, he was paranoid, his addiction got worse and worse and now all I could feel was pity and guilt, our once good relationship was now reduced to a few interactions where he would ask me for money, I knew I was possibly funding his self destruction and he was likely lying to me but he also needed to pay for medication and so I couldn't refuse him.

I had my own life now, a husband and plans for the future. When I decided to move abroad a few years ago I knew our hug goodbye could be the last, he was broke and unstable but I thought once I was settled and had a job and a citizenship I could have enough money to get him tickets to visit and show him the life I had made for myself like he had done in my childhood.

But then Covid happened, and he would never agree to make calls. Soon after he was diagnosed with cancer, I would ask about his health and he would say he was fine. He wasn't fine, he was smoking 4 packs a day. He got the cancer removed but refused further treatment, he said he didn't have any purpose left in life and no reasons to keep living, he had a stroke and couldn't feel half his body when he was forcibly hospitalized, his cancer had spread and he hadn't been eating for a long time, he hid all this from me, I first heard it from my aunt in tears over the phone yesterday, he tried to escape the hospital in the night and had to be tied up and sedated, he never woke up.

He died alone, all that is left of his family is me and my aunt and we both live in different countries. There is nobody there to even bury him. I feel like I abandoned him. I've always known I would feel this way when this day came, in a way I've been mourning him for many years and have carried this guilt for even longer.

I had the coolest dad, cocaine took him away. I wish this had a better and uplifting message. I just wanted to get this off my chest. He taught me a lot and made me who I am, and I have a lot of great memories with him. He struggled all of his life with his mental health and despite it all he was still amazing and deserved so much better.

He always said that when he was a ghost he would follow me around, I hope he isl!! so I can live for both of us, I love you dad!! and I'm so sorry 🕯️

[eileenwdj]

my spidersonas! their names are Hong Zhizhu/Red Spider (real name Hong Huiran) and Zhizhu Dajun/Lord Spider (real name Xu Xia). they are connected with each other!

backstories, doodles, and other versions under the cut

their backstories:

Zhizhu Dajun (蜘蛛大君) / Lord Spider

Real name: Xu Xia (徐侠)

Born from a poor, commoner family, Xu Xia works in a wealthy noble family's home as a servant to the young master (his version of Harry Osborne probably ?) who allows him to tag along and shadow him during his studies

A god/immortal (whom we shall not name bc I can't think) messed around and accidentally cursed a bunch of animals. Some of these animals became monsters, some physically merged with unsuspecting humans, and some others granted powers to creatures they come across, like the spider that bit Xu Xia

Bro became this world's one and only Spiderman (yayy!!!) and lived the rest of his life fighting crime and protecting the innocent (wahoo!!)

A lot of people thought of him as a god or a powerful immortal due to his powers and started to build temples for him and worship him (he's not god, he's just some guy who happened to get bit by a spider)

He inevitably died during a great battle against a powerful enemy. Before he died, he vowed to not rest in peace until he finds a worthy successor to serve as protector and defeat the enemy (that is presumably immortal and can strike again at anytime) and he transfered his consciousness? soul? ghost self? idk tbh? to one of his spiders

Unfortunately bro is So Tired™️ that it took him several thousand years to wake up

Hong Zhizhu (红蜘蛛) / Red Spider

Real name: Hong Huiran (洪惠然)

She's a science & engineering geek but also a History major. She originally wanted to major in STEM but ended up with History because STEM majors are expensive as hell

The mysterious and reclusive Zhizhu Dajun is her thesis topic and she frequently visits the museum to look at his statues and displays

One of the displays is a taxidermed spider

It is also the exact same spider that Xu Xia transfered himself into when he died

Xu Xia has only recently managed to wake up but is still barely able to move his new body (I imagine it must be hard to move if your body is filled with cotton, RIP)

He was intrigued by Huiran when he noticed her visiting multiple times. He deems her worthy to be his successor and with the sheer power of (god and anime on his side) will, he escaped his display and bit her

Huiran becomes her world's (and her time's) one and only Spiderwoman (yayy!!) and lives life fighting crime and protecting the innocent (wahoo!!!)

But you see, the way the spiderbite works is that now Xu Xia is technically in Huiran's body... so... so..... it's like,, Asa and Yoru.........

Several thousand-year-old stoic ancient ghost man becomes mentor and father figure to reluctant 22-year-old history student with a science obsession running on 12 cups of coffee and zero sleep

Shenanigans ensue

another version of Zhizhu Dajun’s design:

these were his original colors before he broke. red seemed too happy a color for his path. he then permanently changed to white, forever mourning the lives he couldn't save. Huiran chose to adopt these colors instead of the white.

extra doodles:

[loversrocktvgirl2]

my mini multiverse of madness…

Begin Again (Steve Rodgers x Reader)

Everyone is born with a soulmate timer.

A delicate set of glowing numbers, inked into the skin — counting down to the exact second you'd meet the one person destined to change everything.

Yours had always been different.

You were seventeen when the countdown stopped. Midnight on the dot. No warning. No explanation. No one new had entered your life. No chance encounter. Just... nothing.

Doctors told you it was a glitch. Scientists claimed it was impossible. You didn’t argue — not out loud. But something inside you knew that it hadn’t been a mistake.

Something had happened. Or maybe... someone.

You learned to live with it. Ignored the stares from people who noticed the frozen numbers on your wrist. You told yourself love didn’t have to be written in time.

Years passed.

You found work at the Smithsonian, curating exhibits — ironic, really, considering how stuck you felt in the past.

While everyone else moved forward, your future had stopped at seventeen.

Then one day, everything changed.

It started with a headline: "Captain America Found Alive." Pulled from the ice after seventy years. Breathing. Awake.

Steve Rogers.

You hadn’t thought of the name in years. But when you saw his picture — grainy and distant — your heart stuttered.

Not because of the fame. Not because of the story. But because something about him felt familiar. Like a dream you'd had and forgotten.

That night, you sat on the edge of your bed, staring at your reflection.

The numbers on your wrist hadn’t moved in years. But as the clock hit midnight, something flickered.

One second. Then two.

Your timer had started again.

— — —

You met him three days later.

It was supposed to be a quick meeting — Steve had requested a private tour of the newly updated Howling Commandos exhibit. Your team assigned you as his liaison.

He was polite. Reserved. Taller than you expected. Eyes filled with something you couldn’t name — grief, maybe. Or wonder. Or both.

You were halfway through explaining the artifact restoration process when it happened.

He looked at you.

Really looked at you.

Then his gaze dropped to your wrist. And slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted his own arm.

His numbers were glowing. Bright. Warm.

Alive.

“You too?” he asked, voice rough with disbelief.

You nodded, tears already stinging the corners of your eyes. “It stopped when you went into the ice.”

Steve stepped closer, eyes never leaving yours. The noise of the museum seemed to fade into silence.

“I guess...” he exhaled, almost laughing, “I was late.”

“You came back,” you whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

He reached for you — cautious, gentle — fingertips brushing your arm like he still wasn’t sure if you were real.

Time, the very thing that tried to keep you apart, had finally brought you back together.

— — —

The kitchen in the Avengers compound was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning. Sam was halfway through making pancakes, and Natasha had commandeered the coffee pot with an intensity that dared anyone to question it.

Steve walked in like a man with a secret.

Which, of course, meant both of them looked up immediately.

“What’s with the face?” Sam asked, raising a brow. “You look like you just found out Bucky’s on TikTok.”

Steve blinked. “Is he?”

“Not the point,” Natasha cut in. She poured herself a cup and eyed him carefully. “Something happened. Spill.”

Steve hesitated.

He wanted to tell them. But there was something fragile about it — like if he said it out loud too soon, the moment would disappear.

Still… these were his people.

He exhaled slowly and leaned back against the counter.

“I met her,” he said quietly.

“Met who?” Sam asked, flipping a pancake.

Steve looked down at his wrist.

At the glowing numbers that hadn’t moved in seventy years — numbers that had suddenly come back to life the moment he looked into your eyes.

Sam dropped the spatula.

“No,” he breathed. “You’re serious?”

Nat stood straighter, her expression softening. “Steve…”

He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah.”

Sam stared. “You met your soulmate. Finally? After all this time?”

Steve couldn’t help it — he laughed. It bubbled out of him, surprised and a little disbelieving.

“I was at the Smithsonian. She works there — in curation. She were assigned to walk me through the Commandos exhibit.”

He paused, eyes distant like he was reliving it.

“I didn’t notice anything at first. I was too in my head. Then she looked at me… and it hit me like a truck.”

He lifted his wrist again, the soft glow of the timer still visible. “The numbers started ticking again that night. After decades.”

Nat leaned against the counter, her voice low and warm. “What did they say?”

Steve chuckled. “She just... looked at me. Said it stopped when I went into the ice. Like she knew. Like she'd been waiting.”

Sam shook his head slowly, a grin spreading across his face. “Man, that’s crazy. I thought those timers were bull, but this? This is next level rom-com fate.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what to do now. I mean — I just met her. But I feel like I’ve known her forever.”

“That's the point, isn’t it?” Nat said. “The clock doesn't lie.”

Sam grabbed two plates and started stacking pancakes. “Alright, so what’s next? You gonna ask them out or just awkwardly stare at her across museum glass for the next six months?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “I already asked if we could meet again. Coffee, maybe. Something simple.”

“Let us know if you need a wingman,” Sam said, handing him a plate. “Or, you know, someone to make sure you don’t start talking about war bonds and ration cards on the first date.”

Steve gave him a dry look. “Noted.”

Nat tilted her head, her expression turning just a little mischievous. “Are you nervous?”

He hesitated. “Yeah. A little.”

She smiled. “Good. That means it matters.”

Later that day, Steve sat alone on the balcony, his phone in hand, thumb hovering over the message he'd typed and re-typed four times.

Hi. This is Steve. I was wondering if you’d want to get coffee sometime this week? No museum stuff. Just… us.

He stared at it for a moment, then hit send before he could overthink it again.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the numbers on his wrist ticked on — soft, steady, alive.

And for the first time in a long time, the future felt wide open.

[lisenberry]

We drift in and out

Chapter 3: Did I find you, or you find me?

E/NSFW/MDNI

CW: Consensual Somno, Light Breeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst

6k (I know, I went nuts)

10k (COMPLETE!) Just kidding...

This whole fic started with one picture of a man with hairy arms holding a baby. Everything that came after was a fever dream.

Ch. 1 , Ch. 2, Ch.4 AO3

You had one last night together.  Eighteen short hours before a black Land Rover would pick him up and take him away.  Off to catch a plane to some forward operating base in a remote, foreign place.

He’d been home with you for four months, by far his longest leave yet.  With each day, you’d gotten more comfortable, wondering if maybe he’d become permanent.  That instead of just playing house, you were living something real.  Building something special together.

That your plans could change, and you could let the fearful part of you rest.  That doubtful voice that kept you always prepared.  Always on.  The survival mode that kept you moving forward but also stopped you from slowing down long enough to breathe.  To enjoy.

It was a skill that benefited you in your work.  The single-minded attention to detail and success.  And when you’d learned you were pregnant, it had kept you from giving into the panic of the unknown.  But once she was born, you didn’t have a choice, but to sit with it all.  The joy, and the exhaustion.  Slow, blissful days had become your routine.    

Now you were facing the plan again.  The one he wasn’t in.  You’d survive, of course, but the bleakness of it cut like a wound.  You should’ve known nothing so perfect could last forever.  Maybe you did know, deep down.  Maybe he did, too, and that’s why you kept each other just a bit out of reach. 

But you still had a little more time.  A few more memories to make before it came to an uncertain end.

You popped out to Marks & Sparks for supplies to make dinner.  It had become a little holiday for you in the last few months.  He’d stay home with the baby, and you’d put on real clothes and do your hair and escape for a few hours to squeeze the fruits and smell the cheeses.  Go aisle by aisle and daydream about new recipes to try.

Not this time.  This time you hurried through as fast as you could.  Wasted not a minute as you snatched up everything on your list and rushed to get back to them.

They weren’t in your apartment when got home, so you crossed the hall and knocked on the door to his. 

“It’s open!”  His voice rang from inside, as you tried the knob and walked in.

He had the baby’s highchair in the kitchen, and the dining room table set with fine china and candles.  Music crooned from some hidden speaker, something classical you’d never heard before.

“What’s all this?”  You asked, as you set down the bags of groceries on his counter. 

“I thought we could eat out tonight.  Something different.”  He stood with his hands at his hips, and a burp cloth strung over his shoulder.  A scheming smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes.  They didn’t crinkle at the edges the same way you’d gotten used to.

“You’re okay with me making a mess of your kitchen?”  You teased.  “You know I’ll use every pan and utensil at my disposal.”

