#He would have been destined to be another dictator

[kinomiya]

I cannot believe I am watching the western world mourn a racist nationalist who was only throwing tantrums because it wasn't him in control of the empire.

[itneverendshere]

hi! For the bartender!Universe would u mind writing a pregnancy scare? It brings a lot of mixed emotions when they find out she wasn’t pregnant and it ends up a really deep talk about what they want with their future? Thank you so much 💕💕

i got a similiar ask at the exact same time so i decided to combine aspects of both!!! the other request: "this one’s a lil angsty. maybe you have a pregnancy scare and while rafes like super excited for the potential baby, you’re not, the stress of keeping rafe clean and not heading back to rehab lingers your mind".

hope you both enjoy!!!!❤️🫂🤭

 just want you in my life keep you warm at nights - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe) warnings: pregnancy scare; insecurities

Rafe was sprawled out beside you, his arm draped lazily across your stomach as he scrolled through his phone. You could feel the pressure of his hand pressing gently on your skin, but your mind was a million miles away, your gaze stuck on the ceiling fan.

It felt like everything had been on autopilot for the past few days, your mind preoccupied with one thing—late. Not like a few days late.

More like over a week late.

It wasn’t the first time your period had been irregular, but you couldn’t help but spiral immediately. Rafe and you had been together for three and a half years, living together for a while now and he’d proposed last autumn. But this? This wasn’t part of the plan.

Not yet.

“Hey,” His voice snapped you back to the present, his brows furrowed as he looked at you, concern evident in his blue eyes. “What’s wrong?”

You blinked, trying to force a smile. “Nothing... just thinking.”

He shifted, propping himself up on his elbow to look at you more closely. “Thinkin’ about what?”

You stomach dropped. You hadn’t told him yet. You weren’t sure if there was anything to tell because you hadn’t even taken the test. You weren’t sure if you wanted to. Saying it out loud would make it real. And that terrified you.

Rafe, on the other hand, would probably be thrilled. He’d always talked about kids like they were a given, like it was part of some unspoken future you were destined for. You wanted them too, but the truth? The truth was, the idea of being responsible for another human being when you were still trying to recover from Rafe's scare last year and keeping your shit together now that you’d gotten a promotion at the club—well, it felt like too much.

You couldn’t say that, though. Not to him. So you kept quiet. 

The next day, you stared at the small plastic stick in your hand, heart hammering in your chest as you waited for the result to appear. The bathroom was dead silent, save for the faint drip of the sink, but your mind was anything but quiet.

This one stupid piece of plastic was going to dictate the rest of your life. It could change everything in the blink of an eye. Three minutes. That’s how long it would take to find out if your entire world was about to be turned upside down.

You still hadn’t told Rafe. You didn’t even know how to. His mind was in a good place lately, and you weren’t about to ruin that. After everything we’d been through—the relapse, the rehab, the nights where you weren’t sure if he’d make it out—this was not something you were ready to throw on both of you.

You hadn’t even wrapped your head around it yet. Shit, you could barely breathe just thinking about the possibility. You glanced at your phone, biting your lip as the seconds ticked by.

Almost time. Your stomach twisted into endless knots. He was in the living room, blissfully unaware of the panic attack you were on the verge of having just a few feet away. You could hear him flipping through channels on the TV, probably looking for some show to watch. Part of you felt guilty for not telling him, but how were you supposed to tell him when you didn’t even know what you wanted?

The idea of being pregnant had scared you more than you expected.

Not because you hated kids or anything, you grew up rising Milo for fuck’s sake—it was just the timing. Or maybe it was more than that.

Your mom died shortly after you were born and your dad…well, a drunk piece of shit was hardly a good parental figure. You’d never let yourself think about it before, Rafe had told you how good you were with kids a million times over the years, but you didn’t know how you’d turn out with your own kids. You didn’t want to be anything like them, ever. 

Taking a deep breath, you finally glanced down at the test.

Negative.

Relief took over you so fast it made you feel lightheaded. You hadn’t realized just how much pressure you’d been carrying on your shoulders until it was gone in an instant. Thank God.

Your shoulders slumped as you exhaled, leaning against the sink for support. You felt like you finally could breathe again, like you could relax for the first time in what felt like weeks. There was no baby. No life-altering change. No new responsibility that you didn’t know how to handle.

You closed your eyes. This was good. This was the outcome you needed. No baby, no stress, just… back to normal.

But then, life had a twisted sense of humor and the door creaked open. “Hey, baby, you—”

Your eyes flew open, heart dropping in your chest as you quickly shoved the pregnancy test behind your back. Rafe stood in the doorway, looking at you with his signature confused look—one eyebrow cocked, lips slightly parted, like he’d walked in on something he wasn’t supposed to.

You forced a smile, too wide and too fake, and took a step back, trying to act casual. “Oh, uh, hey! What’s up?” Your voice cracked on the last word, and you internally winced. Smooth.

He narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “What are you hiding behind your back?”

Shit.

You tried to laugh it off, shaking your head like it was no big deal. “Hiding? Me? I’m not hiding anything.”

His eyes moved to the hand behind your back. “Really? Because it sure looks like you are.”

You swallowed hard, your brain rushing to come up with some excuse, any excuse. 

But the longer you stood there, the more suspicious you looked. And Rafe was nothing if not persistent when he thought something was up. Before you could stop him, he pushed off the doorframe and closed the distance between you two, his hand reaching behind your back in one smooth motion. Your stomach dropped as he grabbed the test from your hand, pulling it out in front of both of us.

He stared at the pregnancy test in his hand, his eyes widening with realization as he slowly processed what he was seeing. What he was holding. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first. He just stood there. 

“Y-You thought you were pregnant?”

The heat rose to your cheeks, and the anxiety that had been building in your stomach for days came back at full force. You were still reeling from the relief of the negative result, but now that relief was giving up space for guilt. You hadn’t meant for him to find out like this, or maybe not even at all. You didn’t want to drag him into the spiral you’d been caught in, not when things had been going so well lately.

“I... I wasn’t sure,” you stammered, looking down at the floor because it was easier than meeting his eyes. “I mean, I was late, and I just…I didn’t know.”

Rafe’s face softened, the confusion in his eyes giving way to concern as he took a step toward you. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing again, this time for a different reason. The last thing you wanted to do was lie but telling him the truth felt impossible.

“I didn’t want to stress you out,” you admitted, “I wasn’t even sure if I was, and I didn’t want to freak you out for no reason.”

Rafe’s hand was still holding the test, but now he was looking at you with that intensity he always had when he knew you were telling the entire truth. He wasn’t mad—he never got mad, not anymore—but you could tell he was hurt that you hadn’t let him in. You felt awful about it.

“I wouldn’t have freaked out,” he said gently, stepping even closer until he was right in front of you. “You know that, right? You don’t have to do this alone.”

That was the thing, though. Over the past year you’d spent so long worrying about him, making sure he was healthy, that the idea of burdening him again with your own fears had become...strange.

You didn’t want to be another weight on his shoulders.

“I know, I just…” You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I didn’t know how to feel about it. And I didn’t want you to—”

“To what?” he pressed softly, his voice so calm and reassuring that it made the stress loosen just a little.

You took a deep breath, “I didn’t want you to get your hopes up, I guess. Or feel disappointed if it was negative.”

He set the test down on the counter beside him, reaching out to cup your face in his hands. “Baby, I wouldn’t be disappointed,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “If it had been positive, great. If it’s not, that’s fine too. We’ve got time. It’s not like we have to figure this out right now.”

The lump in your throat made it hard to speak. “You’re really not mad?”

Rafe shook his head, “I wish you would’ve told me what you were going through. I don’t want you to carry that by yourself.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. There was so much you wanted to say, so many fears you’d been holding onto—not just about the possibility of being pregnant, but about everything. About whether you were even ready for kids at all, about what kind of parent you’d be, about whether you could handle the responsibility when your past still haunted you in ways you hadn’t recovered from.

“It’s not just that,” you whispered, “I don’t know if I’m ready, Rafe. And it scares the shit out of me.”

He was silent for a moment, and when you finally opened your eyes to look at him, his expression was so gentle, so understanding, that it almost broke you.

“Hey,” he pulled you into his arms. “We don’t have to be ready right now. There’s no rush. When you’re ready, we’ll talk about it."

You buried your face in his chest, letting him heartbeat calm you. His arms wrapped around you tightly, and for the first time in what felt like days, you allowed yourself to relax.

“I-I know you want a baby. But—”

He sighed against your hair, lips brushing your temple, “What I want is for you to be happy. And if this doesn’t make you happy right now, I don’t mind waiting. We got forever, remember?”

It wasn’t that you didn’t want kids—it was that right now, everything already felt like too much. Planning a wedding, keeping up with work, holding your relationship together after what you both had been through, it was all overwhelming. And then the idea of a baby on top of that? You’d grow crazy.

Rafe’s fingers brushed through your hair, and you just let yourself be in his comfort. But the guilt was still there, eating you whole from the inside. You should’ve told him from the start, not carried it all on your own like you always do.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered into his chest, voice muffled. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you. I just didn’t know what to do. It’s been a lot lately.”

He kissed the top of your head, his hands gentle as they held you. “You don’t have to apologize, baby. You’re dealing with enough already.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, I think I’m losing my mind.”

The wedding. God, the wedding. You hadn’t even let yourself fully acknowledge how much that had been stressing you out too. You’d dreamed about this day since you were a kid, but now, between caterers, guest lists, dress fittings, and everything else, it felt like a full-time job. And the worst part was, the more overwhelmed you got, the more guilty you felt for not being excited enough about it.

“I just want everything to be perfect,” you admitted, biting your lip. “I want it to be special, but it’s starting to feel like a chore. Like I’m supposed to care more about seating charts and floral arrangements than... than actually enjoying the fact that we’re getting married.”

 “Then let’s cut back. We don’t need some huge, over-the-top thing if it’s stressing you out. I just want to marry you, that���s all that matters to me.”

He always knew exactly how to calm you down, how to remind you what was important when everything else felt a little too crazy.

“But what about your family?” you asked, wiping at the corner of your eyes. “They’re expecting this big thing.”

He shrugged, “They’ll get over it. This is about us, not them. If you want something smaller, we can do that. Hell, we can get married in the backyard for all I care, as long as it’s what you want.”

The sincerity in his voice almost made you want to bawl your eyes out. You took a deep breath, nodding slowly. “I think I’d like that. Something smaller. More us.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” he nodded. You let out a sigh of relief, the knot in your chest loosening more. Maybe this was what you needed—to let go of the pressure to have it all figured out. To accept that it was okay to not be ready for everything.

“I love you,” you whispered, leaning into his touch.

“I love you too,” he replied, his forehead resting against yours. “But baby, you have to stop worrying so much about me. I’m okay. I’m doing good, and I’m not going back there. But you’re gonna drive yourself crazy if you keep putting me first and ignoring what you need.”

You blinked, your breath catching slightly. “I’m not ignoring what I need—”

“You are,” he cut in gently, but firmly. “You’ve been doing it for months now. Since the relapse, since rehab. You’ve been carrying all this, stressing about keeping everything together. And I love you for wanting to take care of me, but you can’t keep putting yourself second. It’s not fair to you.”

You wanted to argue, to say you were fine, that it was just what you had to do to keep everything from falling apart. But deep down, you knew he was right. You’d been holding on so tight, so terrified that if you let go, if you stopped worrying about him for even a second, you’d lose him again. 

“I’m just scared,” you whispered, the lump in your throat making it hard to speak. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” Rafe said softly, pulling you closer. “But if you keep this up, you’re gonna lose yourself.”

You closed your eyes, pressing your face into his chest as the tears you’d been holding back finally started to fall. Rafe held you tighter, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back. He didn’t try to hush you or tell you to stop. He just let you cry, let you get it all out, like he knew you’d needed this release for a long time. You couldn’t stop. Everything you’d been bottling up for months was spilling out at once.

Rafe held you tighter, his hand rubbing slow circles on your back. He didn’t try to hush you or tell you to stop. He just let you cry, let you get it all out, like he knew you’d needed this for a long time.

You pulled back slightly, sniffling as you wiped at your eyes. “I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop apologizing,” Rafe shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for feeling what you’re feeling. But you’ve gotta start trusting that I’m okay."

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”

"You’re allowed to let me take care of you too, you know?”

You let out a small laugh, wiping the last of the tears from your face. “I’m not great at that.”

“Meh, you used to be a lot worse.”

“Yeah?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, leaning into his familiar warmth.

“Oh yeah,” he smirked, his hand brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You used to keep everything so locked up, I’d have to pry things out of you.

His words made you chuckle, despite yourself. It was true. You had gotten better at letting him in—at least compared to before.

“You’ve always been so good at taking care of me,” you whispered, your hand tracing soft patterns across his chest. “But I guess sometimes I still forget that I don’t have to be strong all the time.”

 “You don’t. I’ve got you, baby. I’ve always got you.”

He meant it—every word. This was Rafe at his best, the man who had fought his way back from the darkness, who had become the partner you always knew he could be. The boy you fell in love with, the man you were going to marry and grow old with.

“I’m really trying,” you murmured, blinking back the last of your tears. “I don’t want to keep worrying about everything or trying to control what’s out of my hands. I just want us to be happy.”

“You make me happier than I’ve ever been, and I don’t want you to ever doubt that.”

You hesitated for a second, biting your lip before finally speaking up.

"Rafe?" you said softly, looking up at him. He hummed in response, his hand still tracing slow, comforting circles on your back.

"Are you… are you sure you're not sad about the, uh, not pregnant thing?" Your voice was quiet, unsure. You didn’t know why you felt the need to ask again. Even with all his reassurances, a part of you couldn’t ignore the worry that he might feel disappointed deep down.

He sighed gently, his lips quirking into a soft, understanding smile. "Baby, no," he said firmly, shaking his head as if to emphasize his point. "I promise you, I’m not sad. It doesn’t change anything between us. I told you before—we’ve got time. I’m happy with where we are right now. I don’t need a baby to make me feel complete. You already do that."

You couldn't help but ask again, just to be sure. "Really? You’re not disappointed?"

Rafe sighed softly, moving his hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear as he looked at you with those steady blue eyes. "Not disappointed. Not sad. I’m just glad you’re here. That’s all I care about. I’m fine with whatever the outcome is as long as I have you.”

"You’re really okay with this?" 

He frowned slightly, his hand coming up to gently tilt your chin so you were looking directly at him. "Listen to me. You could never disappoint me. Okay?"

You still had questions, still had insecurities about the future, but for the first time in days, you weren’t consumed by them and allowed yourself to believe that everything really was going to be good.

"Okay."

[maybeiwasjustjade]

The High King theory truly makes me ill.

And knowing SJM and her obsession with making certain characters superior and/or have some kind of divine right to rule, I know she’ll try to make it happen at the expense of literally everyone else.

Moreover, I don’t see how it can happen without a major war. They just got out of 50 years under Amarantha, I doubt the courts are itching for another incompetent warlords’ attempt at HK/HQ.

Who exactly would bow to Feyre and Rhysand? The High Lords meeting showed that barely anyone tolerated them, nor did they have any actual allies that wasn’t Helion. And I doubt Helion would be so forgiving when he finds out about Lucien. Tamlin and Eris would never, so they’d have to die. Neither would Tarquin or Kallias agree, so that’s a given war with the Seasonal Courts. Dawn would stay neutral, or end up the rebel court. It really is the only toss up.

And even with Gwydion (which rightfully belongs to Nesta alongside the Trove) as some kind of divine symbol, feysand genuinely sucks at ruling. Conquer Prythian—yes, conquer because the other HL would never submit if they asked nicely—when they can’t even rule or play nice with their own people. Enough with the HK dreams, Amren; Rhysand would be lucky if Illyria and Hewn City don’t band together soon to stage a massive uprising.

(Y’know I’m not surprised nobody in the IC can empathize with the CoN citizens. They were all trapped in Velaris for fifty years, where they were free and the sun still rose. Imagine if they’d been UtM with everyone else; maybe then they’d get it. That life where even the sun and trees and anything worth living is out of reach at the whims of a dictator is no life at all.)

And I’ve seen theories floating around that the HK plot is set up for Nyx instead, because he’s destined to inherit all seven powers of the court. Yeah, that’s equally terrible. Divine right to rule and conquer is bullshit. Balance is something that should exist but doesn’t in Acotar. If it did, Feyre wouldn’t be as powerful as she is. 7 drops is not a lot of magic; so tiny and miniscule that each HL didn’t even really notice they lost it. It doesn’t make sense that she could go toe to toe with them with just a singular drop.

Which is baffling when the same author wrote ToG. Everything that was given was scraped together and fought for miserably, and even in all that power, they had to sacrifice so much. Aelin Settled and got her kingdom back, but at the price of losing almost all her fire and getting to keep one drop of water. Dorian still has most of his magic, but at the price of being made a demon slave, committing fratricide, and having the sole responsibility of redeeming his kingdom ala Zuko. Manon fulfilled the prophecy and united her people, allowing them the chance to return home for the first time in 500 years. All it took was losing the Thirteen, who would never see that dream come to life.

Nothing came without cost.

And while yes, Feyre deserved to be remade after her death saving Prythian, the amount of magic she wields is the issue. Nesta having so much magic made sense given she stole most of it; we have yet to really see how much is left. But where’s the balance if Feysand does end up HK/HQ, or Nyx does. What have they given up that makes them more worthy to rule the entirety of Prythian than literally any other character? Because I can argue that they’ve lost a lot lesser. Whatever rights feysand believes they have is no more than a lot of other characters.

And the bloodline of Theia? Yeah, I’m pretty sure the important ones are her female descendants, like Bryce. And Bryce gave Gwydion to Nesta for a reason. If SJM wanted me to believe Feysand was the best choice, she should’ve made Nyx be born full Illyrian. Or better yet, mostly High Fae but with no magic. That would’ve been a much more interesting story to follow, given that Nyx might not be the next inheritor of the Night Court. And what it would mean for the Hewn City. She’ll never do it of course, but it would be fun.

[ashprince-of-bel-air]

To Love An Emperor

Apparently a few of you also wanted to see Caracalla being a crying pathetic mess so he is a little something I wrote on my dinner break today

@byronking @ange-olras you guys all asked on my original post so I hope this is what you wanted ❤️

Part 2

A small servant girl broke the peace of your chambers, the large wooden door scraping across the tile caused you to snap your head away from your book, staring at her silently as you awaited what commands she had been sent to give you.

You watched the petite young thing bow before you, he voice soft and high pitched as she spoke. "The Emperor has summoned you, my Lady". It did not take you long to figure out which one had summoned you to his chambers before you nodded to her and waved her away. With a sigh you closed your book for the night and began to dress yourself, you did not think the the Emperor would care if you were in your night dress but manners and respect dictated you would present yourself in a manner beffiting of him.

The long walk to the royal chambers gave you time to steel yourself for what you were about to deal with, it must have been another one of those days in the council chamber, Geta shouting and and throwing things around the room, something that had become all to frequent as of late.

Your footsteps echoed down the hallway as you approached your destination, surely the Emperor would hear you approaching and be ready to recieve you. Gently you pushed the guilded door open, not wanting to make too much noise and disturb him further. As you stood in the door way you spotted Caracalla perched on the end of his bed, his head in his hands, he had been crying again.

You sat slowly beside him on the bed, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, gently rubbing it trying to reassure him somewhat, not that it ever worked before. In one swift movement Caracalla moved to kneel on the marble floor before you, pushing himself between your, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and burying his head into the fabric covering your chest. You could hear his muffled sobs against your chest as you stroked the back of his head, waiting for him to stop. Geta must have been particularly brutal to him today, you had heard the vituperative way he spoke to him before and it certainly would have broken a lesser man a long time ago.

"Why does my own flesh and blood treat me this way? Is it not enough that he tried to kill me in the womb but now to kill my spirit as well?" You never answered him, you knew he didn't ever want an answer, he just wanted to vent out his feelings someone who would not report back to his brother, making him look weaker than he already felt around him.

After a while the tears stopped, lifting his head away from your chest, your clothes now wet from his tears. Caracalla sunk further down onto his knees, his sad wet eyes looking up at you, pleading for love and acceptance, you had been the only one to ever understand him.

His hands gripped at the fabric on your waist, clinging so tight as if you would disappear from him. "You love me don't you? You think I'm good enough?" The tears began to well in his again, threatening to spill forth once more, making his blue eyes sparkle like sapphires, his voice shakey and desperate.

You cupped his face in your soft hands, smiling as you felt him lean into your touch, craving as much of it as he could get. You stroked the tears away from his cheeks and placed a delicate kiss upon his head. "Of course my Emperor" Your words soothed his tears and ignited him at the same time, feeling his lips crash roughly against your own. Caracalla did not care if you meant those words or not, it was all he wanted to hear, to feel your affection and to be loved.

[communicationthroughlyrics]

That Haunts Me Everyday

For years, you hid your feelings for Natasha, and one night, the floodgates opened. But the aftermath in the following days is what dictates your relationship going forward- if there is one.

TW: angsty, Nat is a cocky asshole, Wanda calls bullshit, poorly translated Russian, ehhhh yeah. That covers it, I think XD

Word Count: 8.6K

The wind howled by your window as you drove down the highway toward New York City. You were tapping along with the song playing through the radio, approaching the needed exit. Your phone buzzed with a text from your mom. "Just finished the project," you wrote back, a smirk playing on your lips. Your heart began to race as you neared your destination, the events of the last week's passion playing in your mind.

The week had been eye-opening, to say the least, Natasha finally cornering you, and confronting you about your feelings. You had always harbored romantic feelings and sexual tension for the redhead. But you didn't want to taint the working relationship you had, so you kept the emotions and feelings at bay, masking your pain when she would leave for a mission, the despair when she would return hurt, or the jealousy and rage when she would drag a conquest through the compound for the night.

Now you were going to face her again, and you didn't know what to expect. Would she be cold and professional, or would she finally acknowledge the fiery chemistry between you two? The car grew warm as you thought about the night you had shared, the touch of her skin, the way she had looked at you as she whispered sweet nothings into your ear. She had laughed at your hesitancy but reassured you as she held your bare body to hers after an evening caught in the throes of passion. The wind outside seemed to mimic the tumultuous emotions swirling within you.

As you pulled into the secure parking lot, you looked up at the building before you. The compound was lit up like a fortress, the fluorescent lights casting eerie shadows across the concrete. The smell of summer was in the air, not doing much to quell your current whirlwind of emotions as you neared where the redhead was. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the unknown as you stepped out of the car. You could hear the dull thump of music, telling you that Tony was likely throwing a get-together, a celebration of the most recent successful mission.

Walking through the main doors, you felt a sense of déjà vu. The same hallways, the same agents passing by, but something felt fundamentally different. Your heart thudded in your chest as you made your way to the living quarters. You hadn't seen her since that night, the night that had changed everything. You were stalking down the hallway, mentally preparing yourself for what was waiting at the end. Would she greet you? Hug you? Or completely ignore your presence?

The music grew louder as you approached the source of the party. You could hear the laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional roar of victory from the guys watching a sports game on the giant flat-screen. You took another deep breath and pushed open the door to the common area. The room was a blur of motion and sound, but your eyes immediately found Natasha, standing across the room, surrounded by a few of the other agents. No one seemed to notice your arrival, and you set your bag by the door before silently walking towards Nat. For a spy, she seemed none the wiser to your presence, and it was then that you realized what she was talking about.

One of the rookie agents she was talking to caught your attention. "Come on Romanoff, you always have someone in your bed." they all laughed at this, including her.

"True, I do," she began. The room seemed to grow quiet, the laughter dying away as Natasha's words hung in the air. "But not just anyone can handle it," she finished, a cocky smile playing on her lips. "No one can handle me for more than a night." Your stomach dropped, and your chest tightened as you took in her words. You stood rooted in your place as she continued, clearly inebriated and oblivious to your presence nearby.

"Oh please, Romanoff. You had to have had someone in your life that was worth a second spin around the block." Benson, another rookie chimed in.

"No, that's my number one rule," Natasha said, her eyes gleaming with a mischievous spark that sent a chill down your spine. "Never let them get too close, and never let it mean anything." You watched her, trying to gauge if she was referring to you. It was as if she had slapped you across the face with her nonchalance. "No emotions, no feelings. Sex is just sex, and it hurts when it means something."

Her words felt like a knife twisting in your gut. The room was a sea of faces that you had worked alongside for years, but none of them looked at you. The room felt like it was spinning as your mind raced. Before you could react, Tony's voice boomed over the music, announcing your arrival. "Look who the cat dragged in!" His eyes locked onto you, and the room swiveled in your direction. You couldn't process what you had just heard, especially after the hours-long conversation the two of you had, you discussing your reluctance and fear in letting the woman in. Was she so cold, to say the right things just to get you into her bed?

Natasha's eyes searched the room, and when she found yours, she froze. The smile dropped from her face, and the color drained from her cheeks. For a moment, you thought she was going to stride over to you, apologize, explain. But she didn't move. She just stood there, looking at you as if you were a ghost.

You turned on your heels, your eyes now brimming as you willed your tears not to fall in front of everyone. The only one in this crowd who knew was Wanda. She had long been your confidant about your emotions and feelings, and while she normally didn't read your mind, your thoughts were currently too loud to ignore. She shot Natasha a stern glare as everyone seemed to watch you run out of the room, and down the hallway. You needed to be alone. To think. To breathe.