Your place was lovely, but his side of the building had twice the space, and a balcony that overlooked Hyde Park.  During the few times you visited, it had felt like stepping into a different world.  Like a fancy hotel suite in a far-off country, in the way that it had visitors but never really felt lived in.  Sanitized into a blank slate, adaptable to anyone who crossed the threshold in search of an escape from their mundane reality.

Or like a museum, it was a place that existed outside of time. 

“You cook, I’ll clean up.”   He leaned his hips back against the granite and opened his arms to it welcomingly. 

It made sense that he’d want to spend his last night in his own home.  His own bed. 

“Suit yourself,” you plopped a smacking kiss on the baby’s downy head as she sat contentedly in her chair, chewing on a colorful toy.

When you turned your attention back to him, he waited patiently for his greeting.   The longing with which he first looked at you and your daughter the day you’d come home was back again.  It had seemed like the start of something then.

This time it felt like the end, as you pulled up on your tip toes and pressed a kiss to his lips.  Short and sweet.  If you hooked your arms around his neck and buried your face in his neck, like every corner of your soul was aching to do, you’d never let go.

The food would rot on the counter and the hard things would never get done. 

So, you settled back down and unpacked the bags in front of you. 

“Will you pick the wine?  I’m making your favorite.” 

In lifetimes past, you would’ve dressed up and gone to The Midland in King’s Cross for dinner.  Fed each other oysters and champagne.  Danced until the early hours of the morning and crashed wildly into bed.  Shared a cigar afterwards, naked but for the shelter of each other’s arms.

This time, you made roast beef with fingerling potatoes, minty peas, and glazed carrots.  Topped with gravy and with a side of Yorkshire pudding to sop it all up.

It’d be some time before the baby could join in on the feast, but she flailed with enthusiasm at the smells and the excitement with which the two of you ate.  Oblivious to how much her lukewarm cereal and the bottle that she could now almost hold on her own paled in comparison.

In place of a West End show, there were airplane spoons and milky sneezes to keep you laughing.  Something to focus on besides the future.  Besides each other. 

The chasm that was too deep and too far to cross, let alone name.

As if on cue, with the last sip of wine, she started to fuss.  Fisted her eyes and arched her back in surrender as John rose to soothe her.  You’d have many more nights to put her to bed, but who knew what awaited him.  You gave him the time alone as you collected the place settings and started the cleaning that he’d promised you.

The little one sighed so heavily against his chest as she curled into him, burying her fingers in his shirt.  You knew the feeling, ached for it as you silently cursed your ability to dirty so many dishes making a meal. 

He was gone long enough for you to handwash the china and fill the dishwasher, and you wondered if she fought sleep, or if he simply lingered a little longer.  Did he tell her a story, or share some secret that was just between them? 

The polished wood floorboards creaked under his weight when he finally returned to the kitchen.  There was a stiffness to his towering form, as if he was flexing under an invisible weight.

“Just in time.  Everything’s already done,” you chided, gently, as you dried your hands on a towel.    

“I set her up in the portable crib with the monitor.  In the bedroom next to mine.”

“Her first sleepover.”  You still couldn’t look at him.  You hadn’t yet, had you?  Not really.  Not since he got the call earlier that day.

Since you’d told him he was never meant to be a part of your life.  That you could live without him.

A lie that he’d surely seen through, but you needed to keep for yourself as you busied your hands and kept your back to him.

But he wouldn’t let you hide, as he stepped behind you and pulled you in. 

“Don’t pull away.  Please.  Not yet.”  He tucked his grizzled chin into the curve of your neck. 

“I’m trying.”  You let your head fall back against him, vaguely aware that the music was still playing.  Something sad and slow as you swayed to the beat of it.

His hands rested on your hips as he spun you around to face him.  If a kiss could fix everything, you gave it to him then.  Did your best as you fisted his hair and pulled him down to you, while his palms roamed lower to cup your ass and lift you onto the counter.

Like meat and wine, you savored his lips and his tongue as he delved even deeper.  Splitting you open and demanding more.  Demanding everything. 

Your shirt was over your head and his roughened fingers scratched along the skin of your back, massaging and kneading the sides of your spine while he unhooked your bra.  The same muscles you’d kept rigid all day he coaxed into pliancy with each stroke as a weak moan slipped past your lips.

“That’s a girl.  Be soft and sweet for me, will you?”  He started off slow at the tip of your ear, trailing light, tickling kisses down the shell and to where the lobe met your neck.    

It sent shivers down your arms, and your naked breasts budded to peaks as they grazed against the cool smoothness of his shirt.  You didn’t want cool, or smooth, just heat and texture as you pulled it off his shoulders and wrapped your legs around his hips.

He groaned at the contact, a fierce and hungry sound as he took one of your hands and slotted it between you.  Pressed your palm against the bulge in his pants and grinded against it, letting you feel the way it grew and hardened at your touch.

“Tell me you’ll miss me.  Fucking lie to me, just say it,” he grated out, against your collarbone.  Miss him?  Lie to him?  It would be a lie to say you wouldn’t.  “I need to hear you to say it.” 

“I miss you already,” you whined, as you slid your hands from his groin to his ass and anchored him closer to the dampening heat at your core.

“I’m right here.” 

“Then take me to bed.  And show me how much you’ll miss me.”  It was your turn to grind against him, rubbing the bud of your arousal greedily along the lip of his fly through your thin linen pants as your tits bobbed wantonly against his furry chest.

“Not going to last long if you keep doing that, love,” he growled, lifting you up again and carrying you down the hallway.  “I’d rather take my time.”

And he did, starting with his fingers, then his mouth.  Drawing out each sensation like he was mapping the stars.   Exploring the far reaches of your body and forging new paths until you were shaking and spent. 

You marked him in return.  Staked a claim on the meat of his pec with a dark red love bite as he came hard and hot inside your pulsating quim.  Filled you up with a contented smile on his face, as if there was no better feeling in the world.  No place he’d rather be.

“Be back before it fades, okay?”  You nuzzled the hair around the spot with your nose as you drifted off beside him, his fingers lazily circling your hole to push the leaky drops of his seed back in. 

Did he have hopes that it would take? 

Did you?

Later, a strangled sound, like a wounded animal woke you from a fitful sleep.  At some point, you must’ve turned to your side and faced away from him because he was behind you.  Pulling at your hips and burying his head between your shoulder blades.

“John?  What is it?”

“Just a dream.  A bad dream.” 

You felt the swell of his cock as he sought out the smooth shelter between your thighs.  Arching against him instinctively, you curved onto your back and parted your legs as he absently rutted around to find your opening.  Still brimming with the sticky spend from your last bout.

He’d always been a giver, but this one was just for him as he worked out his nightmare on your flesh, your insides, your soul.  It felt like a battle.  A whole damn war as he smothered you with his heavy, dead-weight body and took ground, pounding away at your sensitive, stimulated cunt.

You wondered if he was even awake, or if he was still in the dream, as he fucked into you roughly and muttered far away words.  Bit back his own tears as they mixed with the sweat on your skin.

“Mine...Fucking mine...Not letting you go...Not to anyone else...”

Deprived of oxygen from his bulk on your chest, you almost blacked out with the force of your climax, caught by surprise at the way the mound of hair at his base aroused your clit into bloom with each thrust.  A tenderness amidst the brutal onslaught.  A divine mercy. 

If you had air, you’d have screamed at the intensity of it.  Spotty flashes of light broke the darkness as you felt the last of your spurting aftershocks flutter around him, soaking you both and easing the incinerating friction from the stretch of him. 

You could only clench your teeth and your walls as he shuddered with the strength of his own fresh release.  With his face buried in your shoulder, you knew he didn’t smile this time.  The sorrow of it hit you like a blow to your heart as you felt him stiffen with awareness, the fog of sleep clearing from his consciousness.

“I’m yours.  There’s no one else, John,” you panted, begged, as he eased up onto to his elbows to give you enough space to take a breath.  “Only you.”

********

Before you knew it, the black Land Rover was waiting like a harbinger along the street below.

“Here’s the keys to the truck, and to my place.  Just in case.”  He tossed a set into the bowl you kept on the sideboard.  “I know how much you’re dying to go spying in my cupboards.”  He raised a amused eyebrow to match the gentle hitch in his mustache.

“I wouldn’t do that.”  Except you totally would.  At the first opportunity.

“Afraid of what you’ll find?”

“An expired box of Earl Grey in the kitchen, perfectly sorted socks in the bedroom.  Stinky smelling beard oil in the bathroom.”  You flashed a cheeky grin at the last, in an effort to keep the tone light. 

If he could be strong, so could you.  You wouldn’t be the one to break.  No matter what you felt like on the inside.  You’d save it for when he was gone.

“Beard oil?  This is all natural.”  As if you’d insulted his manhood, he smoothed his mustache down with two hands, in a way you’d seen him do a thousand times.  He’d trained any willfulness from his facial hair with nothing but nose grease and perseverance.  Molded by time and patience, like marble cliffs and silt-shined creek beds.

“But I was right about the socks though, wasn’t I?”

“And the tea.”  He hitched his mouth into a smile and turned his focus to the gurgling baby perched on his hip, yapping and cooing like she was in on the conversation.

The way he looked at her gave you hope that he’d call it all off.  He’d sit back down on the couch and turn on the football.  Put his heavy feet up on your table and let his flight leave without him.

“I’m sure we can find some priceless antiques in there she can teeth on.”  They would start coming in soon.  Another change he’d miss.

“Look, you don’t have to wait.”  He paused to clear the words he was looking for from his throat.  “I understand if you—”

“I just got you, John,” you cut him off, saving him from the self-sacrificing speech, and looked down at her chubby fist wrapped in a white-knuckle grip around his finger.  “You’re not getting rid of us yet.”

Don’t let go, sweetheart.  Don’t let him go.  You willed it into her with your own thoughts.

Your world had gotten so small since she was born.  You’d gone from having a job that needed you, coworkers and clients with a network of responsibilities, down to having just one job. 

One person who needed you.

But it would’ve been a lot smaller without him.  How lonely would you have been without someone to share it all with?  How much of him had seeped into your life, and your heart?

“Be nice to your mum,” he whispered against her soft head, as he kissed her cheek and passed her back to you quickly.  Looking everywhere but at you.  “You have Kate’s number?  In case you need anything?”

You pulled him closer with your free hand to his waist, forcing him to see you.  Eyes wide and blue, he looked scared.  For the first time.

Anything more than a kiss to the forehead would have broken you both.  You’d already said your goodbyes the night before, and again that morning.  So, you simply tilted your head up to him, your own eyes kind and trusting, and felt his beard graze your skin one last time.

And then you watched him go.

********

By the third week, nothing in your apartment smelled like him anymore.  Everything had been washed, and the windows had been left open too long to let in the cool fall breeze.  Looking around, you realized that nothing in your home was his.

He’d come through your life with a force and left no trace behind, as if he was never even there.  It wasn’t right.  You wished with renewed clarity that you’d taken more pictures of him.  That you’d recorded every moment. 

Something to show your daughter, someday, if she ever questioned whether or not she was loved.  Something you could show yourself, when your mind tricked you into believing it was just a dream.

It was the need to seek out that connection, that comfort, that had you unlocking the door to his flat and letting yourself inside.  It was dark, and too quiet.  Cold and cavernous, like he was the one who heated it and gave it light. 

With the baby bouncing on your hip, you explored from room to room.  Three bedrooms and four bathrooms.  And still, you couldn’t find a trace of him anywhere there either.

His sheets had been washed since you’d spent the night.  His bathroom scrubbed of any lingering soap by the cleaning company that came once a month to keep it free of dust and spiders while he was away.

Trapped in time until the next visitor passed through.

Your grief and frustration sprung anew as you moved into his office.  Surely it would have something.  The indent of his body in a leather seat, or the half-burnt end of a forgotten cigar.

But his chair was too firm to leave a crease, and his ashtray was clean.   

There were no medals or honors hung along the walls, and the top of his desk was empty, except for one framed photo.  It was exactly what you were looking for, but at the same time, something you never expected.

It was from four years before, when he’d talked you into running a marathon together for a charity for wounded veterans.  You remembered the day clearly but never knew someone had taken a picture.  It must’ve been at the end, because you were both dewy-faced and soaked in sweat, smiling like mad.

His arm was around your shoulder and yours was at his waist.  You looked like a couple.  Like you were in love.  Was that how you always looked when you were together? 

Was this what you’d been missing out on all this time?

Surely, there were others.  You’d open a drawer and find photos of him with other people.  His parents, his friends.  Other women.

But as you pulled them apart one by one, you only found files of old bank statements and tax forms.  Until you got to the bottom.  A lone manila envelope, padded and thick.

With your name written in the wonky, hurried strokes of his hand.

Your own hands shook as you turned it over to find it sealed.  He must’ve wanted you to see what was inside, or else it wouldn’t have your name on it.

Right?