You decided against the elevator, opting to run down the stairs, your shoes slapping against the dull grey concrete as you descended towards your car. Each step brought a new wave of pain crashing into your chest, Natasha's words echoing in your mind like a cruel mantra. "Sex is just sex, and it hurts when it means something." Did she truly believe that? Was she capable of feeling anything beyond the physical? You had caved, finally telling her how you felt, and much to your surprise, she said that she had felt the same way, for a long time. Since you had joined S.H.I.E.L.D, in fact, but didn't want to change your working dynamic.

But here you were, feeling like a fool. Like you had let your guard down for a woman who saw you as nothing more than a conquest, a notch on her bedpost. You reached the parking lot, the night air cooling your flushed cheeks as you stumbled into the quiet solitude. The door of your car slammed shut behind you, muffling the outside world as you gripped the steering wheel and took deep, ragged breaths, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over. You struggled with your keys, finally fidgeting with them enough to find the correct one, probing it around until you finally stuck it into the ignition, turning it with a shaky hand and hearing the car come to life.

The engine purred under your palms as you sat there, unable to move. You felt like a teenager who had just had their heart broken for the first time. But you weren't a teenager, you were an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., trained to handle the most intense situations with poise and grace. You had faced gods and aliens and survived, but Natasha Romanoff had managed to cut you deeper than any blade ever could. You leaned back in your seat, closed your eyes, and let the pain wash over you.

Natasha's words continue to echo throughout your mind, jumbling themselves with the sights and sounds of the two of you tangled between the bedsheets, the vision of her begging for you to make her cum, bleeding into "sex is just sex" as the tears finally cascaded over. Your anger began to boil, and you slammed the gear shift into reverse, peeling out of your parking spot, as you drove away, tires squealing into the night with a cloud of dust and debris.

The drive was a blur, the only things keeping you company were the tears running down your cheeks and the painful knot in your chest. You didn't know where you were going, you just knew you had to get out of there. The wind rushing through the open window felt like ice against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of Natasha's embrace from just days ago. You couldn't believe that she could be so callous, so cold. But then again, you told yourself that you shouldn't be surprised. She's a Black Widow, after all. She's trained for this. You were a fool to believe any different.

The oncoming lights were hazy, a halo ring of light as you continued to speed down the road, wiping your face with the back of your hand. The wind whipping in your cracked windows stung your eyes, mixing with your tears and leaving a salty taste on your lips. You had never felt so humiliated in your life. The woman you had bared your soul to had just casually tossed aside your confession like it meant nothing.

You reached a deserted stretch of road, and without thought, you pulled over, slamming the car into park. The engine ticked as it cooled down, and you sat there, feeling the adrenaline leave your body. The night was eerily quiet except for the occasional hoot of an owl or rustle of leaves. You felt like you were going to be sick, so you opened the door and stepped out into the cool air. Leaning against the car, you took deep breaths, trying to calm your racing heart.

The stars above looked down on you, indifferent to your plight. You felt small, insignificant. You had thought that maybe, just maybe, Natasha had felt something for you. That the connection you felt was real. But now, it was clear that she had used you, played you like a fiddle. Deciding that you would go back to your apartment for the night, instead of the compound, you took a deep breath before climbing back into the car.

As you turned the key, the engine roared back to life, and you eased onto the road, the quietness of the night settling in around you. But fate had other plans. A blur of headlights in the distance grew larger, and your heart skipped a beat as you realized the car was hurtling towards you at an alarming speed. Panic set in as you frantically honked your horn, trying to get their attention. But it was too late. The collision sent your world spinning, the crunch of metal and shatter of glass piercing the quiet of the night. The impact threw you against the side of your car, and everything went black. 

~3rd Person POV~

“Natalia Alianovna Romanoff!” Wanda growled as she approached the widow before her. “Kak ty smeyesh' obrashchat'sya s ney tak, budto ona vsego lish' yeshche odno iz tvoikh zavoyevaniy!” She snarled in Natasha’s face, where the redhead was too stunned to speak. She hadn’t moved since Tony called out your presence, her stomach dropped when she saw how close Y/N was to the conversation she had been having with the newest recruits. She knew she messed up, she saw it the moment the pain flashed in your eyes, the tears shortly thereafter. Natasha knew you wanted to cry, but wouldn’t do it in front of everyone.

“Oooh! Nat’s in trouble! The witch is yelling at her in Russian!” Someone chimed in from the back, Wanda didn’t seem to quite care who as red tendrils drifted from her hands as she silently told whoever was chiming in to shut up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, witchy!” Tony steps in between the widow and the witch, unsure of what is taking place.

Natasha’s heart was racing, she felt her body tense up as Wanda’s words hit her like a slap to the face. She had never seen Wanda this angry before. The Avenger’s base was eerily silent, all eyes on the two of them. “I... I didn’t mean it like that, Wanda. I just-“

"You just crushed that woman's heart, Natasha!" Wanda's eyes were glowing red at this point, her fury making no effort to hide. "How many times do I have to remind you that she's not just another mission or conquest for you to charm your way through?"

Natasha's eyes widened, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and anger. "You don't know what you're talking about, Wanda," she replied through gritted teeth, her Russian accent thickening with her emotions. "It's not like that."

"Oh? It's not like that?! Suka! Tell me what it is then!" Wanda stepped closer, her chest bumping into Tony's side as he stood between the two, separating them albeit halfheartedly, with a look of bewilderment on his face.

"What is going on?!" Tony and Steve yelled at the same time, everyone else sensing that this party was all but over, and leaving quietly. This was not a conversation for thier ears anymore.

Wanda's glowing eyes never left Natasha's as she continued her verbal assault. "You think you can just use people, Natasha? That your charm and good looks can get you out of any situation without consequences?!"

"Jesus, you two! What the hell is going on?!" Steve yelled louder, finally stepping in, pushing Tony out of the way so he could guide Wanda back away from Natasha.

Natasha took a deep, shaky breath, her eyes never leaving Wanda's. "I didn't use her, Wanda. I care about her," she whispered, the words barely audible over the pulse in her ears.

"That one," Wanda pointed over at Natasha, her fury evident in her tone. "Y/N finally told Natasha how she felt, after being scared for so long that Natasha didn't feel the same. She didn't want to be used, she wanted a serious chance with Romanoff." she started, hardly hiding her disappointment with the Russian. "And what does Natasha do? She plays it off like it's some kind of game like she doesn't understand the gravity of Y/N's feelings!"

Tony's face paled as he realized the severity of the situation. Tony had always seen you like a daughter, your passion for technology and science instantly endeared you to the older man. "Oh, Natasha," he murmured, shaking his head. Steve, equally shocked, turned to Natasha with a stern look. "Is this true?" Natasha's shoulders slumped, Wanda, tilting her head as they waited for a response.

"It's complicated," she began, but Wanda cut her off.

"No, Natasha. It's not. You either care for her, or you don't. You either respect her feelings, or you don't. There is no 'complicated' when it comes to someone's heart! You slept with her AFTER she told you her feelings, and how scared she was." Wanda's voice had gone eerily quiet. "And now, after she told you everything, and you helped her to feel EVERYTHING, you tell people that 'sex is just sex?', that it means nothing to you?!"

Steve's eyes were narrowed, his grip on Wanda's arm tightening slightly. "Natasha, is this true?" he asked his voice firm but not unkind.

"And for what? To fit in with the boys? To be like one of them? Just because?!" Wanda's voice raised again, her anger evident with Natasha.

"No... that's not," Natasha started, now staring at the floor to avoid the gaze of all the Avengers surrounding her. Even Clint's usually understanding gaze was suddenly cold to the Russian. "That's not what I was doing, that was never my intention Wanda. You know that."

"Then what was your intention?!" Wanda's voice echoed through the room, her words laced with pain and accusation. The silence was so thick, it was as if the very air had turned to ice.

"Enough, Wanda." Steve finally cut in, breaking through the tension.

Natasha took the opportunity to find her voice again, looking up at Wanda with a mix of sadness and defiance. "My intention was never to hurt her, Wanda. You know that. I care about Y/N. A lot."

Tony, sensing the opportunity, stepped in. "Natasha, follow me. Everyone else, continue as before." he turned and walked away, a silent command for the redhead to follow. Wanda turned and went to her room, intent on trying to connect with you to make sure you were ok. Steve and Clint returned to the dinner table, thier beer in hand as they sat in silence, digesting what just happened.

Tony led Natasha into his lab, motioning for her to sit on one of the stools. "I'm going to talk for a little bit, and I expect silence unless I say," he began, a cold, stern look crossing his face. "You need to understand, Natasha, that Y/N is not just another mission or asset. She's a person, with feelings, dreams, and fears. Just like you. And she's part of this family." Natasha opened her mouth, but Tony quickly held up his finger, telling her to be quiet. "Now, I have had my share of playboy moments, Natasha." He stood over by his window, looking out on the city below. "Of all people here, I can understand the notch on the bedpost. However," he turned around, facing her. "This is low, even for you. You know that I see her like my own daughter, I've taken her under my wing. Y/N and I work many late nights together, oftentimes, working on equipment and technology for all of you."

Natasha nodded, a distant look in her eyes as she fiddled with her hands. "Many of those nights, Y/N confided in me, about numerous things. You- were one of them." Tony's voice was softer now, filled with a mix of sadness and disappointment. "She talked about her feelings for you, how she was afraid to confess because she didn't want to ruin what we have here. But I could tell," he sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. "She is crazy about you. And not in a high school crush sort of way."

Natasha swallowed hard, feeling a knot form in her throat. "I didn't mean to lead her on, Tony. I just didn't know how to handle it. I've never-" he stuck up his finger, telling her to be quiet.

"While you may not have felt like that was what you were doing," he began, sitting himself before the widow. "You need to look at this from her point of view."

"How so?" her voice was slightly higher than usual, a result of her trying not to cry.

"Well, Nat. Y/N has been with us for," he thought for a moment, trying to recall when they all first met Y/N.

"Six years." Natasha cut in.

"Ah, yes. Six years. However- she had known about you for much longer, most of the world had." his gaze became distant as he continued. "She thought that at first, it was just a celebrity-type crush, that her crush would go away. But it didn't, Natasha. She harbored these feelings for you for a long time. But she waited and watched. And when she finally gathered the courage to say something, you threw it back in her face. You just had to go and tell someone that there are no feelings, no chances for anyone with you." Tony leaned forward, his eyes never leaving hers. "Do you know how much courage that takes, for someone to confess thier feelings and face one of thier greatest fears?"

Natasha's eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back, trying to maintain her composure. "I do, Tony," she whispered. "More than you know."

Tony sighed, his face softening. "Look, Natasha. I know you've been through a lot. And I know you've got walls around your heart taller than the Snap's dust. But you can't keep using people to keep those walls standing. You can't keep telling yourself that you don't deserve happiness because of your past. You, of all of us, deserve happiness, and to feel love."

Natasha's eyes searched Tony's, seeing the concern and the care that the billionaire had for her and Y/N. She took a deep breath, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "What do I do, Tony?" she asked, her voice cracking.

"You go and you talk to her," Tony said firmly. "You tell her the truth. Not the 'it's complicated' bullshit, Natasha. The truth. What you truly feel."

Natasha nodded slowly, her heart racing at the thought of facing Y/N after everything. She knew she had hurt her, and the weight of it was crushing her. "But what if she doesn't believe me, Tony?"

"You'll have to find a way to make her understand, Natasha," Tony replied, his voice gentle but firm. "This isn't about convincing her or fixing things with some charm or clever words. It's about being honest with her, with yourself."

"I love her, Tony. I always have." Natasha's voice was barely a whisper, the weight of her confession hanging heavy in the air.

Tony studied her for a moment, searching for any signs of deceit, but all he saw was pain and regret. He knew Natasha had walls, but he also knew that when she did care about someone, it was deep and genuine. "I know you do," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "But you shouldn't be telling me that. You need to tell her everything. And if she's willing to listen, you two can figure this out together."

"Guys, we have a situation," Clint cut in, a distant look in his eyes as they darted between Tony and Natasha.

"What situation?" Natasha's voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy silence like a knife.

"Y/N." was all Clint said before turning around and running out of the room. Natasha and Tony both shot each other a distraught look on thier faces. They both ran out of the lab, through the maze of hallways before coming back to the living room.

"What happened?" Natasha asked quietly, a tremble in her words. Wanda shot her a resentful glare, before chiming in.

"I've been trying to check in on Y/N, to make sure she's ok," Wanda's icy stare never left Natashas as she continued. "I couldn't get a hold of her, I realized she left her phone here in her bag by the door when she left."

Natasha's eyes widened with concern. "Where did she go?"

"Well, F.R.I.D.A.Y confirmed she left in her car," Clint chimed in.

"I can't," Wanda's emotions began to surface. "I can't make a connection with her. I tried," she started to cry as the thoughts of what could be wrong with her best friend hit her light a ton of bricks.

"Wha-what do you mean, connection, Wanda?" Natasha asks, her voice trembling as she tries to be strong.