It felt like paper, documents of some kind, but with something else to give it bulk.  You shouldn’t have seen it, shouldn’t have gone digging through his stuff.  But he’d known you were going to snoop.  Had practically dared you to, didn’t he?

You tucked it back in where you’d found it.  Whatever it was, he could give it to you when he came back.  You’d promised him that you’d wait, and you would.

However long it took.

Just as you shut the drawer, your phone began to buzz in your pocket, jolting you guiltily as if you’d been caught.  You took it out, expecting it to be just another spam call, but paused in immediate horror at the name across the screen. 

(John’s) Kate

He’d saved the contact in your phone in case you needed to get in touch with him.  You couldn’t think of a situation where you’d be justified in pulling his attention away from a job, but you could only think of one reason she’d be calling you.

“Hello,” you answered.

*******

Two hours later, your apartment was full.  Well, there were only four guests gathered around your coffee table and perched with varying degrees of curiosity and tension along your couch and side chairs, but it felt overcrowded considering their size.

Three men that you’d never seen before, and then there was Kate.  Somehow, she took up just as much space as they did.  She carried herself with an air of authority that made your spine straighten reflexively. 

“He didn’t tell us he had a family.”  The clean cut one in the ball cap, who’d introduced himself as Kyle, spoke first as you poured him a cup of tea.  “We all wanted to express our support in person.”

“There wasn’t much to tell until recently,” you smiled, slightly, trying to be a good hostess despite the circumstances.

“You’ve been his emergency contact for the last five years,” Kate added as she declined your offer of milk and sugar.

“I didn’t know that.”  That was as long as you’d known each other.  Did he really not have anyone else? 

“He’s a very private man.”  She did you the favor of talking about him as if he wasn’t gone.  As if there was still hope.

“How did you know about it?”  MacTavish, the stocky Scot with the close-cut mohawk intoned back to her, with a bristling hostility you couldn’t miss.

“I’m CIA.  It’s my job to know everyone’s secrets.” 

You thought maybe she was trying to make a joke, but her face was dead serious. 

“We never would have let him—” He looked regretfully from you to your baby as the blond one with the black surgical mask cut him off with a supportive hand to his knee.

“Have any of you ever successfully talked him out of something once he’d put his mind to it?”  You looked around at the faces of the men staring back at you.  The people he spent all his time with when he wasn’t with you.  “I’m sure that’s why he didn’t tell you.  Afraid you’d treat him differently if he was a real person.”

Perhaps for the same reason he’d never told you how he felt.  Afraid to make it something real.  Something it would hurt to lose.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened, please,” you continued, bracing for the worst.

“A massive fuck up from the beginning, is what it was—”  Kyle interjected, heatedly, before he was interrupted by a pointed look from Kate.

“It’s mostly classified, of course.  So, we can’t go into details.  But John requested an indefinite leave of absence about four months ago.  In the interim, his team was assigned to assist another task force in a sensitive operation.”  She spoke evenly as if reciting a sequence of events before a committee.

And you listened, all the while searching for the bits she left unsaid.  The parts that she hid behind her narrative. 

Phrases like, ‘severe loss of life’, ‘pinned down in hostile territory’, and ‘unable to ascertain status’, were cold, calculated ways of saying something went horribly wrong.

You weren’t a naïve civilian who devoured sound bites at face value.  You worked with government contracts all the time.  American, British.  They were all the same.  ‘Cover your ass,’ was their collective motto.

When she finished, you had more questions than answers.  But one thing stood out in your mind.  He hadn’t been home for so long by accident.  He’d chosen to stay.  He’d given up his team, indefinitely, to be with you. 

“So, if I understand correctly, it was a massive fuck up.  You him called away, despite his clear wishes to be left alone, to save your ass and theirs.”  You turned your attention from Kate over to the team.  “And he got you out.  And you left him behind?” 

He’d quit for you.  But he’d gone back for them. 

“Not willingly.”  The one in the mask, Lieutenant Riley, spoke up for the first time.  His eerily dark eyes shot daggers at Kate, as if the fault was hers.

“He knew what he was doing.  We needed to reassess the objective and regroup.  And I’m available to discuss it at length with you another time, Lieutenant.”

“We know he’s alive.”  MacTavish reassured you.  “If he was dead, they’d be broadcasting his body and celebrating all over the dark web.” 

Oh, what a relief.  The visual turned up bile your throat.

“And if he’s been taken prisoner or something?”

“He’s an exceptionally valuable hostage.  We’ll have a few weeks at least, while they interrogate him, before he’s ransomed.”

Tortured, she meant.  The bile turned to acid, and you forced yourself not to be sick. 

“So, what now?”  You were in a daze.  Kate’s firm, rational, voice grounded you and kept you present when all you wanted to do was breakdown.  To scream and cry and pound your fists against their chests to get back out there and find him.

Her position demanded it, you imagined.  Judging by the tension flowing between the team, they ached to do just that.  It was as if they were held back by some invisible muzzle.  Reined in by years of service.  One strong woman was all that kept them from charging off to take matters into their own hands.

“We’ll keep you updated as soon as we have news,” Kate answered, softer than before.  Perhaps aware that her words alone held little comfort.  That they were as grim as hollow condolences.  “But here, standard protocol.  We had it stripped of anything sensitive.  There’s only a few pictures and text messages left.  It’s unlocked.” 

She handed you his battered old phone.  The screen was scratched up, and the case was cracked enough to be useless protection.  You didn’t think they even supported this model anymore.  You couldn’t help but smile when you saw it. 

‘It’s busted to bloody hell, but still hanging on’, he’d said about it once with a proud laugh.  You prayed that he was the same, wherever he was.

“Thank you.  It was nice to meet you all,” you replied, politely, suddenly anxious to be alone.  To fall apart in peace.  “I wish it was under better circumstances.  Maybe next time we can have a drink and a proper laugh.  When he’s home.” 

“We’ll get him back, Mrs. Price.”  It was Kyle who pulled you into a hug, as if you were family.  “I promise.”

It was the first time anyone had called you that, and you didn’t correct him.  In the moment, it was a comfort.  A universal truth that you longed to hear from someone else’s lips. 

The others followed suit with their goodbyes, but their warmth and concern were a shallow replacement for the man you were missing.  Kate settled for a stoic handshake before you closed the door on them all and set your back against it for support.

The phone in your hand was heavy as you pulled it up to see his text messages, looking for any possible clue or something to keep hope alive.  There were a few off color jokes between him and his mates.   Notes to you about what was for dinner, and silly photos he’d taken of the baby.

One single text exchange with Kate.  As if he’d deleted them as soon as they came in.  Or perhaps Kate had wiped them as part of her pruning.  It was from four months prior. 

I hope you know what you’re doing.

Never more certain in my life.

Were they talking about you?  Of his choice to leave?  It reminded you of something else he’d left behind.  Something you’d forgotten in the whirlwind of the last few hours.

When you held the envelope again in your hands, you didn’t think twice about ripping through the seal.  Inside was a stack of handwritten letters, all dated and signed with his name.

You focused on the one on top, from the day before he’d left.

Hey love,

If you’re reading this, then something must’ve happened to me.  Or your curious nature got the best of you, and you went snooping around my desk.

I hope it’s the latter because it’s time you knew, and who knows when I’ll get the courage to tell you myself.  But if it’s the former, then I’m sorry.

I can’t say I’m surprised, though.  There’s only so many times I can dare death to find me before it wins.  You just have to know that I did my best, for whatever it’s worth.

I never felt like I could have a family.  I didn’t deserve that sort of peace after the things I’ve done.  I’ve taken too many lives to have any chance at a happy one.  Killed too many sons to be entitled to any of my own.

It’s been my purpose.  What I’m good at.  And I never wanted to bring that burden home to anyone else.

Then I saw you again after I made myself a promise to stay away from you this time.  You were so fearless and calm.  I just wanted to be near you.  Close enough that you might scare away the darkness in me.  

If someone like you, and her, could trust me and see any good in me, then maybe I’m not such a monster after all. 

You made me believe in fate.  In something bigger that was beyond my control.  I just hope that it’s not done with me yet.  That it’s not done with us. 

If this is the end, then I just want to say thank you and leave you with everything.  Everything that I have, and everything that I left unsaid.

These letters are from all the other times I’ve done this.  The other missions that called me away since we met, in the event that I didn’t come back.  You were the only thing worth coming home to, and I’m sorry I didn’t share them sooner. 

If you’re just being nosy, and I’m already warm in our bed with the baby drooling on my chest, I hope I’ve already told you a thousand times how much I love you.  How lucky I am to have known your love in return.

And I hope you’re already wearing one of these rings.  I couldn’t decide which one, so I’ll let you choose.  They’ve been in my family for ages.  All yours now.

All my heart, John.

The pages were flooded with salty tears by the time the jingle at the bottom of the envelope caught your attention.  Five different rings.  Yellow and white gold, glistening diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires.  Old and new.

But not yet.  You didn’t dare to touch them yet.  Didn’t choose.  You believed in fate, too.  He wasn’t gone, and it wasn’t the end. 

*******

The next days passed by in a blur, waiting by the phone.  You were thankful for the baby, as she didn’t let you wallow or crumble the way you wanted to.  There were still diapers to change, and bottles to fill.  Smiles to fake and colic to soothe.

You wondered if she missed him, too.  If she even noticed he was gone.

It was three in the morning when you got the call, and you shot up in bed, sleep quickly forgotten when you answered.  You didn’t even bother to look at the caller ID.

“John!”

“Hiya, darling.”  His voice was a faint groan of relief. 

“Where are you?”  You held the phone away from your face just long enough to see the long, foreign number with a country code you couldn’t place.  “Does Kate know where you are?”

“I don’t have a lot of time.  I’m in the blind.  I just wanted to hear your voice.”

You flung off your covers and rushed to your computer.  He was in trouble.    

“I’m here.  Are you hurt?” 

“Not bad.”  You could hear him smiling, the way the words huffed out through pained lips.  It was definitely bad.

You had to keep him talking, to stay on the line long enough for you to work.  The laptop took forever to start up.  You hadn’t used it since you’d left your employment, and it must’ve needed a hundred updates.  But you didn’t have time as your fingers trembled anxiously over the keys.

This was what you did.  This was your job.  You designed software that could find people.  Find targets.  Needles in the giant haystack that was the world.

You set the phone to speaker mode and plugged it in to your program.

“Whose phone is this, John?”  It would be encrypted, you presumed.  You wouldn’t be lucky enough to have its location turned on. 

“An old friend.  I’d put him on, but he’s not with us anymore, I’m afraid.  Poor fellow took a fall.”  Another gurgled laugh.  “But his name was Makarov.  When you talk to Kate, tell her the mission’s complete.”

“You can tell her yourself.  You’re going to be fine.  Just keep talking to me.”

You buzzed through lines of code, searching for the one you needed. 

“How’s the poppet?  Is she being a good girl?”

“She’s sleeping.  She’s okay.  Misses you.  Can’t wait to see you.”

Got it!  You broke through the encryption and pinned his location using satellite GPS.

“It’s not looking good, love.”

“Do you believe in fate, John?”  You asked, as you used your laptop’s connection to call Kate.

There was a reason you’d met each other.  You were certain now that nothing had been by chance.  You were meant to find him.  You were meant to find each other.

“Ah, went pawing through my drawers, did you?  Which ring did you pick?” 

“I’ll show you when you get home,” you promised as the line finally connected.  “Kate!  I know where John is.  You have to hurry.”

You sent her the coordinates to the exact centimeter.  He was deep underground, in some kind of a bunker.  Or an old mineshaft.  To her credit, Kate didn’t argue or ask where you got your intel.

Two hours later, you were still on the phone with him.  The light began to creep slowly through the curtains, bringing with it a brand new day.  But his breath had slowed, and his words came thicker from his throat.

“Just a little longer, okay?”  You didn’t let him sense your fear as you quietly willed your life into him, to keep him hanging on. 

Where the fuck were they?

The line had gone too quiet when you heard the blast. 

“John!  John, what was that?”  You prayed it was the team, and not a fresh wave of enemy combatants come to finish the job.

“In here!”  John’s voice, with a renewed strength. 

“Bravo-7 to Watcher.  Eyes on Bravo-6.  We’ve got him.”  You heard Lieutenant Riley’s unmistakable accent breakthrough as he got closer to the phone.  “Have med-evac waiting topside.  He’s in rough shape.”  He switched from his comms to John.  “Can you walk, Cap?”

“Well, you aren’t fucking carrying me, Ghost.  That’s for bloody sure.”

“Please don’t leave me.”  The tears that you finally let fall were of release.  Of relief.  You didn’t know if he still held the phone, or if it lay forgotten on the ground as they carried him away.

“Careful what you wish for, darling.”

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Ship Of Dreams 🚢 | Twilight Imagine

Set during the events between New Moon and Eclipse & after Breading Dawn Part 2

Twilight Masterlist

Characters & Pairings: Cullen!reader (female), Bella Swan-Cullen (platonic), Edward Cullen (adoptive ‘twin’ brother), the Cullen family (platonic/adoptive family), family OC!s, Alex Mason!oc (past romance)

Content Warnings: major angst, smoking, details of historical event disaster, profanity, descriptions of stalking and death | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 9.4k

Requested 📨 yes/no (rules for requests)

Premise: Bella Swan always wondered what the story was of her vampire boyfriend’s so called ‘twin’ sister. Quiet and reserved, she had a mysterious aura to her, and what many would describe as a lady lost in time. Though she appeared no older than the age of 17, Y/n Cullen had eyes that saw a multitude of lives. Though in April 2006, the anniversary of a fateful night, finally reveals the truth behind the ‘youngest’ Cullen’s history with the Ship of Dreams.

Note: I had this Twilight x Titanic work in the making for two years 💀😭 back when I visited the Titanic Museum in 2023! I had done the TGM x Titanic AU and immediately started working on this but then, as usual, I got hyperfixated on other things and pushed this to the back burner...but anyway hope y'all like this! ❤️ also I cried writing the hospital scene. I mean I literally had to pause and gather myself at times while writing it because I was making myself so sad.

———————————

April 2006

In the year since becoming involved with Edward Cullen and learning of the secret he and his family share, Bella had yet to uncover the story of his ‘twin’ by name and nature, Y/n.

Calling them twins was a far reach. Sure they had the same golden eyes and inhumanly beautiful physique, but that was it. Unlike Rosalie and Jasper who were blonde and could easily pass as twin siblings, Y/n and Edward appeared nothing alike save for the tiny detail they shared the same birthday of June 20th and were both turned at the age of 17. But whereas Edward was born in the year 1901, Y/n’s was 1895–the same year Esme was born. 

Bella only learned this by doing the math, after Edward let it slip Y/n was technically six years older than him. 

Like Alice and Jasper, Y/n had not been turned by Carlisle but, to Bella’s surprise, was the first to join his coven. Well before Edward came into the picture. When asked about this, following Edward’s explanation of Carlisle’s origin to her the night she visited his home for the first time, Edward plainly stated with a look she couldn’t decipher, “You’d have to ask her, it’s not my story to tell.”

But Bella never could bring herself to ask. Y/n’s exterior was as cold as Rosalie’s. Guarded and reserved. Quiet to the point she hardly added input during times the Cullen’s faced conflict. Always glued to a corner, hidden from the shadows. One glare was enough to send goosebumps along Bella’s arm. Understanding it’d be better to either not know Y/n’s story all together or silently hope one of the Cullen’s would tell her. Since it was obvious the vampire was going to keep her secrets to herself. 

Well….she was hoping to. 

“We can’t watch it here,” Edward’s voice was serious. More serious than ever, causing confusion to etch Bella’s face, taking the DVD case from Edward with a frown. It was a movie she’d seen a handful of times, a classic and one she thoroughly enjoyed whenever it played on TV. The only reason she was suggesting it now for their weekly movie night was for an assignment her history teacher gave on the historical event it was based on considering the upcoming anniversary was the following week.

“Don’t tell me you don’t have a DVD player.”

“I do,” he rolls his eyes, yet still carries the serious strain of his tone “but we can’t watch that here. We’ll go to your place.”

Her frown deepened, a little annoyed with the vampire changing their plans considering she drove all the way out to his. “I don’t understand, Edward….why is it so much of a big deal to watch Titanic here.” 

Lightening fast, Edward held a hand up, freezing the two in their places while Bella watched him turn his head to face the open doorway. Tilting it slightly as though to strain his hearing. When it appeared whatever coast was clear, he let out a breath of relief before facing her again, noting her visible confusion. “I’ll explain everything once we get to your house. I promise just…” he pleads with his eyes, gently taking the DVD once again to tap at the title Titanic with his finger, “don’t mention this when we’re here or in front of my family.”

The entire drive was quiet. Save for the soft remedy of the radio. The music gave Bella the distraction she needed to not say anything about what took place in Edward’s bedroom until they reached her house. All the while she replayed the moment in her head, followed by how eerie the Cullen house became right after the famous ship’s name spilled from her lips.

Titanic.

“You wanna tell me what that was about?” She did not hesitate the second they entered, hanging her coat on the hanger and moving past him to set up the DVD player. She heard his sigh, igniting her annoyance, “you promised me an explanation.”

She felt his presence behind her, then a second later Edward kneeled to her level and took the DVD once more.

“You once asked me about Y/n,” he began, eyes lowered to the ground, “What her story was and how she was the first to join Carlisle” Gold met brown, his gaze shifting upward, while holding the disk cover up. “This isn’t just a movie, Bella. Not to her.” Heart pounding, Bella felt the air catch in her throat, realizing his implication. 

It’s her life.

“You’re saying…” She glanced at the cover. The iconic image of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet as Jack and Rose. The love story that ended in tragedy. Bella’s heart skipped at Edward’s nod.

“She lived it.” The air caught in Bella’s throat as the words left his mouth. “Y/n was on Titanic the night it sank--where she was turned by a vampire who wanted access to her family’s fortune.” 

“Family’s fortune?” Bella was processing multiple things at once. 

She was getting Y/n’s backstory she’d been curious about for over a year. 

The vampire was aboard the famous ship which sank nearly a century prior.

Y/n apparently came from a wealthy family. 

It was a lot to take in. 

Edward placed the disk in the compartment, pressing the button to turn on the tv. “Her family were first-class passengers.” He began to explain, “Her father was the co-owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers and her mother was the daughter of a wealthy banker who happened to be a popular socialite among their class. Y/n was privately educated, and set to study literature at NYU.”

“Wow,” Bella exhaled, taking in the information. The screen had projected the main menu but neither were focused on it. 

Discovering Y/n wanted to pursue literature was no surprise. From the massive book collection in the Cullen’s library which Edward said belonged to her, to the phenomenal school papers Bella had read in their English class during their peer review sessions, she knew Y/n was a gifted writer and storyteller. She made the simplest of words feel powerful. Brought scenes to life in the reader’s mind. 

Then there was the tiny detail that Edward made a comment months back saying Y/n had published several books under pseudonyms.

He won’t admit it, but Bella’s fairly certain Y/n wrote one of the books on their summer reading list. The suspicion formed when she caught him sending his sister a knowing look after the sheet was passed out. When she looked at Y/n, Bella noticed her amused smirk, followed by a chuckle as she winked at her brother. 

“I-I don’t--,” she had trouble putting the words together, flushing red. “I can’t imagine….”

Edward nodded, understanding what she was trying to say. “Talking about our past is hard for all of us. But for Y/n, it doesn’t help that every history class talks about it.” He lifts up the DVD cover, “or that Hollywood continues to make shows and movies.” 

Bella wanted to ask more questions but understood it wasn’t the time. She knew if she wanted more information, she was going to have to gather the courage to ask Y/n herself. A task easier said than done when the vampire had barely warmed up to the human since implanting herself in their lives. 

They settled on the couch and pressed play, but Bella’s attention was far from the film. Her mind drifted to Y/n. Thinking about her as each scene played out to the point Bella started to picture Y/n in Rose’s place. It brought chills to her arms, shuddering as she couldn’t help but wonder what it was like in those final moments as the ship sank. 

When the movie ended, Bella said goodbye to Edward and began her assignment. Again, she was distracted. Feeling off as she searched online for sources about Titanic and watched video clips of survivors. 

Eventually, after contemplating for over an hour, Bella picked up the phone off the receiver and dialed the number. It rang three times before the familiar voice with a slight transatlantic accent spoke through. 

“I’ve been waiting for your call.” 

Bella silently cursed, face and neck turning red as she cleared her throat before replying, “Can you come over? I’d like to talk to you.” 

20 minutes later, Bella and Y/n sat across from each other in her kitchen. Notebook in front of her, cup of juice on the table and pencil in hand while Y/n’s were folded in her lap. To Bella’s surprise, the vampire knew exactly why she had called her, for Alice had seen it that morning and warned Y/n. 

‘So much for easing my way into this,’ Bella thought to herself. 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” She nervously said, fiddling with the pencil in her hand. Y/n gave her a soft smile in hopes of easing the poor girl.

“Bella, if I didn’t want to do this I would have said so over the phone.” 

“I know but…” she cringes slightly, more embarrassed with herself than anything. “This is your history. And I feel like I invaded your privacy by making Edward tell me why we couldn’t watch the film at your house.”

“You didn’t make him tell you anything,” Y/n’s words shocked her, Bella tilting her head in confusion. “Edward made a promise, and you were ensuring he lived up to it. I can understand given the way he behaved and made you clueless as to what the issue was. Granted,” Y/n paused, shuffling in her seat, “I would have rather you simply came to me, but I realize my part in why you refrained all these months since you got together.” 

‘Avoiding you like the plague,’ as one would say.

Y/n put her folded hands on the table, nodding to the notebook. “How would you like to start?” 

Bella straightened in her chair, bringing the notebook closer as she opened it to remove the paper listing the assignment. She skimmed over it, brows pinched, “Um, it says I have the option to write an essay on media--documentaries, movies, tv specials--about the event. Research and write a biographical report on a famous passenger. Or….” her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, peering at Y/n over the paper. “Interview a survivor.” 

Y/n hummed, elbows propped on the table to rest her chin on her folded hands. “And which option are you leaning toward?” 

A frown made its way on Bella’s face, shrugging lightly as she placed the sheet back down. “Honestly I’m not sure. I’ve watched the movie and a couple documentaries. Read a memoir from a survivor and searched about a few passengers on the internet.”

“Well my advice,” Y/n mused, shifting her arms down so they were crossed but still leaning on the table. “Options one and two are your best bet. Unfortunately the last remaining survivor, besides myself,” she paused briefly with a strained smile, “lives all the way in England. She’s I believe 94, and was only two months old when she was aboard. Frankly I do not understand why our teacher would have that option on the assignment.” Leaning back in her chair she let out a sigh before giving the girl a knowing look. “But Bella, you and I both know you don’t really need my help on this assignment.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks, making Bella’s pale face turn red as a tomato. Of course Y/n wasn’t going to buy her excuse of helping with homework. And there was no point in denying it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really know how to approach the subject.” 

“You could’ve just asked,” Y/n teased, but waved a hand dismissively and huffed. “Again. I’m to blame for why you didn’t.” Straightening her already perfect posture, Y/n tugged at the sleeve of her turtleneck and got serious. Taking a moment before speaking as though she were preparing herself. “You want to know my story and I’ll tell you, but you have to understand that it is not like how you see in the movies. My experience,” a faint look reached her eyes. “Was very different.”

Bella swallowed thickly, closing her notebook and pushing it away. Giving Y/n her full attention. “I understand.”

“What all did Edward tell you?”

“That you were on the Titanic when it sank. Your family came from wealth, and you were targeted by a vampire who snuck on who wanted access to that.” Bella saw the way Y/n’s breath hitched, stiffening but quickly recovered herself. Making the girl mentally curse herself for possibly overstepping. 

“Okay. That at least gives me some insight on where to begin.” Clearing her throat, Y/n reached into her satchel and removed a silver metal tin. It was in great condition despite evidently being from the 1910s. “Do you mind?” 

The question confused Bella, who didn’t know how to respond until her gaze landed on the now open tin, revealing five pristine cigarettes on either side. “Oh,” her eyes widened in surprise. Not sure how to respond since this was new information to her. Instantly questions popped in her mind. ‘Can vampires even smoke?’ ‘Does anyone else in the Cullens smoke?’ ‘How does that work?’ 

Bella shrugged, “my dad smokes cigars in the living room at times. And my step-dad is a smoker so I don’t mind, help yourself. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

“Thanks,” Y/n plucked one from the tin, placing it between her lips before looking in her bag again to fish for her lighter. “You know, it pleases me that there are still some cigarettes from my time available. These are Camels,” she gestured at them with one hand while the other pulled out the lighter. It matched the tin. Silver, vintage, and in pristine condition. “I preferred Fatima’s back then, but these will have to do. I hate Malboro’s,” her thumb flicked the lighter open, the flame igniting. 

“Never tried them,” Bella commented with a small smile. Frankly she was quite stunned with how Y/n was speaking to her as though they had been friends for decades. Just telling her the favorite cigarettes she used to smoke gave a little insight into her past. 

Bella pictured the young woman on the terrace of a New York cafe, cigarette in hand with a martini in the other while gossiping to her friends of the latest scandals within their socialite circle. Pearls around her neck, diamonds on her ears. Standing in the powder room with said friends to reapply her rough lipstick and adjust whatever pillbox hat she chose to wear that day. 