Wanda sniffles, "I mean, I can't feel her. She's either blocked me out," she began, the others waiting on edge. "Or something has happened." She turns away, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

"We need to find her," Natasha says, her voice firm as she stands up, her mind racing. "We can't just sit here."

"Agreed," Tony nods, his mind already racing through the possibilities. "F.R.I.D.A.Y, can you track her car?" The A.I. voice cuts through the silence.

"Y/N's vehicle was last detected upstate, near Poughkeepsie. It's since gone offline."

"How long, F.R.I.D.A.Y?" Natasha asked, her voice now exceedingly stressed as her mind raced to the worst.

"The signal was lost approximately fifty minutes ago." The A.I. responded, cold and emotionless.

Natasha ran, not even grabbing her coat as she flew down the hall to the elevator, pressing the button over and over, willing the steel cube to move any faster.

"I'm coming with you," a cold voice came from Natasha's left. She turned, seeing the tear-stained face of Wanda next to her. "She's my best friend, Natasha. She better be ok. I cannot lose another," Wanda began to cry again.

Tony nodded solemnly, the seriousness of the situation weighing on everyone's shoulders. "F.R.I.D.A.Y, gather the team. We need to find Y/N," he ordered, his voice carrying the gravity of the situation. The A.I. acknowledged with a beep.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, come on!" Natasha yelled at the elevator, seemingly going slower than ever. Wanda remained silent beside her, her eyes swollen and red, her grip on her jacket tight. She had never seen Natasha this scared before, and it scared her even more. The elevator doors finally opened, and Natasha bolted out, running to the garage where the Corvette was parked. Wanda followed close behind, her fears growing with every step.

Natasha hopped in the car, and Wanda took the passenger seat, the silence between them thick with tension. Natasha revved the engine and sped out of the Avengers compound, her eyes focused on the road ahead. They drove in silence, each lost in their thoughts of worry and regret. The little arrow on the vehicle's GPS led a speeding Natasha toward the last location where Y/N's car was detected. 

When you came to, the taste of blood was in your mouth, and your vision was blurred. You felt a sharp pain in your side as well as your head, and the world was tilted at an odd angle. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your head as you tried to move. You realized you were in the driver's seat of your car, the airbag deflated around you like a sad, lifeless pillow. Panic began to set in as you took stock of your surroundings. The car was off the road, deep in the woods, and the smell of burning metal filled your nose. You had been in an accident.

Your car had slammed into a tree, and the side of the vehicle was crumpled inwards, the glass shattered like a jagged crystal sculpture. You fumbled with your seatbelt, trying to free yourself from the confines that had just saved your life. Your thoughts raced back to Natasha, the words she had said, and the look on her face.

Realizing you were upside down, and that you were trying to move, but nothing was happening began to panic you. A warm drip was running up your back, inching towards your neck as you moved your arm, touching to see the crimson liquid coating your fingers. Blood, your blood, was everywhere. The faint sound of a horn was coming from the distance, but you couldn't move. You were pinned in the car. 

The cold air was seeping through the cracks in the glass, sending shivers down your spine. You took a deep breath, feeling the pain in your chest and the pressure on your side. You had to get out of here. Your attempts were futile, and you finally gave in to the creeping pain and exhaustion washing over you, your adrenaline quickly wearing off.

Natasha and Wanda were rapidly approaching the area, Natasha's spy senses heightened as Wanda sought any form of connection with you. They wound through the mountainous terrain,  coming across a long pair of tire marks on the pavement, leading them to an 18-wheeler that was separated from its trailer, which was a mangled wreck of metal and rubber on the side of the road, the truck on its roof on the side of the road.

"Oh god, no," Natasha whispered at the sight before her.

"Do you think?" Wanda asked the spy, not wanting the confirmation.

"There's another set of tire tracks, but no car," Natasha whispered.

They both jumped out of the Corvette, Natasha's heart racing like a wild horse. She saw the blood on the window and the crumpled metal of the truck, but her concern was elsewhere.

"Call for help!" she yelled at Wanda, running off where the second set of tire marks left the road. She followed the grooves cut deep into the earth, as the tracks led down a steep embankment into the woods that ran below the road.

Her boots crunched through the frosty leaves, and she heard the distant wail of sirens, but Natasha ignored them, focusing solely on finding you. Her eyes scanned the area, looking for any sign of a car, hoping against all odds that it either wasn't you or that you had somehow survived.

As she reached the bottom of the embankment, Natasha's eyes fell upon the crumpled form of your car, wrapped around a massive oak tree. The sight sent a cold shock through her body, and she couldn't help but let out a strangled cry. She sprinted towards the wreckage, her mind racing with scenarios of what she might find.

"WANDA!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, needing the witch's help to get you out of this mangled mess, and fast. The amount of blood coming from the car sent a chill down her spine.

Wanda was already halfway down the hill, her jacket billowing behind her like a storm cloud as she rushed to Natasha's side. "We need to get her out," Natasha said through gritted teeth, her eyes scanning the damage. Wanda's eyes were rimmed with tears as she recognized your car and noticed the blood dripping out of the wreckage.

"Natasha," she let out a strangled sob as she looked at the redhead. "I know this isn't the time or the place, but I swear. that if I lose her, I will make your life hell." she gritted out between sobs, as she allowed her magic to fill up her emotions, her hands glowing red as she began to lift the vehicle the embankment.

Natasha nodded, not arguing with Wanda. She knew she deserved whatever the witch threw at her, and if it meant saving Y/N, she would take it. The car groaned and creaked as it moved through the air, the metal protesting against the invisible force lifting it. Natasha watched in amazement as Wanda managed to pull the car out of the tree, setting it down gently. She rushed to the driver's side, her heart in her throat.

Your body was slumped against the steering wheel, you were unconscious, but breathing.

Natasha's heart skipped a beat as she saw you, her eyes taking in the blood and the bruises that marred your face. She reached in through the shattered window, gently feeling for a pulse at your neck. It was there, steady and strong, and she let out a sigh of relief. "Hold on, Y/N," she whispered, her voice trembling. "We're here, love."

Wanda rushed to the other side of the car, her magic now aiding in the more delicate task of unbuckling your seatbelt and carefully moving you away from the wreckage. Together, they managed to get you out of the car and onto the cold ground. Wanda ripped off her jacket, wrapping it around your trembling body to stave off the cold.

"We need to get her to a hospital," Natasha said, her voice shaking as she assessed the extent of your injuries. Wanda nodded, her eyes never leaving yours. The ambulance pulled up just as Tony and Steve arrived, the Quinjet whirring down just up the road.

"What happened?" Tony called out, rushing over. Natasha could see the fear etched on his face, but she had no words to offer.

"Truck," Wanda managed to say pointing down the road, her voice a hoarse whisper. "It's bad."

Tony and Steve took in the scene, their expressions mirroring Natasha's and Wanda's fear. Without wasting another second, Tony called out to Clint on the Quinjet, "Get Dr. Cho on the line! Tell her we need medical assistance now!"

By now, the police, fire department, and more ambulances had arrived, assessing the scene.

Natasha couldn't move, her eyes never leaving you as the medical personnel rushed over, taking over the care. You were still unconscious, your breaths shallow and uneven. Wanda stood next to Natasha, her hands hovering over your body, trying to find any sign of life, any connection she could use to help you. But it was as if you had completely shut her out.

"Move aside," one of the paramedics said, gently pushing Natasha away. She stepped back, watching as they worked quickly and efficiently to stabilize you. They checked your vitals, applied pressure to the wound on your side, and carefully placed a neck brace around your neck. The sight of your bloodstained clothes and the bruises on your face made Natasha's stomach turn.

Wanda stood next to Natasha, her eyes never leaving your unconscious form. She clenched her fists, the fabric of her jacket around you, her mind racing with every possible way to help. "Go ahead, get in the ambulance with her," Natasha said, her voice strained with emotion. Wanda nodded, understanding the urgency in Natasha's voice. Wanda climbed into the van, Tony finding out what hospital they were taking you to.

Natasha remained outside, watching as the ambulance doors slammed shut and the vehicle sped away, lights flashing and sirens blaring. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see Steve, his face etched with worry. "Let's get you to the hospital," he said, his grip firm but gentle. Natasha nodded, swiping at the tears that had started to fall.

Her car's engine roared to life, and Natasha climbed in opposite Steve, her thoughts racing. She had to fix this. She couldn't lose you like this, not when she had just realized how much you meant to her. As Steve took off, she leaned against the passenger door, the engine's vibrations echoing the tremors of fear and regret coursing through her body.

The drive to the hospital was a blur, a cacophony of sirens and flashing lights that seemed to stretch on forever. Natasha's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, her mind replaying the conversation with Wanda, the accusations, the truth behind her words. It was all so clear now; she had been blinded by her fear of vulnerability, pushing you away when you had only ever offered her warmth and understanding.

When they arrived, Natasha was out of the car before it even came to a complete stop. She sprinted through the hospital doors, the cool antiseptic air slapping her in the face like a cold truth she couldn't escape. Steve followed closely behind, his eyes filled with a silent promise that he would stand by her, no matter the outcome.

The chaos of the emergency room was a stark contrast to the quiet drive, and Natasha felt a new kind of panic set in as she approached the reception desk. The nurse looked up, her eyes scanning the blood and dirt on Natasha's clothes before she spoke. "Miss, can I help you?"

"Y/N, she was brought in by ambulance. Where is she?" Natasha's voice was shaky, her hand gripping the counter's edge.

The nurse's eyes softened as she recognized Natasha, "Room 12, we're doing everything we can.”

Natasha nodded, her legs moving on autopilot as she followed the signs pointing to the emergency department. She could feel Steve's presence behind her, a comforting weight in the sea of chaos that was her world right now. When they reached the room, the sight that greeted them was more than Natasha could handle.

You were surrounded by doctors and nurses, whose hands were covered in your blood as they worked to stop your bleeding. Natasha's eyes filled with horror as she took in the sight of you, so vulnerable and broken. Wanda stood in the corner, her hands shaking as she watched the medical staff fight to keep you alive. The sirens from outside were a muffled echo in the background as if they were in a different world entirely.

"Let's get her into surgery," one of the doctors called out, and Natasha felt her legs give out beneath her. Steve caught her before she hit the floor, his eyes never leaving yours. He whispered something in her ear, but she couldn't hear him over the sound of her own heart pounding in her chest. Steve guided her over to a chair, tears pouring down her face as she broke down. Wanda came over, a somber look on her face, tracks of dried tears evident on her cheeks.

"Tasha," she whispered, her voice trembling with fear. "This isn't your fault, no one could have predicted this." Wanda's hand was cold, but the warmth of her concern was palpable.

But Natasha knew better. She knew that if she had just been honest if she had just allowed herself to love you openly, maybe you wouldn't have felt the need to run. Maybe you wouldn't be fighting for your life right now. "I need to be with her," Natasha choked out, her eyes pleading. Wanda sat next to Natasha, opening her arms for the redhead. "I'm so sorry, Wands." she sobbed, fisting Wanda's shirt as she sobbed into her shoulder.

The witch held her, her own eyes filled with tears. "It's not your fault, Natasha. It's just...fate." Wanda's voice was a mix of anger and sadness, but she knew it wasn't the time to place blame.

Natasha pulled away, wiping her eyes. "No, it's not fate. This is my fault! It's all my fucking fault, Wanda!” she shouted, not caring who heard her. The words were like knives in the air, cutting through the tension. Wanda squeezed Natasha tighter as sobs wracked her body. "If I had just-" she couldn't finish the sentence.

"Nat, no," Wanda cooed quietly, her own emotions beginning to show as the stoic Black Widow broke down in her arms. "It's not your fault," she whispered.

"I...I love her, Wands," Natasha sniffled. "And I hurt her so badly." Wanda squeezed her hand, her eyes brimming with understanding. "I should have never, ever made her feel like that. Like she wasn't enough. All I've wanted is her, for a long time. And you- you're her best friend, I'm so sorry, Wanda."

Wanda took a deep breath, her own heart breaking for Natasha. "I know you do," she whispered. "But she loves you too, Natasha. And she's stronger than anyone I know. She'll pull through this. Just, please, promise me one thing."

Natasha looked up, her eyes red and swollen. "Anything."

Wanda's voice was firm, "When she wakes up, you tell her. Tell her everything. No more hiding, no more games. You owe her that much. All she asks for is honest communication. And if you ever, ever have any doubt, talk to me. Please. Don't hurt her again." Natasha nodded, feeling the weight of Wanda's words sinking into her soul.

The two sat in silence, holding each other in the hallway as Steve and Tony paced in the background. The tension in the air was palpable, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the rhythmic beeps of hospital machines. Natasha felt the coldness of the floor beneath her as she leaned against Wanda, the weight of her guilt a heavy burden. They sat for what felt like hours, waiting for any sort of update.