Thinking of what Y/n’s life might have been before becoming a vampire saddened Bella. The possibilities, the opportunities. Would she have married and have children? Would she have gone on to do great things? 

“It doesn’t do anything to me, obviously.” Y/n explained, bringing the flame to the filter. The glow of it made her golden eyes brighten in color. Once lit, she flicked the lighter off and tossed it and the tin back into her satchel. Bella stared at Y/n with fascination as she inhaled deeply before tilting her head back to blow out a thick cloud of smoke. “But it makes me feel….human. I used to do it so much that having one in my hand became second nature. It was common for the times. Plus the taste of it reminds me of bitter coffee,” That distant look in her eyes returned, but was then replaced by annoyance, “Carlisle hates it--as does Esme but they tolerate it so long I do it on the terrace. Emmett and Rosalie will indulge me by partaking to get under their skin,” a light chuckle leaves her lips, taking another drag. “The others say nothing. As I said, it doesn’t affect us.”

Bella laughed under breath, “Honestly I can’t see Edward smoking.” Picturing it felt foreign, and Bella wondered if he had before turning. 

Y/n laughed with her. “I’ve tried tempting him, but he never breaks. Still tries to use the excuse that it is a bad habit.” Y/n scoffs, “believe me, I know. He just hates the smell of it--enhanced senses to blame for that.” Blowing smoke out, Y/n finished with, “Alright, enough of my bad habit.”

Y/n began to take Bella back to April 10th, 1912. To the day she and her family boarded Titanic to set sail to New York from Southampton, England. “Before they were the Los Angeles Dodgers, they were the Brooklyn Dodgers. And before that, they were the Brooklyn Superbas. My father co-founded and owned the team in 1883 as the Brooklyn Grays prior to all the name changes and eventual move. His father,” she took out a small antique ashtray from the satchel, tapping off the ash from the filter. “had accumulated wealth after hitting big during the Gold Rush. My father then used his part of the inheritance to go into business with Charles Byrne, Joseph Doyle, and Ferdinand Abell.”

Now it made sense for Bella why whenever the Cullen’s played baseball Y/n sported Dodger merchandise and would find her watching the team play on T.V during the season. She also was a fan of the Brooklyn Mets, but not as enthusiastic as she was with the Dodgers. Not to mention the intense rivalry with Edward for his love of the Chicago Cubs. 

“Now you know how my family’s fortune came to be,” Y/n waved the smoke she released away, “and as you can imagine, he was friends with some very rich, influential people in New York. The whole reason we were in England to begin with was to attend the wedding of one of those people. As for Titanic,” she swallowed the imaginary bile in her throat. “He wanted to have the ability to tell everyone that he and his family were amongst the ship's first passengers. To brag or whatever--I don’t really know. But it happened that the wedding took place around the time she was set to set sail to New York. Extending our trip to last three weeks instead of the two we planned. All because he managed to snag the tickets by talking to the right people at the right time…..”

“I do not understand why we couldn’t have left on the Lusitania last week,” Y/n complained as the car neared the boarding docks. Trying to peer out the window but was annoyed by the crowd of people taking up every inch of the pavements, making their journey last longer than planned. “We’ve taken the liner twice now--surely it would have been up to satisfaction. We’ve had no trouble traveling on it--why go through the hassle of staying a whole week longer just to be on this ship, father?”

Not looking up from the newspaper in his hands, Y/n’s father sighed and shook his head. Irritated by her complaining as she had yet to stop since he told her the news. “Because, daughter, this is no ordinary ship. The White Star Line has spent years crafting the perfect vessel for the sea and we are in an extraordinary position to be able to be amongst the first passengers aboard. How could you not be excited by that?”

Y/n secured her coat tighter around her shoulders, frowning while keeping her gaze on the scene outside. “Forgive me for not being comfortable at boarding a ship that is set to make its first voyage across the Atlantic.” 

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Y/n. There is no need to be dramatic and consume yourself with worry. The White Star Line has assured Titanic passed every safety precaution and is unsinkable.” 

That did nothing to lift her unease, “Is that not what they said about the Tayleur? It sank three days into its maiden voyage?!” Her father grumbled, closing his paper to fold and place in his lap. 

“That was over fifty years ago. Times have changed. Technology has changed.” His hand waved dismissively, “That ship was doomed from the start despite what the papers make of it. Look, it would be foolish of them to not have learned from their mistakes. I’m telling you there is nothing to worry about.”

“But that feeling never left me,” Y/n put out the cigarette, blowing out the last bit of smoke. “Even after meeting the crew and the captain, there was an odd heaviness in my stomach. Telling me that something would happen. No matter what I did to distract myself--whether that be playing cards or chatting with other young girls my age aboard, thinking about my fiancé back in New York….it never left my mind.” 

Bella let out a gasp, eyes widening at the revelation, “Fiancé?” At the vampire’s nod, Bella felt her heartbreak. 

“Alexander Mason,” there was an airiness when Y/n exhaled, reminiscing at the memory of her lost love. “His father was a real estate mogul and big fan of the Dodgers. Our fathers met at a banquet, not long after they were invited to watch a game from our private viewing box and introduced us. Alex was a doll,” Another cigarette was lit, the woman shifting in her chair. “Handsome, intelligent. Beautiful eyes you could get lost in. Had a sharp tongue but a quick wit. I honestly wanted nothing to do with him,” Y/n chuckled at Bella’s gaped expression. “He talked my ear off that night.”

“And that was a bad thing?” Bella giggled.

“No,” Y/n defended, her own smile threatening to peek through. “It’s not a bad thing. It was just….odd. Took me off guard--especially because the conversation was centered around me. Which--,” her finger not holding the cigarette lifted up for emphasis, “most men in the 1900s of that class were not interested in the hobbies and interests of women. They desired a wife who would be a shiny doll to hang off their arm and keep the house in order.” The cigarette went between her lips. 

“I was not like that. I had dreams. Aspirations. I wanted to go to school, become a writer, and maybe see a little of the world before settling down.” The small, albeit sad, smile appeared. “He supported me--encouraged it actually. Then after several dates I was smitten. Alex was the first man to whisk me off my feet and make me believe there were truly good people out there. He was so sweet. So kind. Loving.” If her heart could beat, Y/n was sure it would have died on its own from being broken. “I knew I’d never find another like him. Which is why I said yes to marrying him after four months of courting. Under the condition we’d wait until I completed university--we were seventeen after all and the idea of marrying that young, despite it being common, unnerved me.”

“And he was okay with that?”

“He was. He agreed that it was too soon to get married, but he told me he’d rather refer to me as his fiancée than telling people we were going steady.” It was then Y/n peered down at her left hand. Bella followed her gaze, landing on the dainty diamond ring on the finger reserved for when one commits their life and love for another person until death do them part. Realizing what the ring was, and seeing how she never saw Y/n without it, Bella felt her eyes water. 

“Is that…?”

“Yes.”

“It’s beautiful,” it truly was. Timeless and the type of ring that belonged on display in an antique museum. It suited Y/n.  

“Thank you,” she beamed, lifting her hand up to inspect it. “His words when he proposed was he saw the ring and it reminded him of the way my eyes sparkled when I laughed.” Y/n tightened her lips, emotion flooding her. “Little did he know the only time I genuinely laughed was with him. He was the reason for that sparkle.” 

A pregnant pause fell over the two. Y/n shuddering as she blinked away the tears that would never fall. God if there was one thing from her human days she wished she still had, it was the ability to cry. 

“What happened to him? If you don’t mind me asking,” Bella’s tone was gentle, hand nudging slightly forward as if to offer Y/n comfort. 

“He lived a long life,” Y/n resumed smoking, though the sadness never left her tone and her gaze remained on her ring. “I watched over him for many years--even after joining Carlisle. He can attest to the weekends I’d go missing and return with a tortured presence.” The heaviness in her chest heightened, she quickly reverted the story back to Titanic knowing at some point Bella would ask more about her relationship. 

“Anyways, we boarded Titanic the morning of April tenth and I kept to myself most of the time. If I wasn’t in my suite, I read in the lounge or sat on the deck drinking tea. Played cards with wives and daughters in first class. Chatted with the crew whenever I had questions.” Y/n inhaled sharply, eyes turning narrow. “It wasn’t just the ship I was worried about--Twas the main reason for my anxiety, yes, but there was a sense that I was being watched. You know the feeling?”

Bella nodded, heat rising to her pale cheeks as she thought back to the first weeks she lived in Forks and first met Edward. Even when she could not physically see him, the feeling she was being watched hovered over her. Then of course the incident with James, and now with Victoria still out there, Bella kept looking over her shoulder believing she’d catch a glimpse of red hair. “I know it quite well.” 

“Then you know it brings the hairs on the back of your neck up,” Y/n snarls, clutching her fists together. “And it is frustrating because you feel as though you are going crazy scanning your surroundings every second hoping to find the one responsible.” Unclenching she shook her head and took a deep drag of the cigarette. Letting the nicotine, a placebo to her, linger in her system before releasing. “The entire time on that ship I knew I was being watched. On the deck--in the lounge--in the ballroom, God, on my way to the powder room, I felt like a deer being hunted. My father dismissed my concerns, naturally, because I had no evidence of this faceless individual stalking me aboard. My mother, God rest her soul, at least listened and advised me to not wander on my own after nightfall.” 

“I’m assuming this faceless individual is the vampire who…” Bella trailed off nervously, her suspicions confirmed by the firm nod she received. “Who was he?” This time she got a scoff.

“To this day I’m unsure if the name he gave me was in fact his real one. Hours prior to the sinking he introduced himself to me--Called himself Arthur Deveroux. Said he was an investment broker out of London.” The sneer returned on her visage. “And that he was on his way to New York to do business with Rockerfeller. I’d never heard of him, and to this day the name Arthur Deveroux is not on the list of first class passengers aboard Titanic. He was a stowaway,” Y/n explained with a grimace. “Snuck on minutes before the ship departed Southampton and imposed as a member of London’s elite. In reality, Arthur--or whatever his true name was--was a man who’s greatest power was the ability to deceive.”

A chill ran down Bella’s spine. Enough to make her shift in her seat. It wasn’t hard to picture the kind of man Arthur was based on the fury laced in the vampire’s tone. And as Y/n relayed the story of the night she met her creator, Bella felt as though she were there with her. 

“What did you say your name was again?” Y/n’s brows pinched, observing the man with skepticism as she removed her hand from his after he’d taken it to kiss her knuckles. Just before he approached her at the table where she had been retrieving a plate of custard for her mother, that inkling of being watched had pooled in her stomach. Sending off alarm bells when she turned to find a beautiful man appearing not much older than her with the most unusual eye color. 

Red. Deep like the rouge lipstick she wore. The sight of them made her take a cautious step back. 

“Arthur Deveroux, madam.” Never had she heard a voice like him. Smooth and echoey. Unique and the type one would hear singing on the radio. Or beckoning prey out to sea. 

“Arthur,” Y/n repeated, scanning his physique which was donned in a crisp suit. Matching the men around them present for dinner. “You’re from England I assume? What brings you to New York?”

“Business. My company hopes to collaborate with Mr. Rockerfeller.”

“Fascinating,” she wasn’t really. Many men attempted to get their hooks into the millionaire and turned up short. Y/n thanked the waiter handing her a martini, taking a sip while eyeing Arthur, who declined the waiter’s offer of making him a drink. “How come I have not seen you before tonight, Mr. Deveroux? Are you not one to mingle?”

His chuckle sounded like wind chimes. “I’m afraid not. I tend to stick to the walls during these gatherings and observe. The people here are far too ostentatious for my liking.” If he’d been anyone else Y/n would laugh. Agreeing with the statement. But something about Arthur screamed that he was hiding something.

“Well, do enjoy yourself these last days Mr. Deveroux.” She began to excuse herself, sneaking a glance to her table to find her parents watching the scene. “I hope New York is up to your standards.” 

The smirk that appeared sent goosebumps along Y/n’s arm. And not the good kind she’d get when Alex looked at her. Everything about the expression was eerie. As though Arthur was calculating an idea--and Y/n was at the center of it.

“I believe you might be right, Y/n. I think New York is going to be everything I envisioned.” Taking her hand once more, Arthur’s smirk never left as he felt her shudder at the touch. Cold lips pressing to her knuckles. “Perhaps we’ll see each other there.” Before she had the chance to reply, Arthur backed away slowly then turned on his heel. Striding toward the exit amongst a sea of guests, and Y/n let out the sigh of relief she’d been holding. 

When he disappeared from her view, Y/n realized she’d never given him her name.

As it came time to recall the final minutes of her humanity, Y/n was on her fourth cigarette and the golden color of her eyes had dimmed. Bella’s heart skipped and she swore to herself knowing Y/n heard it. The last thing she wanted was to dishearten the young woman further. 