Finally, a doctor emerged, his face a mask of professional calmness. "Miss Romanoff, Miss Maximoff," he said, looking at the two of them. "Your friend is stable, but she's sustained serious injuries. The surgery helped to stabilize her injuries, but she needs rest. We're taking her to her room now."

Natasha shot to her feet, her hand still in Wanda's grip. "Can we see her?" she asked, hope and fear fighting for dominance in her voice.

The doctor nodded solemnly. "For a brief moment. She's still in critical condition, and we need to monitor her closely.”

Natasha and Wanda followed the doctor down the hallway, their hearts pounding in unison with each step. The room was dimly lit, and the beeping of the machines was the only sound that filled the space. You lay there, your face bruised and your body connected to various tubes and monitors. The sight of you, so still and fragile, brought Natasha to her knees in the middle of the room, unable to get any closer to you. Wanda approached silently, rubbing the back of your hand slightly, before pressing a kiss to your forehead. Steve and Tony stayed outside, looking in the window of your room at the scene before them.

"One of you can stay here," the doctor told them, his voice low and understanding, sensing the distress in the room. "But we need to keep the room as quiet as possible." He left them alone with you, and Natasha could feel the weight of the world on her shoulders as she took in the gravity of the situation.

Wanda looked at Natasha, her eyes filled with unspoken words. She squeezed Natasha's hand before letting go and walking out, leaving Natasha by your side. Natasha approached the bed, her eyes taking in every detail of your bruised and broken form. She reached out tentatively, her hand shaking as it hovered over yours, before finally making contact. Your skin was cold, but the warmth of Natasha's touch seemed to seep into you, giving Natasha a glimmer of hope.

“Mne ochen' zhal', moya lyubov'. Ya ne mogu izbavit'sya ot oshchushcheniya, budto ya eto sdelal, kak budto ya vrezalsya v tebya gruzovikom.” Nat whispered, her hand slipping into yours. The feel of your skin on hers calmed her down, as she silently began to cry.

You lay there, unresponsive but alive. The machines beeped in a steady rhythm, and Natasha felt a tiny squeeze in her hand. "You heard me?" she asked, hope blooming in her chest. Another squeeze, slightly stronger this time. "Oh, god. Y/N, baby."

Her eyes searched your face for any signs of consciousness. You stirred slightly, your eyelids fluttering. Natasha leaned in closer, her voice a whisper, "Rest baby, you need your rest. I'm not going anywhere. We can talk when you're in better condition." The words felt heavy in her mouth, like a promise she wasn't sure she deserved to make. But she would keep it, she had to.

Wanda stepped back into the hallway, her eyes wide with hope. "Tony, Steve, she's okay!" she called out into the hallway, her voice carrying the relief she felt. The two men rushed towards the witch, their faces a mix of concern and hope. "Natasha is in there with her now, it's probably best to let Y/N rest for now," she told them, as they watched Natasha hold your hand against her forehead as she knelt next to your bed.

Tony nodded, his shoulders dropping slightly. "Good, keep us updated," he said before leading Steve to the waiting room. Wanda followed behind, feeling a sense of relief that you were ok. Natasha remained at your side, her grip on your hand tightening slightly with every shallow breath you took. She rose, going to the chair in the corner, reclining the seat so she could watch and rest with you within arms reach.

The night was long and painful, filled with Natasha's silent vows to never let you go through this again. She watched as the nurses checked on you, the beeping of the machines the only consistent sound in the quiet room. Every time your hand twitched or your eyelids fluttered, Natasha was there, whispering comforting words, hoping they'd reach you.

As dawn began to break through the windows, the first rays of light touched your pale skin, and you opened your eyes, groaning in pain. Your eyes darted around the room, coming to rest on the redhead who had not gotten a restful sleep, her disheveled state in the chair by your bedside endearing, yet heartbreaking to see. Natasha's eyes shot open, her hand squeezing yours with a sudden jolt of hope.

"Y/N," she whispered, her voice hoarse from the hours of silent vigil. "You're awake."

You blinked, the pain in your head making everything feel fuzzy and far away. "Tasha?" you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Natasha leaned over the bed, her eyes brimming with tears of relief. "Yes, love, it's me." She took your hand in hers, her thumb gently caressing your knuckles. "You're okay, you're going to be okay."

A pained expression crossed her face when you pulled your hand away from hers abruptly. The memory of what led up to your accident flashes through your mind. "I... I can't," you whispered, the words feeling like shards of glass in your throat.

Natasha felt the blood drain from her face as she watched you push her away. She knew that look, the look of hurt and betrayal. "Y/N, please, let me explain," she begged, her voice cracking. But you were already shaking your head, the effort causing you to wince.

"No," you whispered, your eyes filling with tears. "You had your chance."

Natasha shook her head, rising quickly to kneel next to your bed. "Krasivaya devushka," she started. "Please, let me talk. Let me say my piece, and if you still feel the same, I will leave you alone. But please, let me tell you something first."

You studied her, the pain in your chest not just from your injuries but from the raw emotion in Natasha's voice. You nodded weakly, giving her the opening she desperately needed. She took a deep breath, her eyes never leaving yours. "I didn't mean to hurt you," she began, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I've been scared, Y/N. Scared of letting anyone in, scared of losing control. But you...you've never been like anyone else. I have always watched you from the shadows and observed how you treated everyone else. You have a heart of gold, and I was afraid that if I admitted my feelings, I would only end up tarnishing it."

Your gaze softened as she continued. "But when you told me you had feelings for me, I was terrified that someone felt the same way I did about them. I couldn't hide anymore. I love you, Y/N. More than I ever thought I could love anyone. And I'm sorry it took me so long to say it, and even longer to truly understand it." She paused, her thumb gently wiping away a tear that had escaped your eye. "Those things I said, I said out of fear. Fear of my feelings, fear of hurting you, and fear that someone else would see my weakness. Please, let me make this right."

You took a shaky breath, the pain in your chest not just from your injuries but from the ache of Natasha's words. "What...what do you mean?" you managed to ask, your voice a mere whisper.

Natasha looked into your eyes, the depth of her regret and love clear. "I mean that from the moment I met you, I knew you were different. You saw through the walls I've built, you made me laugh, you made me feel...human. And I was scared. I've lost so much, I didn't want to lose you too. So, I pushed you away, hoping that if I didn't let you in, I wouldn't get hurt. But all I did was hurt you, and I'm so sorry." Her eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of forgiveness.

You felt a tear roll down your cheek, the pain of the past hours mixing with the pain of Natasha's confession. "But why now?" you whispered, your voice frail. "Why tell me this when I'm like this, after what happened?"

She let out a deep, watery sigh before continuing. "Malysh, that is my fault. I should have never, ever let it get this far. That night, I felt so much emotion with you. But I kept quiet. I should have told you everything, all of how I felt. I'm so sorry."

You stared at Natasha, her words weighing heavily on your mind. The pain from your injuries was intense, but the emotional turmoil was almost unbearable. You felt torn between your anger and the love you had for her. "I don't know what to say," you murmured, your voice cracking.

Natasha reached out, her hand hovering over your cheek, but she didn't dare touch you, not yet. "You don't have to say anything," she whispered. "I just needed you to know. To understand. I'm not asking for anything in return. I just... I had to tell you."

For a moment, you didn't say anything, just stared into Natasha's eyes, searching for the truth in her words. The silence stretched out between you, filled with the steady beep of the heart monitor and the sound of your shallow breathing. Then, with a sigh, you reached up and took her hand, bringing it to your face. "I love you too, Natasha," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "But I can't... I can't just ignore what you said."

Natasha's eyes filled with a mix of hope and pain. "I know," she murmured, her thumb brushing gently against your cheek. "I don't expect you to. I just... I couldn't let you think I didn't care."

You nodded slightly, the movement causing your head to throb. "It's a lot to take in," you admitted, your eyes drooping with exhaustion. "I need time to process."

Natasha's heart sank, but she nodded, understanding. "Of course, malysh. Take all the time you need. I'll be here, whenever you're ready." She leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, the warmth of her lips against your skin sending a shiver down your spine despite the coldness of the hospital room. She turned to walk out of the room, a distant look in her eyes.

"Tash?" you whispered.

Natasha stopped at the door, her hand lingering on the handle. She looked back at you, the hope in your voice resonating through the room. "Yes, baby?"

"Stay."

The word was a mere breath, but it hung in the air like a lifeline thrown to Natasha. She turned back, her eyes searching yours for any sign of what you truly meant.

"Please," you whispered, your voice still weak but filled with a desperation Natasha hadn't heard before. "I don't want to be alone right now."

Natasha's eyes searched yours for any sign of doubt, but all she saw was pain and longing. She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips as she returned to the chair beside your bed. "I'm not going anywhere," she promised, taking your hand in hers once more. The warmth of your skin was a balm to her shattered soul, a silent confirmation that she hadn't lost you completely.

“Kak ty smeyesh' obrashchat'sya s ney tak, budto ona vsego lish' yeshche odno iz tvoikh zavoyevaniy!”

“How dare you treat her like she's just another one of your conquests!”

“Mne ochen' zhal', moya lyubov'. Ya ne mogu izbavit'sya ot oshchushcheniya, budto ya eto sdelal, kak budto ya vrezalsya v tebya gruzovikom.”

“I'm sorry, my love. I can't help but feel like I did it- like I hit you with that truck.”

[feroluce]

For me, as much as I adore the theme of travel companions, henghill is more of a "someday" thing in that regard. I love Boothill being a weird loner Galaxy Ranger rather than a Nameless- man is undomesticated and belongs sleeping in the cargo holds of supply ships, threatening silence out of anyone that tries to report him. Let him be wild and free!!

I would LOVE it if Boothill just hitched a short ride off Asdana to whatever the Express' next destination is, though!

Like maybe the Express decides to stick around Penacony for a while, the same way they do other destinations, and Boothill is there anyway to investigate Oswaldo Schneider. It's rare to find a planet where the IPC is present, but doesn't actually have a lot of power; he can't pass this opportunity up!

And in that time, he sees a lot of Dan Heng.

Boothill gets text messages asking him to the quieter parts of the Dreamscape (he threatened and made a scene - it's called standing up for your rights, Dan Heng was given a room with a Dreampool by The Family for helping root out The Order) or mostly to the Express, where Dan Heng curiously asks him about Paths, about aeons and Emanators, The Rangers, all the worlds he's seen and places he's been.

Boothill isn't really surprised the first time they spend an entire night talking and discussing- after all, they'd chattered a lot that first day they met at the bar in the Reverie! But in talking so much, of course the topic of home comes up.

Dan Heng asks about Boothill’s homeworld.

Boothill tells Dan Heng it's gone now, and changes the subject.

Boothill asks about Dan Heng's past, before the Astral Express and the Nameless.

Dan Heng freezes up and closes off, and changes the subject.

In yet another moment of tacit understanding, neither of them ask again.

But this continues, all throughout their stint in Penacony, finding each other and seeking the other out for no reason other than good company. Dan Heng adds ridiculous amounts of data to the archives that Boothill dictates to him. They both know he could get that information elsewhere if he really wanted. Boothill finds he's kinda happy he doesn't.

And Boothill is someone who's hard to keep up with. He knows he is, and he has no problem with it. It's part of what makes him excel as a Galaxy Ranger. But there's something fun about how Dan Heng just rolls with it, and so effortlessly! Boothill finds something shady going on, grabs a guy who was preying on people, and has this dude held up by the collar with his feet swinging while he cackles right in his face, when Dan Heng shows up.

Boothill says they're just having a friendly chat. He makes zero effort to hide what he's actually doing. Boothill's new friend pleads for Dan Heng to help him, please! This guy's crazy!

Dan Heng materializes his spear.

The guy apologizes even harder, tells them he won't do anything shady ever again, promise, promise! Boothill's jabbers at him and shakes him around some more before Dan Heng taps the pole of his spear against the covered metal of Boothill's leg and tells him come on, he's already scared the man witless, they have a date to keep. Boothill drops the guy and watches him scurry off like a cockroach.

"So, now it's a date, huh?"

"...Come on, let's go."

They go to the Dreamflux Reef after that, because Boothill just so happened to totally by coincidence find that shady guy's wallet (read: robbed him blind) and he wants that money to go back to the native Penaconians before anyone else. Dan Heng follows, and stuffs all of the man's credits into the tip jar of the bar they go to.

And even when the Express embarks anew from Asdana (with Boothill hidden away in some corner or compartment, because the IPC finally got pissed enough to start looking for him under The Family's noses skzikske) this continues. The next planet is difficult to get to because of Stellaron activity; so they have to fly manually part of the way instead of warping. Boothill doesn't get his own room since he's only hitching a ride, but Pom-Pom graciously allows him to sleep on a couch-

("Thank ya, Fluffy. No hard feelings about before, right?" "You're lucky my other passengers like you. And no shoes on the couches!!")

-in one of the cars. And it becomes normal commonplace to find Boothill telling stories, and Dan Heng rapidly writing them all down, at obscene hours in the parlor car while Himeko and Welt ask if either of them even slept.

Boothill teaches Dan Heng all about his favorite drinks and liquor in general, how to aim and shoot a gun, how to hunt and track prey. Dan Heng teaches Boothill about a lot of the teachings of Lan and The Hunt from the Xianzhou, what it's like there, some of the culture, some of the fables and old tales.

Boothill still leaves when it's time to go. He's still got things to do and people to kill, after all.

But it never feels like he's very far. The archives are full of him, even if he's never mentioned by name. The article on the Galaxy Rangers is several times longer than it was before. There's new data on multiple planets and worlds.

There's one that's still just a header and title. Boothill doesn't know about it yet. Dan Heng hopes he can fill the page on Aeragan-Epharshel someday and show it to him.

And even if he doesn't stay, he does return. Boothill breaks in stops by any time he happens to be nearby. He's used to traveling without much rest, and only takes what he can easily carry on him- nothing that can slow him down or hinder him. He can't put a bullet between Oswaldo Schneider's eyes if he gets himself killed over something as stupid as being weighed down in a fight, after all.

Dan Heng is similarly sparse. He still sleeps in the archives, with nothing but his futon and old suitcase to mark the space as his.

But there's an old wooden guitar carefully propped in the corner, just waiting for its owner's return.

[nayziiz]

Speed | CS55

Summary: In a chance encounter at a gas station, a mysterious woman on a Yamaha YZF R6 catches the attention of Carlos, a charming Ferrari driver. Little did they know the journey they would both go on.

Warning: Smut, fluff

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x OC (Lola)

Masterlist

Chapter 9

Despite the whirlwind romance with Carlos, Lola remained grounded in reality. She carried on with her life, focusing on her work and her passions, determined not to let herself get swept away by feelings for a man who seemed to belong to a world far beyond her own.

She knew better than to catch feelings for someone like Carlos Sainz, an F1 driver with fame and fortune at his fingertips. In a world where he could have any girl he desired, Lola couldn't help but feel like she was just another fleeting moment in his fast-paced life.

As Carlos flew to Maranello, immersed in the world of racing and high-stakes competition, Lola continued to navigate the everyday challenges of her own life. She threw herself into her work, finding solace in the familiar routine of her job and the satisfaction of creating something meaningful.

But despite her best efforts to push him out of her mind, Carlos lingered in her thoughts like a lingering melody, a reminder of the passion and excitement she had experienced in his arms. Yet, she knew that getting involved with someone like him could only lead to heartache in the end.

As the days passed after Carlos's departure to Maranello, Lola found herself both surprised and comforted by the occasional phone calls and text messages they exchanged. Each interaction felt like a lifeline, a connection to a world that seemed both tantalisingly close and impossibly distant at the same time.

Their conversations ranged from playful banter to deeper topics. Despite the physical distance between them, they found solace in the familiarity of each other's voices, sharing snippets of their lives as if they had known each other for years rather than mere days.

But as the week progressed and Carlos's departure to Australia loomed closer, a sense of unease settled over Lola like a dark cloud on the horizon. She couldn't shake the feeling that their fragile connection was about to be severed, that the ephemeral happiness they had found together was destined to fade away like a fleeting dream.

And then, just as she had feared, the messages grew fewer and farther between until they eventually ceased altogether. The silence was deafening, a stark reminder of the transient nature of their connection and the harsh reality of their different worlds.

The other shoe had finally dropped, just like she expected. Despite her best efforts to guard her heart, the sting of rejection cut deep, leaving her feeling raw and vulnerable in its wake. She had known all along that getting involved with someone like Carlos was a risk, but she hadn't been prepared for just how much it would hurt when he inevitably walked away.

Despite the familiar sting of disappointment, Lola felt an unexpected sense of liberation wash over her in the wake of Carlos's silence. It was as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, freeing her from the constraints of expectation and allowing her to embrace the true essence of who she was.

In the past, she had allowed herself to be defined by the actions of others, allowing their fleeting affections to dictate her sense of self-worth. But with Carlos, it was different. He had ignited a spark within her, a spark of independence and resilience that burned brighter than any fleeting romance.

So, instead of wallowing in despair, Lola made a bold decision. She would reclaim her power, her agency, and her sense of adventure. She would no longer allow herself to be held captive by the whims of others, but instead would forge her own path, guided by the thrill of the open road and the wind in her hair.

With a determined glint in her eye, Lola donned her leather jacket, swung her leg over her Yamaha, and revved the engine to life. As she tore down the highway, her heart pounding with exhilaration, she realised that she didn't need Carlos or anyone else to make her feel alive.

For the first time in a long time, she felt truly free. Free to ride wherever the road may lead, free to embrace the unknown with open arms, and free to be unapologetically herself.

As Lola sat in front of the television, the familiar buzz of excitement filled the air as the Formula 1 Qualifying session unfolded on the screen before her. Her heart raced with anticipation, her eyes scanning the track for any sign of the scarlet Ferrari, adorned with the number 55, that had become so intertwined with her thoughts.

Despite her resolve to move on and embrace her newfound freedom, there was still a part of her that yearned for a glimpse of Carlos, a fleeting connection to the man who had ignited a spark within her. As each car sped past, she held her breath, waiting for that unmistakable flash of red, the roar of the engine that sent shivers down her spine.

And then, there it was. The sleek, elegant form of the Ferrari streaking across the screen, carving through the corners with precision and grace. Lola's heart skipped a beat as she watched, her eyes tracing every curve and every line of the car, her mind filled with memories of their time together.

For a moment, she allowed herself to bask in the thrill of the race, to lose herself in the adrenaline-fueled excitement of the sport she had grown to love. But as the cars crossed the finish line and the session drew to a close, reality came crashing back, reminding her of the distance that now lay between her and Carlos.

What she didn’t expect was for her phone to start ringing with Carlos’s name flashing across the screen.

Lola's heart skipped a beat as she saw Carlos's name light up her phone screen, a mixture of surprise and anticipation flooding her senses. With a quick intake of breath, she answered the call, her voice calm despite the flutter of excitement within her.

“Hey.” She greeted him, her tone light and playful.

“Hey,” Carlos responded, his voice warm and familiar. “Did you watch Qualifying?”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Lola's lips as she leaned back in her chair.

“I may have,” she teased, a hint of mischief lacing her words.

“Why else would you be up so early on a Sunday, huh?” Carlos teased, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. Lola chuckled softly, the sound echoing through the quiet room.

“Touché.” she replied, unable to hide the smile in her voice. “You did great, Carlos.”

“If I win by some miracle, then I’m dedicating the win to you. You’ve lit the fire in me that I didn’t realise was turning to ash.” A soft sigh escaped Carlos's lips, his tone laced with sincerity. Lola's laughter bubbled up at his bold declaration.

“That seems awfully confident,” she teased, her voice warm with affection.

“I have to go debrief with the media. Will you message me later when you’ve slept a bit then we can video call?” He asked, his tone carrying a mix of regret and anticipation.

“Sure, that would be nice.” She agreed, her voice warm with understanding.

“Good. I’ve missed your pretty face.” He mumbled, his words laced with a tender longing that spoke volumes about his feelings for her.

“Have you?.” She countered, a hint of curiosity in her voice.

“Oh, most definitely. I have some time between this Grand Prix and Japan. I’ll come visit, maybe convince you to come with me to Japan?” Carlos responded, his tone playful yet tinged with sincerity.

“You want me to come with you to Japan?” Lola repeated, the possibility sparking excitement in her voice.

“Yeah…” He trailed off, his voice holding a hopeful note. “We can discuss later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lola agreed, her heart fluttering with anxiety at the thought of embarking on such an adventure with him.

“Alright, duty calls. Talk to you later, mon amor,” he greeted her, his words carrying a warmth that made her smile, and before she could respond, the call abruptly ended, leaving her with anticipation for their next conversation.

-----------------------

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos @notyouraveragemochii @heyheyheyggg

[randomfoggytiger]

Scully's Survival Broke The Field Where I Died's Cycle

I noticed something while scrubbing through Mulder's hypnosis: in each past life (the concentration camps and the Civil War battle), Scully is always killed first; then Mulder; then Melissa Reidel.

I think that not only were the souls reborn correctly in this life, but they also ended in the correct order-- that Scully circumvented her destined end in order to save Mulder from his tragic, heroic pitfalls. And, more importantly, that she was alive at the crucial moment of Mulder's life: the moment his exhausted soul was almost doomed to repeat another failed cycle at the hands of Melissa Rydell's destined self-sabotage.

THE IMPORTANCE OF SCULLY'S UNPRECEDENTED SURVIVAL

Mulder has a history of being the first one to get into trouble: it's not two cases in before Mulder sneaks onto an airfield base and gets mindwiped. We know Mulder takes impossible risks even when Scully isn't there to back him up; so, it's more likely he would die on the field than live long enough to be canned from the FBI.

Although Mulder wasn't going to be killed in Deep Throat (just returned more scrambled on release) Scully wouldn't have been able to save him from fate or himself if she'd died later in Squeeze, Ghost in the Machine, Eve, Gender Bender, Lazarus, Young at Heart, Shapes, Darkness Falls, and Tooms. Or, more particularly, in One Breath.

If Scully had died in the forests of Darkness Falls, then Mulder would have been died underground in Tooms. If Scully had died in One Breath-- as she was meant to, it seems-- then Mulder might have died in Firewalker and Aubrey but most certainly in End Game; and when Irresistible didn't kill her, cancer tried to throughout Season 4, which almost caused Mulder's death in Demons, regardless. If Scully died in Kitsunegari, Mulder would've died in Kill Switch and Bad Blood. If Scully died in The Red and the Black, Mulder would've died in Folie a Deux. If Scully had died in Fight the Future, Mulder would have died then or perished soon after in Triangle. If Scully had died in Tithonus, Mulder would have burnt alive at the One Son hanger. If Scully had died in Field Trip, then her presence wouldn't have brought Mulder out of his psychosis (and death) then or in Amor Fati. And lastly, if Scully had died in Orison, Mulder would have died in First Person Shooter and Brand X, etc.

The infamous ending to Pusher exemplifies this dynamic to a 'T': Mulder rushes in without caring for his own safety; but the kill shot was turned on Scully, not Modell or himself. And if Scully hadn't saved them both, Modell might have taken a bullet to the chest or he might have manipulated Mulder's mind further for his own ends.

But it all ties back most pivotally to One Breath, where she chose to stay instead of pass on. By fighting to live another day, Scully began a pattern that lead to her and Mulder's salvation.

MELISSA RYDELL GOES FIRST

Not only is this the first life cycle that Scully survived, but it's also the first cycle that places Scully, Mulder, and Melissa on an even romantic playing field. Mulder subtly acknowledges this by asking where he and Scully still fit with, he assumes, a soulmate wedged between them: "Dana, if, um, early in the four years we'd been working together... if we'd been friends together, in other life times, always, would it changed some of the ways we looked at one another?" Scully doesn't believe in fate, living her life by the dictates of her conscience; and Mulder's question doesn't shake those beliefs, either.

And not only does Scully survive with the ability to rival Melissa's hold on Mulder, but she and Mulder are also this cycle's first unprecedented survivors: Melissa (Mulder's tragic mirror) dies first and dies alone. Mulder still broke rank in his attempts to save her; but by heeding protocol as long as he did, Mulder was too late to be killed before Rydell or to join her in death.

Why did he play by the rules that long? Because the impact of Scully's partnership-- years of insisting he follow the guidelines created for his protection-- kept his destructive tendency at bay long enough to save him from certain death. Her active presence by his side reinforced this decision when it mattered most: the moment that changed the course of their fate.

CONCLUSION

It's like Scully said: "Even if I knew for certain, I wouldn't change a day." She doesn't believe in fate; and The Field Where I Died's implications would therefore suggest Scully beats back destiny through sheer force of will, besting the monsters that hunt her as easy prey and saving Mulder from the demons driving him harder and faster into irrational action.

And she won. Cancer was already growing in her brain; but Scully outlasted the cycle that trapped her, Mulder, and Rydell's souls: that she die first (or that she die at all.)

Souls may mate eternal; but her choice broke old chains and saved their fate.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[vodika-vibes]

A Different Kind of Happily Ever After

Summary: Seven years after you're exiled from your home world due to the actions of other people, you've made a good life for yourself. You have a new name, a new family, and you don't think about the world you were forced to leave behind. Until, suddenly, you no longer have a choice.

Pairing: Pre-Commander Wolffe x F!Reader (Named Winter)

Word Count: 3069

Warnings: Reader is/was Snow White. Reader now goes by the name Winter.

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: This will probably have several other parts, since I like the idea behind it.

Your hands shake as you clutch your fine leather book to your chest. This is your book. The book you were assigned when you were an infant. The book that determined what your name was and what path you were destined to walk in life. 