“I’d got separated from my parents during the initial chaos,” her voice was barely over a murmur. Gaze fixated on the surface of the table. “Titanic had just struck the iceberg and the impact woke me up. My parents went to the deck for information and I was trying to find them when I was suddenly pulled into a storage closet by a force so strong I remember it knocking me off my feet. Dragging me into the darkness. I couldn’t see and the grip on me prevented me from moving--I let out a scream but then a hand covered my mouth causing me to freeze. That’s when I heard his voice.”

“I’m sorry it had to be this way, Y/n.” his icy mouth caressed the side of her ear. Y/n whimpered against the rock solid hand holding her still. “I’d hoped to continue our conversation in New York, but it appears this ship will not be arriving. Now I have to improvise, but rest assured….this will only hurt for a little while.” And before Y/n could react, a pinch on her neck turned to a searing, excruciating pain that exploded in every cell in her body as Arthur sank his teeth into her skin. 

Ensuring Y/n L/n was listed among those lost at sea when Titanic greeted the bottom of the Atlantic on the early morning of April 15th, 1912. Her name missing from the list of survivors recovered on the RMS Carpathia. To the world, the beautiful young socialite died along with the thousands Titanic took with her. Never knowing she was reborn into a creature of the night, destined to walk the Earth for eternity as a living reminder of the ship of dreams that was believed to never meet her end. 

“By the time I awoke Titanic was all but a memory. A blur. He kept me in that closet for most of the transformation as the ship took on water. Slowly descending further and further into the icy waters of the Atlantic,” Y/n finished the last of her cigarette, putting the nub out and curling her hands into her elbows. “I heard everything. The screams. The cries. Women and children saying goodbye to their fathers. The violins from the band who refused to stop playing.” The melody filled her ears, bringing Y/n back in time. “I focused on the music. Ironically enough, it brought comfort despite the chaos unfolding and served as a distraction for the torment I was going through. Mentally and physically.”

Bella wiped away a tear with a sniff but she remained quiet.

“When the upper deck flooded, that's when Arthur moved us. Edward might have told you before that when a vampire bites a human, the amount of time it takes for the venom to course through all depends on where they bite them.” Bella nodded slowly, remembering the conversation from when she first went to the Cullen’s home and he told her that Carlisle suffered for days during the transformation because he was bitten on the hand. For Y/n, Arthur bit her neck. Closer to the heart and therefore it would only take hours. 

“I was nearing the end--and he knew that, but it was minutes before the ship would submerge and he did not want us to get stuck. He gathered me up, hauled me over his shoulder and made our escape. To everyone on board scrambling to stay afloat it looked like a man carrying his lover to safety. What they didn’t see, however,” Y/n paused briefly to gather her emotions. “Was Arthur throwing us off the railing on the opposite side and swimming away. For miles and miles in absolute darkness. Until we finally reached the shore.”

Bella pictured a newly turned Y/n dragged from the waters onto the sands of New York. Returning home as planned, but without a beating heart and newfound thirst for blood. Scared. Confused. One minute she’s aboard a sinking ship, the next she’s on land. Life stolen by a man with sinister intentions. Depriving her of the future with Alex she dreamed of. 

“What happened next?” Bella carefully asked. 

Y/n’s expression remained dejected, offering a light shrug. “Arthur kept me hidden for days. Forcing me to feed on innocent humans. The RMS Carpathia would be arriving in New York and he needed to confirm if my parents had survived so he could blackmail me into stealing my inheritance.” Pushing away from the table, Y/n gathered the ashtray and discarded the remains into the trash. Running it under the faucet before wiping it dry with a paper towel.

“What the bastard didn’t anticipate,” she said with a tone Bella couldn’t decipher, but it sent a wave of unease through her. “Was the level of rage I experienced when I finally got a hold of my mind. It’s easy for creators to manipulate newborn vampires, but they have to be precise and hope that the person does not remember what preceded the bite. Unfortunately for Arthur, I remembered everything.” Y/n returned to the table, tossing the ashtray in her satchel and Bella saw the darkened expression that had encased her. “And once I realized what he’d done to me…let’s just say Arthur should’ve thought twice about taking on a newborn vampire for the first time.”

Bella didn’t have to hear the words to know what Y/n was implying. Gulping as she muttered, “You destroyed him. Like Edward did to James.”

Their eyes locked, and Bella felt her breath hitch by the blankness in Y/n’s. “Does that bother you?”

“No,” there was no hesitation. How could Bella blame her for wanting revenge on the man who stole her life. Y/n deserved her revenge and from the sound of it, Arthur had never turned anyone prior to her. Leaving him unqualified for the intensity a newborn experiences adjusting to their new life. 

Y/n would’ve been stronger. Faster. Combine that with rage and the taste for vengeance and Arthur was no match for her. 

“Carlisle found me three months later--in July of 1912,” Y/n wrapped up the story, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve before moving to play with her ring. “I knew immediately he was like me, but his eyes were different and I wanted--needed--to know what my future was like. Considering I didn’t really give Arthur the chance to explain,” A sheepish look came over her. “Carlisle had this aura, and I knew I could trust him.” A soft chuckle escapes her, “It’s funny, you know, my intuition never failed me when I was human. It was so strong even then and becoming this only enhanced it. Just look at how the entire time on Titanic I could not shake the feeling it wouldn’t reach America. Then Arthur….Carlisle believes it to be my gift and If I’m being honest I didn’t believe it myself until decades later.” 

Bella instantly became curious, “What made you think otherwise?”

Y/n tensed, and the crushing expression replaced the somber one. Folded hands going in her lap, but her thumb still stroked the ring. “Remember how I said I used to watch over Alex?” Bella nodded slowly, chest tightening at the implication, followed by confirmation. “Well I always felt,” her left hand went to the part of her chest where her heart lay. Unmoving. “In here, beckoning me to be near him. That I needed to see him--even if it was for a split second. And so, for seventy years--,” Bella’s mouth parted with glistening eyes. Y/n mirrored her, but unlike Bella the tears wouldn’t fall. “I would go to him. Observing from afar of course I could never…get close.” Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, placing her hand back in her lap. “There were times he saw me.”

A gasp left Bella before she could stop it. “He did?”

“Yes,” Y/n murmur was more of a whimper, and Bella let the first tear fall. “I knew it was wrong, but I’d let our gaze lock. Then the second he blinked or turned I bolted. I know,” she huffed, “It was selfish of me. I hated myself because I was quite literally a ghost haunting him. But God I just needed to see his eyes--they were always my favorite thing about him.” 

Y/n cleared her throat loudly, rubbing her arms as she gathered herself. She knew telling Bella about Alex her years watching over him would come to this moment, but nothing could prepare her for the pain surfacing within her. 

“The uh--the last time I saw Alex was on his deathbed,” her eyes were closed but she heard Bella’s reaction. From the stutter of her heart to the sharp inhale. “In the days leading up everything felt off. I knew he was sick--he’d been for awhile, but I hoped he’d pull through like the other scares. This was different.” Her hand went back to her chest. “My intuition never failed me,” she let out a watery laugh, “and this time…it was warning the inevitable. Then Alice gave a look I’ll never forget, and I knew I needed to get to him as fast as I could.”

Bella couldn’t even imagine, just envisioning it made her heart sink into her stomach and throat dry up. Before she could ask the million dollar question, Y/n answered for her. “I got to say goodbye. It’s what Alex deserved. After everything I put him through he deserved to have closure.”

“Why did you never…?”

“Turn him?”

“Yeah,” Bella frowned, immediately regretting the question upon Y/n’s look of torment. 

“Same reason why Edward has yet to turn you,” it was harsh and Y/n knew it. But Bella needed a wake up call, if she could be the one to deliver then so be it. Yet at the same time, Y/n finds it aggravating that Edward would put this much effort into a relationship with Bella to not turn her. With Alex, Y/n never pursued him and kept her distance for a reason. Yes, she tortured herself by constantly checking on him, but at least she committed to it. 

A flash of hurt was evident on Bella, but she recovered as Y/n continued, “Alex lived a long life. Maybe not always happy, but he went on to do great things. He became an engineer, and dedicated his career to advancing ships for cross-Atlantic travel. Because he never wanted another disaster like Titanic to happen again,” a small smile curled up on her lips, a proud look in her eyes. “Eventually he married a nice woman, had a daughter, and three grandkids. Turning him would’ve taken that all away.”

Despite feeling broken-hearted for Y/n, Bella understood her reasoning, even though she herself desires becoming a vampire to be with Edward. Unlike Y/n, who sacrificed her chance at having her love with her to give him the ability to live a full life. 

“Did you,” she bit her lip, leaning her elbows on the table after wiping a stray tear. “Did you at least get to talk to him? Before he died?”

Y/n was silent. Gaze drawn down to her lap where it focused on the diamond ring. And while her undead heart broke for the man she’d never see tending to his garden or placing fresh flowers on her ‘grave,’ ever again, Y/n smiled at knowing he was in a better place. 

“I did.”

“I-I knew--I always knew,” the old man croaked in anguish as tears welled in his beautiful eyes that still held the color and sparkle they did when he was a seventeen-year-old boy. Now covered with wrinkles to match his withered skin and silver hair. He laid in a hospital attached to different machines, heart monitor picking up in pace at the rapid beat due to the emotions consuming him. But no matter his appearance, he was still the sweet, darling, Alexander Mason Y/n fell in love with all those years ago. “I-I saw you--after Carpathia docked I scoured the area for you.”

“I know you did,” Y/n whispered with agony. Grabbing his hands gently, making him gasp by how cold they were but he clutched them like a lifeline. Holding them to his chest because he feared that if he let go she’d disappear. 

“They told me you were lost at sea,” the first tear fell, and Y/n felt a sob in the back of her throat. “They said you sank to the bottom and would never be recovered. They--they told me I was making it up--but I knew you were out there. I saw you.” He shook his head as more tears cascaded down his cheeks like a never ending waterfall. “I saw you at my graduation. At the cemetery when my mother died. At the docks when I left for France--when I was in France.” Y/n shuddered at the memory surfacing. 

America had entered World War I and despite Alex coming from wealth where he easily could’ve dodged the draft, he enlisted and spent the year in Europe fighting. And the entire time Alex carried a photograph of Y/n in his pocket close to his heart. Removing it when he was about to go on the frontlines to take one last look at her face and press a kiss to the image. Men in his battalion often asked about the lady Alex held in his pocket, and each time they were met with shock and regret when he revealed she was on Titanic when it sank. 

That was the longest time Y/n had been away from Carlisle. He advised her not to go as she did not know any of his friends that lived in Europe, but Y/n refused to be an ocean apart from Alex. Especially when there was the high chance he may never return home. No, she needed to be close to him. To ensure he was safe. Eventually when the war ended, and Alex was back in New York, Y/n tracked down Carlisle in Chicago. Discovering that during her departure he turned a 17-year-old boy dying of Spanish Influenza. 

“I was there,” she breathed, confirming his statements as she stroked his hand and wrist. Aged skin contrasting with hers frozen in time. It pained her to see him like this. Pained her to have gone decades as a shadow in his life. Observing from afar while never drawing close. 

“You were there,” He repeated with awe, the memories of each occurrence flooding his mind. She wasn’t a figment of his imagination, conjured by his grief. She was real. “At the docks.” Y/n nodded. “At the hotel opening.” Another nod, this time slower. “At my wedding.”

Y/n couldn’t take it anymore. Her head dropped between her shoulders, leaning forward to press her forehead against their conjoined hands. The tearless sob released, echoing along the walls and hitting her straight in the chest. Her undead heart breaking into pieces. “I’m so sorry, Alex. I am so so sorry. Please forgive me--I couldn’t come to you no--no matter how much my soul begged for me to put an end to the suffering.” 

“What happened out there, my darling?” He brought her attention back to him. Not wanting to go another second without looking at her face. The beautiful face he fell in love with as a boy. The face that haunted his dreams. That he swore he saw on a crowded street and when he looked out his window on every birthday and anniversary that passed. The face he thought of when fighting for is life in France--praying he’ll see when he was called to the heavens. 

Now that face was in front of him after decades of mourning. When people called him crazy for always believing Y/n to be alive and forced to hide away. “You’re still as beautiful as the day I lost you.” One hand let go of hers to caress her cheek, wrinkled thumb stroking the area below her eyes. “Except your eyes have changed. They’re not the color they were when you left New York.” His hand rested on top of hers, still perched on his chest right by his heart. “But nonetheless, still beautiful.” 

Y/n swallowed thickly, trying to find the right words to say but none of them seemed appropriate. “You remember all those stories of creatures in the night we used to read about that our parents said were incongruous?” His nod was slow, but attentive. 

“Like Dracula?”

“Yes,” Y/n choked out a laugh, “Like Dracula. Turns out all those stories are not fairy tales.” His sharp intake filled her ears.

“Are you saying…?” This time Y/n was the one to nod. “Good Heavens. You--you are a--.” She shook her head roughly, not wanting to hear him say the word. 

“I’m not the same I was when I left for England all those years ago. There are things--dark things, that exist in the world, and unfortunately I’m one of those.”

Alex rescinded her words, “No. I don’t believe that for a second.”

“It’s true, darling.”

“You might have different eyes, but you’ll always be my Y/n. You’ve been my guardian angel all these years. Any--anytime I felt lost, you were there. Anytime I-I felt like I was forgetting your face, there it was in the distance.” 

Y/n let out a pained sound, but it was so soft Alex couldn’t hear it. His words struck her. Like lightning hitting a tree. How could he still have devotion to her after all the suffering she put him through. 

“You still wear it?” He brought her attention to their hands, where his frail finger traced the ring. “After all this time?”

Y/n stared at him with absolute love, “I’ve never once taken it off.” Bringing his hand to hers, she kissed his weathered skin. “And I never will.” For a moment they just sat there. Staring at each other while the beep of the monitor filled the room. Getting slower and slower to the point Y/n felt herself starting to crumble. “I’m breaking all the rules coming here,” she eventually said, wanting to hear his voice until the inevitable arrived. 

“Rules?”

“Things in this life are not so different from yours. There are rules to follow and the reason why I had to stay away from you. It would’ve put you in danger--and I couldn’t let that happen.” Alice assured Y/n her visit with Alex would remain hidden from the Volturi, but part of her still worried. Thankfully her intuition wasn’t screaming at her, otherwise the situation would be different. 

“Will you get in trouble if you’re caught?”

“Yes. But I don’t want you worrying about that. Alright?”

“Does anyone know you’re here?” The fact Alex was concerned made her smile. 

“The man who took me in does--and the family he and I found along the way.” One of her hands came up to brush away a silver hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. “He found me shortly after I…became this. He knows I would've moved mountains and fought my way through anyone who got in my way to prevent me from being here with you.”

Alex sighed, eyes fluttering shut as they fought against the sleep his body desperately craved. Y/n saw it too, and the look of anguish overcoming her made Alex understand why she waited until now to make an appearance. 

“This is it, isn’t it.” Not a question, a statement. 

“Yes,” she whimpered, scooting closer so she was sitting beside his torso rather than his legs. Leaning into his space as he kept her palms pressed to his slowing heart.

His smile was gentle, “I guess I should find some solace. Dying with the last thing I’ll see being the love of my life I lost a lifetime ago.” Another groan left her. “I always regretted not coming with you to England. That damn Yale interview.”

“I’m grateful you didn’t,” she defended, tone serious as though appalled by his confession. “Had you who’s to say we would’ve made it on a lifeboat. And if they refused to let you on, I would’ve leaped off.” The chances of him surviving would’ve been slim. The lifeboats took women and children first and therefore the majority of those who died aboard Titanic were men. Including Y/n’s father. “You would’ve never done the amazing things you accomplished, Alex. You would’ve never got your Nobel Prize--or had your family.” 

A sigh left him, knowing she was right, and another wave of tears fell as he whispered, “I would’ve joined you.” He would’ve become a vampire for her. Traded in his future of living to remain unmoving in time with her. 

It devastated her. “I know you would have,” her bottom lip trembled, “But Alex, you deserved to live. You deserved to do all those great things. You’ve embedded your name in history--thanks to you, there hasn’t been a commercial passenger ship to sink in seventy years.”

Alex let out a snuffle, “I didn’t want--I didn’t want anyone to experience the pain I did. Losing you that way…I never recovered, Y/n.” 

Now that destroyed her. Worse than she ever imagined. Y/n audibly reacted as the pain tightened and exploded in her chest. “Oh, Alex.”

“You’ll stay, right?” The monitor decreased in pace. Alex used what little strength his heart had left to stay alive to treasure the last moments the universe afforded him with Y/n. His time was coming, and he was ready, but he needed to see her face, hear her voice, and feel her touch, one last time. “You’ll be right here.”

Y/n leaned forward, holding her weight up but still keeping her body close to his. “I am not going anywhere,” She vowed, lacing their fingers together, pressing them into his chest so she could feel the light thump of his heart. “I’ll be right here every second.”

And Y/n did. She sat there, holding his hands until they went limp. The beeping decreased. Alex’s breathing turned into soft pants, eyes fluttering as the darkness beckoned him. The last thing he felt was cold lips pressed to his forehead, and the melody of her voice in her ears sending him off to the Heavens, “I love you, Alexander Mason, I will love you until the end of time. And when the day comes, I’ll meet you at the docks.” 

April 14th, 2012 

The Cullens stood together in silence as the cool wind breeze passed them and clouds drizzled light rain above. The smell of salt from the sea filled their senses, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, causing the boats docked to lightly sway. 

Bella, now possessing golden eyes and skin so pale and cold, leaned into Edward’s side while brushing a hand down their daughter’s hair. Like her family, she remained silent as she watched her sister-in-law stand alone at the edge of the docking port. Staring ahead into the deep, quiet ocean. 

In the middle of the night one hundred years prior and 1,300 miles away, the ship of dreams known as Titanic sank to the bottom of the Atlantic. Carrying 2,240 souls on her maiden voyage to New York, only 706 made it to their destination. The rest were lost to the sea. 

Y/n L/n may have survived the sinking, but she died aboard Titanic. As the ‘unsinkable’ vessel took on water, her heart stopped. Never to beat again. Becoming frozen like the waters consuming them, she went on to outlive the 706 survivors rescued on the RMS Carpathia. The last one leaving the docks forever in 2009. 

Flowers in her hand, with the same face that boarded Titanic, Y/n approached the edge of the dock. The wind breezed past her, stronger this time but she remained afoot. Crouching down so her knees hovered over the wood. And when she leaned over to stare at the water, the reflection of that 17-year-old passenger stared back at her. 

With a shuddered breath, Y/n gently lowered the bouquet, watching as the current grasped the flowers, allowing them to drift away in the direction Titanic would have traveled when she reached her final destination. 

Golden eyes followed the flowers as they grew smaller and smaller in the distance until Y/n barely made out the color. When it was gone from her vision, she tilted her head up to the sky, smiling at the sight of the sun breathing through the dense clouds. 

They’d have to go indoors eventually, but Y/n rejoiced in the feeling that the universe was sending her a sign. They might be gone, but they are never forgotten. The people we love are always watching over us. Sometimes it’ll feel like a gentle touch to the shoulder. Or comes as a whisper. Or in a crowded room you might find their face. 

However it may come, they are always there. 

And as Y/n began to stand, wind picking up once more, she felt the caress of a hand on her shoulder, a gentle murmur filling her ears. 

“I’ll always wait for you at the docks.”

[starmieknight]

Stars Align

Headhunters Pt. 1

17 Again AU: After a disastrous first day with the twins, Stan swears to do better as an uncle. But fate loves playing tricks on him and the magic 8-ball in the attic is more than it seems.

Now on top of having a pair of twelve year olds around the house while he tries to finish the portal and bring his brother home, Stan has to deal with being back in his seventeen year old body! Summer has never been weirder in Gravity Falls.

AO3 link

Concept Art

Legend of the Gobblewonker (Art)

Prologue, The Legend of the Gobblewonker (previous), Headhunters Pt. 1, Headhunters Pt. 2, Headhunters Pt. 3, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 1, The Hand That Rocks the Mabel Pt. 2, The Inconveniencing, Dipper Vs. Manliness

It was only with mild surprise that Stan woke up young again. 

Gravity Falls weirdness wass unreliable on any given day.  The state he was in didn't seem to be going away anytime soon. 

So Stan grits his teeth and heads downstairs to make breakfast anyway. This is still fine. He was still fine. 

He can't afford to keep the Shack closed another day, so he improvises his usual look a bit. The jacket stays even if it's a bit big on him and the shoulders aren't as filled out as they normally are. But he doesn't have to shove himself into the girdle and counts that as a win. Beneath the jacket he dons a plain white T-shirt and a pair of old jeans from the back of the closet. 

They might have been Ford's at one time, though they seem kinda small...

Mabel calls his outfit 'hipster-business casual' when she sees him and he has no idea what that means.

Wendy is off work that day, leaving him without a teen-speak translator.

Absent-mindedly, Stan wonders if she'd caught sight of him yesterday at the lake. 

Hopefully, she hadn't and the weirdness will be gone in the morning. 

In all, the day turns out pretty uneventful ― aside from a few tourists giving him extra tips after tours. 

They thought it was adorable that he was so interested in the 'family business' and laughed when he claimed he was well into his fifties. 

Not with that baby face, they'd say.

Fine ― if they wanted to throw more money at him, he wouldn't complain. 

Before long, the day is done and Stan eagerly shucks the blazer and his jeans in favor of boxers and a T-shirt.  

He avoids the mirror, memories of Glass Shard Beach plaguing his every step. 

He swears he can hear his mother on the other side of the wall, schmoozing some schmuck over the phone. Sees his father glaring at him from the corner of his eye. 

Feels the phantom hands of his brothers on the stairs, Shermie's large and powerful on his shoulder while Ford tugs at his sleeve more hesitantly.

Stan shudders and leans against the hallway wall, squeezing his eyes shut against the memories. 

He breathes deep and carries on, planning on joining the twins downstairs when the scent of dust and wax catches his attention.  

A long-forgotten door beckons to him from down the hall, filled with waxy faces of celebrities and fictional characters.

Huh, he'd forgotten all about these guys.

Outside, he can hear Soos and the kids coming and can't resist the set-up for a good prank.

Having to hide in a dark, dusty room for a chance at a jump scare is worth it.

Stan cackles at the twins' screams before bundling them up in a bear hug.

"It's just me!" he crows joyfully. "Your Grunkle Stan!"

They scream once more out of reflex before settling down.

"Grunkle Stan, what is this place?" Mabel asked, flopping over his arm to stare upside down at the displays. 

Dipper wriggles in his grasp, in danger of being dropped, before Stan sets them back on their feet.

"Behold ― the Gravity Falls Wax Museum!" Stan declares, proudly spreading his arms and spinning on his heel. A born showman even as a young man. "It was one of my most popular attractions... before I forgot all about it." 

More like got creeped out by the things and hid them away so he didn't have to look at them anymore. 

Like Ford's old room.  

The loss of wax Abraham Lincoln makes him pout and whine, but Mabel is quick to offer a solution.

It's amazing to watch the kid work through the night, but when she refuses to stop and sleep, Stan puts his foot down.

He manages to get some food in her and gets her to take a nap, but the girl is too much like Ford to stay down for long. She'll be up soon and Stan will have his hands full.

------------------------

The next morning was... interesting.

This time, when Stan woke up as a teenager, he didn't question it and went about his business. Mabel was still passed out on the couch in the living room, fingers sticky with wax and glitter as she took a small break from her work. Stan puts her pancakes in the microwave and eats a quiet breakfast with Dipper, both of them too out of it to form proper conversation.

Stan didn't know if it was a side-effect of being a teenager again, but it was incredibly difficult to wake up before noon. His mind felt like it was running on empty until the sun reached its peak in the sky. On the other hand, it was easier to stay up at night. It'd work out in his favor when he got his hands on Dipper's journal. Whenever he could swing that.

The kid had it hidden well and never left it laying around in the Shack.

Stan could feel that the answers to getting his brother back were closer than ever and the set-back of keeping it secret at the same time was almost too frustrating to bear.

He huffed to himself and slumped down onto the couch outside, half dressed in his usual attire. The summer morning was turning out to be a hot one and he was already sweaty enough. The jacket stayed off, draped over the arm of the couch and in-reach in case a tour bus suddenly appeared. 

A rustling around the side of the porch had him tensing instinctively, too many years on the streets and in nasty situations to let him relax for long. Even using his twin's identity didn't keep him safe from everyone after him. And with this face, it’d be even harder to keep convincing people he was the real Stanford Pines.

Stan slipped his hand into his jeans pocket, fingers sliding into his brass knuckles. Even in this body, they fit like a glove, the only consistent part of his life from the past 40 years. The knuckles had come with him from New Jersey, the one thing he'd ever chanced lifting out of his old man's shop.

The thought of Filbrick finding out that Stan stole from him was still a chilling one.

Stan positioned himself to watch the side of the porch as casually as he could, muscles lax in preparation to move whatever direction he needed to.

It probably wasn't the kids ― they were naturally noisy. So was Soos. The only other person who'd be hanging around the Shack was...

"Who are you?"

Wendy.

The girl really was cool as ice, merely raising a curious brow as Stan explained his plight.

"That's some freaky shit, man." She said finally, dropping onto the couch beside him instead of heading inside. The slacker. "But you've still got your memories, right? You're not just, like, mini-Stan Pines from 1940 or whatever?"

Stan pinned her with an irritated look. "How old do you think I am? You kids have no idea how age works."