Your grip tightens around the book, and you absently trace the apple etched onto the front of the book as you try to settle your nerves.

You don’t understand.

It makes no sense.

You followed your book to the letter. 

You suffered. You were hunted. You allowed your step-mother to poison you. You met your Prince Charming and he saved you from your eternal slumber-

And yet-

And yet.

The door to the room you’ve been locked in for hours finally opens, and you shudder as the Lorekeeper walks in. He gazes at you through darkened eyes, and you duck your head to try and avoid his judgemental gaze.

You haven’t done anything wrong!

“My apologies for keeping you waiting, while I looked into this fiasco.” The Lorekeeper seems to glide across the room and settles in the chair across from where you are sitting. “I’m sure you must be confused and frightened.”

“Yes sir,” You whisper, but you can’t help but notice that he hasn’t used your name once since he entered the room.

The man nods, “Then let me begin with what I know.” He folds his hands on his desk, “You took a bite of a poisoned apple, as your story dictates, and fell into an enchanted slumber. Prince Charming came and woke you up, as his story goes. Is this correct?”

You nod mutely.

“Very good. The problem comes in after that. You were meant to go with Prince Charming to his kingdom, where you and he would marry and have your happily ever after. However, Prince Charming broke his story, and instead elected to abandon you in the forest.”

Your knuckles are white, with how tightly you’re holding onto your book. “That’s also correct.” You say finally, after the silence in the room becomes deafening.

“Prince Charming has since married another woman and has claimed that he is her Prince Charming,” The Lorekeeper leans back in his chair, “And after some digging, it appears that he is correct. Which begs the question, what happens to you?”

You lift your gaze, and can feel any color in your face drain at the look on the Lorekeepers face, “Sir?”

“You are no longer Snow White. You don’t have a story,” He almost sounds apologetic, though his eyes are colder than ice, “Which means that you cannot stay here.”

Panic seizes you, “What! But this is my home!”

“Enough.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but you flinch back as though he just brandished a blade at you, “This is not a negotiation. You cannot remain here without a book.”

“But…what will happen to me? Where will I go?” You ask.

“I have made arrangements for a shuttle to bring you to the station above the planet, and I have also made arrangements for you to get a one way flight to Coruscant.”

“I-”

“We live a blessed life here,” The Lorekeeper interrupts, “Untroubled by the horrors of the galaxy, and I freely admit that our education is lacking. So you will spend a month on a space station catching up on everything you need to know about the larger galaxy-”

You surge to your feet, “I’m 14!” You shout, “I’m still legally a minor everywhere! You can’t-”

The Lorekeeper turns to look at you, and your words die on your tongue, “I have been generous up until this point, Nameless one.” He says quietly, “Raise your voice to me again, and you won’t be leaving my office.”

You fall back into your seat, and the Lorekeeper nods. He circles his desk and rips your book from your hands, before he tosses it into the fireplace. The thin pages of the book cut your fingers open, and you stare at the blood welling up on the tips of your fingers.

“You will need a new name, you are no longer Snow White.” The Lorekeeper continues as if he hadn’t just threatened you, “My attendants will be with you shortly to deal with the appearance problem-”

“...appearance problem?”

“Snow White has skin as white as snow, hair the color of ebony, and lips the color of an apple.” The Lorekeeper says emotionlessly, “You are no longer Snow White, so you can’t look like that anymore. You needn’t worry. It’s a painless procedure.”

“How am I supposed to survive on my own?” You ask.

The Lorekeeper stares at you as his office door opens and three figures glide in. “That is no longer my concern.” He turns to the figures, which you suddenly realize truly are formless. They look like walking dolls, with no hair or discernible features at all. “Take her. Give her some control over her appearance, but ensure that she no longer looks like Snow White.”

The figures bow, and you’re ushered out of the room before you really know what’s happening.

They sweep you into a clean room, and silently strap you to a hospital bed. And no matter how hard you try, you’re unable to pull yourself free. The figures inject you with something, and the last thing you remember before you slip into merciful, blissful darkness, and the faceless figures looming over you.

“There you are!”

You look up from where you’re crouching in a flower bed, and glance at one of your many coworkers. This specific coworker, a Nautolan who is in charge of ensuring that the water is safe to use on the plants, is a friend. His name is Zakon, and you and he were raised in the same Foster home until you both aged out of the system.

“Hey, Zak.” You reply, “Something wrong?”

“Yes! That absolute hag of a woman, Karien, brought in apple turnovers for her Name day, even though she knows that you’re allergic.” Zak rages.

You roll your eyes, “You know as well as I do that I don’t eat things that other people bring in for that very reason. It’s nothing to be upset about.”

“I’m still upset.” Zak replies.

“You’re so sensitive, brother mine.” You say with a laugh, as you straighten and brush the dirt off of your hands, “Anyway, have you heard from mom recently?”

“Yeah. She wanted to know if I was going to come to little Jay’s birthday party. I told her it depends on if I have to work or not.” Zak replies, “I’m guessing she asked you too?”

“Yeah. I told her I wouldn’t be going. I was slated to be a tour guide for a local elementary school on that day.” You flash a wry smile, “Needless to say, mom was not thrilled about that.”

“I’m not sure why she wants you there at all. No offense, Winter, but you’re not exactly her favorite child.” Zak grins, “Probably because you named yourself a season and didn’t let mom name you.”

“Okay, look-” You say as you set your hands on your hips, “Summer and Autumn are proper names, who says Winter can’t be a name too?” And then you fold your arms, “Besides, I wasn’t about to let anyone else name me, what if they decide to take my name back?”

“Girl, you have issues. Names aren’t like name day presents, they can’t be taken back.” Zak says dryly. It’s a conversation the pair of you have had many times, and it’s something that you’ve never been able to agree on.

“You do realize that Name Day presents aren’t supposed to be taken back, right? Like, that’s only something our foster parents do.” You point out, “Also, that plant you’re about to lean against will give you a rash if you touch it.”

Zak swears and jumps off the stone wall, “Why didn’t you warn me?!”

“I just did.” You roll your eyes, “Relax, you didn’t touch it.”

“But I might have!”

You roll your eyes again.

It’s been seven years since the day you were exiled from your home. And you like to think that you’ve adjusted nicely to life in the wider galaxy. You have a family and you have friends, and you even managed to go to college and get a degree.

You have a nice job, working at the Botanical garden on Coruscant, and you get paid very well for your time and effort. 

Of course, not everything is perfect.

You found out, only after you left home, that you developed a severe allergy to apples. Severe enough, in fact, that the first time your foster mother made an apple pie, you ended up in the ICU for three days while the doctors tried to save your life.

And, of course, there’s the fact that even after seven years, you still get surprised when you look at yourself in the mirror. The Lorekeeper’s attendants hadn’t changed as much as you feared they might have. Well, your face is the same shape, at least.

Really, all they did was darken your skin several shades away from the alabaster that you were born with, and lighten your hair from black to dark brown.

It could have been so much worse.

Maybe if you keep repeating that to yourself, you’ll someday believe it.

“-llooo? Coruscant to Winter!”

You smack Zak’s hand away from your face as he pokes your cheek, “Why are you touching me?”

“You zoned out to Lala Land, I was just trying to return you to the real world.” Zak replies with a grin.

“You mean the real world where we have a Chancellor who’s been leading for a lot longer than his term limit and the fact that we’re at war? That real world?”

“Wow, you’re such a downer sometimes.”

“Mm. Love democracy. Especially when it’s fake democracy-” You say lazily.

“Wait, aren’t you from a Monarchy?”

“We’re not talking about me. But yes, I am.” You glare at him, “But that’s a stupid way to govern too.”

“Aww,” Zak squishes your cheeks with his hands, “You’re such an adorable little anarchist.”

You swat his hands away, “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Yep. I need to go and check the water levels near the water plants,” Zak says cheerfully, “Do you?”

You scowl at him, “There’s some kind of parasite eating some of the Nubian plants, so I need to go to the lab and talk to the scientists.”

“Mm, your job is so fun,” Zak says as he makes a face. “Parasites.”

You bump him with your shoulder, “Go away, Zak.”

He laughs and turns towards the water exhibits, “Oh! I almost forgot!” He says a moment later, “Kam wants to know if you’re coming to dinner this weekend? He’s making some sort of fish dinner.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” You call back.

“Awesome! Kam will be thrilled! I swear, he likes you more than me.”

You scoff, “Please, he married you. I’m just the only sibling you have who isn’t homophobic.”

Zak grins, “I’ll get them to chill out eventually.”

You shake your head with a sigh, “So you say, Zak. So you say.” You wave and take the narrow path that leads to the lab. You push the door open, and walk the familiar halls until you reach one of the scientists.

“What’s wrong?” The woman asks without looking up from her microscope.

“There’s some kind of parasite attacking Nubian plants.” You reply as you set a sample container on the table, “Just the Nubian plants, though. It’s not touching any of the other plants in the same area.”

“Hm…” The scientist takes the bottle and looks at it, “Strange. I’ll take a look, reach out to our counterparts on Naboo, they might have an answer. Thanks.”

“Yeah, just let me know what needs to be done.” But the woman isn’t paying attention to you anymore. You shake your head and leave the lab as quickly as you arrived.

With that done, and with nothing else on your schedule for another few hours, you decide to leave the botanical gardens to grab your lunch. There’s a nice little deli not far from the gardens that has the best sandwiches, and they’re not super expensive either. 

So you clock out, and leave out the side entrance to make the short walk to the deli. And, since it’s a nice day, you also consider eating your lunch outside at the deli, rather than bringing it back to work.

As you approach the deli, you make a face when you see how busy it is, but since you have time, you decide to just stand in line behind a Kel Dor Jedi and one of the clones from the GAR.

You feel for the clones. All of them.

Having your whole life planned out from the moment you’re born is twisted and wrong.

It took you a long time to come to terms with that.

You wish you could do something to help them, but…well, it’s not like you’re a soldier or a politician. You’re a botanist. And no botanist has ever saved anyone.

Hell, you weren’t even able to save yourself.

And while you’ve come to accept that there’s nothing shameful about needing to be saved, it doesn’t do anything to help the clones.

So, while you burn with the injustice and unfairness of the lives of the clones, you say nothing. 

You’re vaguely aware of the Jedi and his Commander chatting quietly, but you aren’t really listening to them until you hear a familiar name.

“I’ve never heard of the planet Castus,” The clone says, a frown on his face, “What do you know about it, General?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.” The Jedi replies, “Castus isn’t a Republic world, but it’s not a Separatist world either. As I understand it, they are vehemently insular.”

“And yet someone from Castus reached out to the Order?”

“Just so. They want a member of the order to visit the planet to help with something-”

“You’ll never be allowed to land,” You interrupt without meaning to, and your face heats when two pairs of eyes turn towards you, but you continue anyway, “On Castus. You’ll never be allowed to land.”

“They requested aid-” The Jedi says in a very soothing voice.

“The Lorekeeper would never.” You say bluntly, “And only the Lorekeeper is allowed to communicate with the outside.”

“General?”

“The person who contacted the Jedi did not claim to be this Lorekeeper.”

“Then whoever they are is trying to set you up.” You absently twist some hair between your fingers, “Outsiders are forbidden from entering Castus. You’ll ruin too many stories.” You didn’t mean to sound bitter about that, but really, you can’t help it.

“And how would you know anything about Castus if outsiders aren’t allowed?” The Clone asks as he turns to face you fully. His armor is white and gray, and he has a cybernetic eye. He’s handsome in spite of the scar on his face.

“Because I was exiled from Castus when I was 14.”

The Jedi turned to you fully this time, “Forgive me, but what crime could a child of 14 have committed to deserve exile?”

You shrug, uncomfortable, “My story ended up broken because of someone else involved in my story. And because of that I lost my name, my title, my home, and my appearance.” You pause, “The Lorekeeper made arrangements for me to get a very quick education on the station around the planet, and he paid for a one way ticket here, but after that I was on my own.”

“You were a kid.” The Jedi says with a frown.

“Yeah. It took less than an hour for the authorities to realize that I was an abandoned kid, and I was shoved into Foster care immediately.” You shrug again, “Anyway. Someone’s trying to set you up. The Lorekeeper definitely didn’t call you.”

The two men share a look, and then the Jedi turns back to you, “My name is Plo Koon, and this is my Commander, Wolffe. What’s your name, my dear?”

“Oh, ah…I’m Winter.”

“Winter? Like the season?” Wolffe asks.

You scowl at him, “Wolf, like the animal?”

He blinks at you, surprised, and then a smirk lifts the corner of his lips, “I thought nat borns had normal names.”

“If people can be named Summer and Autumn then I can definitely be called Winter!”

Plo clears his throat, “Children, please behave.” 

“Sorry, General.” Wolffe says sheepishly as he rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah, I wasn’t trying to pick a fight.” You say.