"So?"

"And stop swearing! The kids are around here somewhere."

"They'll hear worse in high school."

"Yeah, but I ain't gonna have them go home talkin' like that and have their parents come up here to murder me."

"Would they even recognize you like that?"

Stan grew quiet, his brow furrowing as he stared into the treeline.

No, they wouldn't.

The last time he'd seen his nephew as himself and not using Ford's name had been back in 1972. Back when he really was seventeen.

Alex had been a baby back then, wailing in his grandmother's arms as Filbrick threw Stan into the street. He'd never known an uncle aside from Ford.

Or, at least, the man he thought was Ford. Alex had visited once when the Shack was still the Murder Hut. They'd spent the month fishing and riding the backroads through town, Stan teaching the kid how to drive and use bad pickup lines on girls.

It'd been the highlight of his thirties. He'd hoped it would be the same when the twins came down to visit.

It was turning out to just be weird.

"I'm sorry, man." Wendy said suddenly, drawing Stan out of his memories about a freckle faced kid with too many freckles to count.

"It's fine, kid." He sighed, rising to his feet and sliding on his jacket. "Go on and get to work. We've got customers to rip off."

Wendy hummed in agreement, her eyes sharp beneath their lazy lids. She held her tongue, though, and he was grateful for that much.

Mabel was missing from the couch when they came in, a nest of blankets the only indication that she'd ever been there.

"Kids?" He called, moving into the parlor. "Where'd you― GAH!!"

By some miracle, Stanford was standing in front of him. The twins and Soos crowded him, only that familiar face visible over the kids’ heads and grinning at him.

Which was weird.

Even when Ford smiled, he never looked like that. And he certainly wouldn't smile at Stanley.

"Grunkle Stan!" Mabel cheered, dripping glitter onto the hardwood. "What do you think of my masterpiece? I thought about recreating this new, young you ― but that would have been pretty confusing for the customers. Like a waxy twin!"

A waxy twin.

That's all it was.

Ford was still trapped on the other side of the portal, likely hurt and resenting Stan.

"Grunkle Stan? Are you... alright?"

Dipper crouched down next to him, brow furrowed in concern. 

Stan sucked in a deep breath, vaguely acknowledging that he'd stopped breathing at the sight of what he'd thought was his brother. It wasn't Ford. Just a wax figure.

And the twins were looking at him strangely now. Time to redirect.

"Can a teenager have a heart attack?" He asked seriously before pasting on a cheesy grin. "Because that hunk is making my heart do flips!"

The twins laughed, the tension breaking as Soos helped Stan back up. It was strange how easily the handyman could lift him now, like he weighed nothing more than a sack of potatoes. And he handled him so gently. Like a child!

Stan remembered when Soos was the child, all chubby cheeks and wide eyes as he followed him around the Shack. Like a little baby duck.

He'd been a pretty cute kid, honestly. 

Ugh. Being young again was turning him into a sap. 

He needed to change the subject and Wax Stan had just given him the perfect idea.

"Kids," he grinned eagerly as he drew them near. Mabel had a light shining in her eye, apparently on the same wavelength as him. Dipper looked more skeptical. "The Wax Museum is back in business!”

[directdogman]

hi hound, got a question for ya . kind of related to phone sex. Yippee

anyway, so i feel its kind of established in dialtown that being a phone head is equal to being amab, and being a typewriter head is equal to being afab (based on oliver and karens refusal to date types/phones respectively ofc) so i was wondering - what about people born with neither, like karen? would she be considered a form of intersex by society?

followup - how do like. Genetics work? like are they born with specific heads based on their parents (would karen be more likely to have a printer child, for example)?

Appologies for the long and strange questions, your game is rotting me as we speak

anyway, so i feel its kind of established in dialtown that being a phone head is equal to being amab, and being a typewriter head is equal to being afab (based on oliver and karens refusal to date types/phones respectively ofc)

Kiiind of. It's mainly a cultural thing. Basically, the tradition is to assign heads to babies based on the gender assigned at birth. Because of this, someone with a phone head is widely considered by others to be male, and vice versa for typewriters, and this is why many trans people in-universe switch, in the same way as someone might style their hair or change their wardrobe in ours. However, because the heads are modular (and can be changed), it's best to view this correlation as more of a cultural trend rather than a rigid system that everyone follows without exception, one of which I'll explain in the next part of the answer.

what about people born with neither, like karen? would she be considered a form of intersex by society?

Karen actually HAD a typewriter head before she was given the printer. A little bit of background context here: Callum Crown, the inventor of the phone head, invented his first ever cybernetic augmentations (his revolutionary prosthetic limbs) in order to help other disabled people gain mobility and independence. He wanted to give other people the same opportunities that his technology had given him.

When he moved onto the phone head concept, he never forgot about his initial goal of using technology to help people with disabilities. Karen's typewriter head was actually a developmental adaptation. Basically, it allowed a young averbal Karen to produce images, which assisted her in communication before she could learn to speak (and helped her learn to speak sooner than if she had never gotten the upgrade.) While it's quite a modern solution for a disability that wasn't well understood in Crown's time, it's absolutely in line with his philosophies and it's an application he'd be very enthusiastic about, if he was still fully conscious.

Similarly, there are NPCs in-game who have non-standard heads and aren't trans or non-binary, like Rachel at the Dialtown News Network, who has a teleprompter head! In much the same way Karen's head was switched for utility purposes, the same is true for many people who work certain jobs where these heads come in handy. Therefore, I think it's safer to say that someone's head type more or less correlates with their overall identity, with gender, occupation, or any other relevant circumstances factoring into what kind of head they might have.

There's a few NB NPCs in-game and the cultural way many express that is by having hybrid heads, or heads with elements of both phones + typewriters. Take Curie, the curator of the DT Modern Art museum, who has a typewriter head with a phone dial added to it. Gabby (the store clerk who sells phone parts in Uptown Dialtown) also mentions that this practice is common.

followup - how do like. Genetics work? like are they born with specific heads based on their parents (would karen be more likely to have a printer child, for example)?

Genetics don't factor into it outside of the cultural tendency to give phone/typewriter heads based on the gender of the child. Basically, all babies are born with an adapter, and right after birth, the baby is given their new head. Think about how difficult it would be to give birth to someone with a FULL-SIZED typewriter head! There's more than one reason it's set up the way it is, but that's the most important thing to mention. Hope this helps!

[fel-09]

The Mystery of the Painting "A Feast Where Only the Devil Is Not Hungry" Part 1

The winter air hung heavily, the breath of the world stilled, as though it feared disturbing the darkness that pervaded the land. The sky, suffocated beneath layers of cloud, offered no warmth, no light. Instead, the earth lay beneath a thick blanket of snow, pure in appearance but cold and lifeless. It was the perfect setting, for the cruelty that would unfold was one that could only be understood in this stillness, where nothing moved except the slowly dying world.

The Reader stood alone in the snow, her silhouette barely distinguishable from the blackness of the surrounding forest.Her hands were red with the color of blood , moved delicately over the body of the woman at her feet. She was not so much performing a killing as she was crafting. The woman’s body lay in a grotesque, unnatural pose. Her stomach, split open as though the body itself was nothing more than a shell, revealed the entrails spilling out like some macabre sculpture—organs twisted and twisted further still as they spilled into the snow. Her hands, lifeless and pale, clutched at the unborn lamb in her grasp, a twisted symbol of purity, dying before it could breathe.

The scene was a grotesque masterpiece. The lamb, innocent, its skin still soft with the potential of new life, would not see the world. This was no ordinary sacrifice; the Reader was not just killing a body—she was sacrificing a soul. The blood spilled not only to paint the earth beneath her feet but to give life to something darker, more ancient than what was born. The innocence of the lamb was, in a sense, never meant to belong to this world. It was merely a tool to create the greater work—the work that was the body itself, mutilated and twisted beyond recognition. In this dark artistry, flesh and blood became instruments of creation, the artist merging with the act of violence, until there was no separation between the two.

As she worked, her movements were careful, almost tender, as though she were aware that what she was doing had purpose beyond the suffering that accompanied it. Her eyes were focused, but not on the woman before her. No, her gaze was fixed somewhere else, deeper, as if she were seeing beyond the body and the blood into something far more profound. It was a ritualistic process, one she had performed countless times before, but each time felt different—each time, she was creating something new, something that transcended the boundaries of her own understanding.

But in the midst of this, she became aware of him. Hannibal Lecter, standing on the periphery of her creation, watching with quiet fascination. He was a figure shrouded in the same dark mystery as the world around them. His presence was not a disturbance but a reminder of a certain inevitability—of fate, of the role he played in the grand narrative of darkness that surrounded them both.

The scene was an enigma, a moment suspended in time as Hannibal Lecter watched in silent awe. The woman before him, covered in blood, worked with an almost reverent precision, her hands stained but steady as she crafted a grotesque beauty from the suffering around her. The body before her was nothing more than a tool, a sacrifice, a vessel through which something far darker would come to life. The lamb, innocent, yet fated for an end that no one would mourn, save for the creator herself.

But it was not just the body that held his attention. No, it was the way in which she moved, the precision in her actions, the detached calm with which she did the unspeakable. He felt the pull of her artistry, and it was not unlike the first time he saw her

He remembered the museum, the cold walls of history that held masterpieces of human creation, but none so moving as the one before him now. The guide—his annoyance palpable He was not competent in understanding the art in front of him and it was with such difficulty that he explained to him what was before him, his ignorance even more so—tried his best to convey meaning, but there was only one thing that truly mattered: the painting titled „The Feast, Where Only the Devil Is Hungry.“

The painting depicted where a man on the one side of the table ate everything in front of him, his side was full of delicacies, even human remains, he could even bite his fingers ,on the other side, a demon , he half of the table was empty on his plate only 1 pea that he had to eat an ironic case.

Hannibal’s mind had been consumed by the piece ever since he’d first laid eyes on it. At first, it had been unsettling, a thing of pure dissonance. The table, the vast array of food, the grotesque presence of the human form—mutilated, twisted, and devoured by its own appetite. The figures at the table were not feasting, but feeding from the very essence of their destruction. The faces twisted in agony, yet the hunger remained, an insatiable, unrelenting force.

But it was not just the imagery that haunted him. It was the underlying message, the unspoken truth hidden within each brushstroke. The feast was not just a physical act—it was a metaphor for the darkness that consumed every human soul. The insatiable hunger for power, for control, for satisfaction at any cost. The very soul of humanity devouring itself, with no regard for the consequences. It was a grim truth, a truth that felt... familiar.

And then, the guide’s voice intruded, his words empty, his analysis shallow. He could not see the meaning behind the madness, the symbolism beneath the surface. He could not fathom the purpose of such a creation, a purpose that only Hannibal understood. The guide’s incompetence irritated him, as did his lack of insight into the artwork before them. He could not see what Hannibal saw, nor could he comprehend the artist’s vision.

And then the conversation turned, as the guide began to argue with a woman who had joined the discussion. She was charming, yes, but there was something more beneath that beauty. A sharpness, a darkness hidden in the delicate curve of her smile. She argued that the painting was not for deep contemplation, but for enjoyment for eye. It was a visual experience, not one to be overanalyzed. Her words, however, held a deeper meaning than she let on.

Hannibal watched with rapt attention, his gaze narrowing as he examined her. Her presence was magnetic, but there was something in her eyes, something that betrayed her attempt to hide her true self. She was not just an admirer of the art; she was its creator. He knew it instinctively. The moment she spoke, he could feel the pulse of recognition—a recognition that sent a shiver down his spine.

She was the artist. She was the one who had birthed this grotesque beauty. The „Feast, Where Only the Devil Is Hungry“ had been born of her hands, her mind, her soul. And yet, she tried to hide it. She tried to divert his attention, to feign ignorance. But Hannibal could see through the veil. He could see the truth in her eyes. She had created this masterpiece, and now she was standing before him, attempting to distance herself from her own creation.

The realization was a sharp one, cutting deep. He had heard of the artist—of her disturbing, grotesque works, of the way she used blood and flesh to create art. And now, here she was, in front of him, trying to mask her identity. She did not want him to know. But she had underestimated him.

As the conversation continued, Hannibal’s thoughts grew darker, more focused. He was no longer merely admiring the painting; he was consumed by the artist herself. She was an enigma, a puzzle that only he could solve. And he would. He would have her, as he had claimed so many other things in his life. She would not escape his grasp.

But for now, he watched. He watched as she tried to hide, tried to pretend, tried to convince herself that she could outrun the truth. She would not. Not from him. Not from the darkness that she had so expertly conjured.

And the feast, where only the devil was hungry, would continue—its creator waiting for the moment when she could finally embrace her own hunger.

____________________________________

It was very hard on my part to write this fanfic because I was very tired first of all and secondly I wrote it through Dictionary some places because I didn't know some words

the part 2