“It’s quite alright,” He smiles at the pair of you, and you get the feeling that something about the situation is amusing him, “Miss Winter, would you be willing to come to the Jedi Temple and tell us about Castus?”

“Er…If you want?” You push your hand through your hair, “I mean, I have to go back to work in a couple of hours-”

“I’m sure I can make arrangements with your boss to steal you for the rest of the day,” Master Koon says peacefully, “With your permission?”

“Oh, uh…well if you think it’s important.” You say slowly, “But I’m not sure how much help I’m going to be.”

“Well, right now we know nothing about Castus, so any information is better than walking in blind.” Wolffe points out.

“Just so, Commander.” Master Koon says warmly, “I need to make a few calls to get this started. Commander, feel free to order as much as you like-”

“I can’t ask you to pay for me, General-”

“Then I’ll pay for you.” You interject smoothly, “I’m starving and I make enough to pay for us both.”

Wolffe stares at you, and then he sighs, “Fine. If you really want to pay for me, then I suppose I can’t argue.”

“No, you can’t.” You lightly push him back into line, and you’re vaguely aware of Master Koon chuckling behind you as he steps out of the deli, already pulling his comm out of his pocket.

And as anxious as you are, you never wanted to think about Castus again, or to tell anyone about the life you lived while on Castus, you know that you’ll do it because it’s important. 

After all, you said that you wanted to help the clones, right?

[irenespring]

House MD Fanfic: "There Were Expectations" (House/Wilson)

My House MD 20th anniversary gift fic for @coffins-and-marbles , who asked for Wilson angst! I hope you like your gift!

Find the fic here!

Until the collection is published, find the fic below the cut!

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Fic preview:

Wilson needs to get House the perfect Valentine's Day gift. He always knew what to get his previous partners, but dating House is different. Or is it not different enough? What if the path of close friends to lovers is going to backfire like it always does for him? What if this just another thing he is destined to mess up.

---

Thank you so much to everyone who will read when the collection is published!!

Comments help my day and my writing motivation!

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It was supposed to be better. 

That’s the only thing Wilson can think as he paces a tacky Valentine’s Day-themed grocery store aisle at 3:21pm (late enough that he won’t have to hide anything in his desk where House will find it, early enough that he won’t need an excuse to ditch House for the evening).

He’s not even sure what “ it ” even refers to. 

His fucked up brain that can’t parse “happy” signals from “sad” signals from “fine” signals from “the world would be better without you” signals?

The rising panic that he wasn’t just “straight, with one exception” like had first assumed, and might be gay, like actually gay, capital G Gay, and holy fuck what is he supposed to do now?

The fear that House will really leave him this time, simmering then boiling then simmering again since Tritter showed up at the damn clinic?

He doesn’t know. He just really expected something to be better after House kissed him. 

It had felt life-changing at the time.

But he’s the same stupid Wilson, can’t make a decision for shit.

---

Wilson stares at House’s TV like it’s a particularly challenging algebra problem. There’s an answer in there, somewhere. A correct answer. And he has to get it right. He just has to. 

House—because he asked to be called “House” rather than “Greg,” which is a little absurd, but it also means that he calls Wilson “Wilson” rather than “James,” which is nice just because it’s not what Sam called him—pokes him with his foot.

“C’mon, pick something.”

“It’s your apartment. You can pick.”

“You’re my guest, and social custom dictates that you pick.”

“Oh yes, because you’re such a big fan of social custom.”

“Wilson. You have to pick.”

“Whatever you want is fine.”

It’s a trap, probably. A test, to see if he chooses something good, if he has the makings of a good friend. Wilson is moving to New Jersey soon, they’re going to be working together. And that makes them actual friends, instead of over-the-phone friends. They’re going to be spending actual time together every day, not just a few hours at conferences. It only makes sense that House needs to make sure Wilson is up to par.

He isn’t. He’s not sure in exactly what way, but he isn’t. It’s been nice, having a real friend. Wilson wants to keep that nice feeling of camaraderie, of closeness, of safety. The second he chooses wrong, he knows it will be gone. 

He doesn’t think House will hit him. He doesn’t have the cover that she had. If his wife slaps him, that’s sitcom comedy. If House slaps him, that’s assault. So House probably won’t slap him. But he could. He’s taller and stronger and faster than Wilson. He could. 

No. He won’t. More likely he’ll just mutter something about Wilson’s taste being terrible and just pick his own choice anyway. He can talk a big game, but he doesn’t want Wilson to choose. Wilson is bad at picking things. He’s bad at most things, really. It’s a miracle anyone puts up with him, especially House who doesn’t even seem to buy his “perfectly happy” facade. He’s going to ruin it. 

He has to remind himself that that scenario is good though. It ends with them still being friends. It ends where Wilson wants them to be: with House’s choice on the television, the two of them mocking the characters and laughing. House actually finds Wilson funny. It had taken him a while to actually convince Wilson of that, to get Wilson to make his own jokes, but it worked. They joke around together. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

But that’s what he always thought with her. But he always got it wrong and she got mad and would yell things at him. Later on she would shove him, smack him…but just when she was tired, it was never a big deal. Still, he learned very quickly that should just let everything go, let her lead. It was fine. She liked him. She said she did. That was as good as he was going to get, fraud and failure of a man that he is. But she still divorced him without even facing him, and the only thing that kept him together was that he had House instead. Now he’s not even going to have that.

He can’t do this.

“Wilson?” 

Shit. His breathing is coming too fast, House knows something is wrong. This is pathetic, he is pathetic. He needs to say something, but no words come out. 

“I-” he manages, “I’m fine.”

“Just pick something.” House’s voice is oddly patient. 

Wilson does like cooking shows. Maybe- 

No. House doesn’t like them, he gets frustrated that he can’t actually taste the food, and thus can’t verify whether or not the judges are full of shit. Wilson can’t pick something that House doesn’t like, that would be selfish. Selfish is bad, selfish makes him just another asshole. His selflessness sets him apart, it makes people like him. He wants House to like him. It seems unreasonable to ask that House like him as much as Wilson likes House, but just liking him a little bit would be enough. And that won’t happen if-

“You don’t pick, I break into your sparkly new office and replace all your books with some of my most favorite DVDs.” Wilson could fix that quick enough, and such a prank pales in comparison to the many doomsday situations floating in Wilson’s head in the event of a wrong choice. 

He stays silent.

“Is it Sam?” House asks, saying her name like a curse, his brow pinching in anger. He guesses that a lot, when Wilson does something he finds concerning. He is right more often than not. 

Wilson’s continued silence is close enough to a confirmation.

“She’s an evil scum bitch, Wilson. You let her mess you up, she wins.”

Wilson takes a deep breath. 

“Cooking show.”

House hates cooking shows. He grins anyway. 

“Alright.”

Wilson stares at House as the show’s intro music starts playing. He’s fairly certain that House knows, but he keeps his eyes on the flashing credits and B roll of chefs flipping pizzas and chopping vegetables. 

Wilson feels a strange fluttering in his stomach.

—

House was Wilson’s lifeline. People in the hospital joke that House is the parasite, draining Wilson of money, friends, and patients. That’s not true. House is Wilson’s place to go in the evenings when he doesn’t want to be alone. Wilson’s place to tell jokes inappropriate for the workplace. His place to relax. 

He’ll never relax again now. Wilson is cursed, doomed to repeat the same patterns over and over again. He makes friends, and soon enough they get ideas, and the relationship turns from friends to lovers and before long, everything is in ruins. Perhaps that’s the downside of realizing he likes men more than he’s ever liked women: the curse has spread to House. 

House would laugh if he knew Wilson’s concern. He puts curses in the same box as miracles, psychics, and magicians. Wilson would usually be right there with him. If there is a God, he doesn’t bother intervening in everyday life. He’s seen too many people die to believe in holy justice or mercy. 

Yet what other conclusion should Wilson draw? It happened with Sam, Bonnie, Julie, the women he hadn’t married, the women he had been involved with while he was married. Each time, he reviews his actions, what they could have possibly read into. A couple times, he’s even asked. No commonalities, just him. He can’t stay friends with anyone. 

Wilson’s never really been able to maintain a friendship with a man outside of House. He’s not sure why, but he’s never let his guard down, never escaped his courteous persona. He knows he’s gay now, that’s a different lens. Maybe he was afraid they’d see something about him, maybe he was afraid he’d see something about them. Something that would make his stomach flutter like it did with House, on those occasions that House was kind, or intense, or funny, or particularly clever. He could ask House, House always has some sort of theory.

Women were easier to befriend. They didn’t look down on Wilson’s perpetual agreeableness and sympathy. And Wilson could relax a bit once they did. Conversation came easier, and he never felt tense afterward, like he was expecting a strike. That didn’t come until the romance. And romance always came. They’d lean over and kiss him, and he’d feel that moment of panic before he remembered what to do, what other girls had liked. 

And from there, there were expectations. Things he had to do, that were expected of him. Valentine’s Day gifts like these lines of teddy bears, chocolates, roses. With his work hours, it was all he could do. Maybe House wouldn’t care so much, since he sees Wilson every day. Though that’s rarely good. Who wants to see Wilson every day? For all he knows, his marriages had lasted longer because he’d never been there. After all, he married Sam before he was a doctor, and she could only stand his presence after he took that second job for her.

Seeing Wilson was the surest way to realize all the ways he was inadequate. Perhaps he could find a patient tomorrow. Rearrange the schedule or something.

But House would see through that. House would come with him to the hospital and become a frowning shadow, making fun of his patients and playing “Hit the Intern” by throwing pens and paper clips. Then House would blame Wilson for making him spend Valentine’s Day at the hospital. And the resentment would set in. House is his best friend, but even he can’t escape.

He had been great friends with Bonnie. House had hated her well before they’d gotten together, well before House had even met her. Wilson had liked her, and she had taken up his time. She had been coming off a bad relationship, something Wilson knew something about. He’d told her things that he’d only ever told House. He’d gone with her to art shows and dancing lessons and museums. And then she’d kissed him, and everything fell apart. There was a difference between meeting her a few times a week to hang out and being in near constant communication between meeting for dates. A difference between being a part of Bonnie’s social sphere and the heart of that sphere. He could never meet her expectations. She had hated that he cared for House, she had hated that he couldn’t be a doting husband (the “like he was to House” had always been implied, until the yelling started). That disapproval weighed on him, until he would do anything to escape it. Then a woman made him feel different, made him feel so much better that it felt funny. And that was the end of that. 

He messes up. And then panics, and one of his friends will think that means they should kiss him, and he panics, and then he remembers what that woman wants. Before he knows it, he’s a cheater. Strangely, it had fit with Wilson’s image of himself. Who is more hated than the philanderer? Now they will see Wilson as he always was. 

His shield was too strong, however. They still liked him. He’d reach out, make friends, and the curse continued. 

What was he thinking, kissing House back? Well, for the first time, he hadn’t been thinking at all. He hadn’t panicked, he felt too alive to panic. 

This was bad. At least with previous times, his friendship with the women had been solid, uncomplicated. House had been out of rehab for less than six months, Tritter entered their lives less than a year ago. 

It’s possible their whole relationship is based on an emotional reaction to finally escaping the mess. One of the few emotional decisions House had ever made. One of Wilson’s few truly impulsive acts.

It must have felt like a great idea at the time. It must have felt like something that could fix him.

----

It’s starting to feel natural again. Which is good, because Wilson is kind of forgetting who’s supposed to be mad. 

Is it his turn, because House turned rehab into a farce, and is back to popping enough pills a day to fill one of those old-timey gumball machines?

Or is it House’s turn, because Wilson and Cuddy once again tried to “fix” him and he had to spend one day in a room with a rape victim and then several days in some sort of sad, far-away mood?

Probably House’s turn. Wilson never learns. He’s tried some sort of bullshit “return to humanity” scheme at least twice now. Three times, if he counts the time he tried to force House to have dinner with his parents. Given the few real, serious words House had spoken to him after the Girl In The Clinic fuck up, that was actually probably the worst one of all. So 3.5 times then.

Definitely House’s turn. 

But it’s not going to fix anything. Wilson will try it again. He knows that, even as the version of himself in this moment knows it will be a disaster. Because Wilson thinks that he needs to get House better. If only to stick it to the part of himself that knows he doesn’t want House to get better. He wants House to stay House. 

There’s a whole mess of reasons for that, probably. Something to do with the fluttery feeling he gets when House rakes his eyes over Wilson’s body and pronounces an insult about his tie. The warmth in his chest when they’re lying on the couch together, or playing cards in the middle of a hallway, and it feels like they’re the only two people in the world—because they are, at least to each other. The joy of watching House wreak chaos, then storm into Wilson’s office practically aglow with glee. The way House’s eyes light up with Wilson’s laugh. 

Small nice reasons building to one big nice reason. 

The nice reason that scares him the most: Wilson might be falling in love. Maybe he already has. Or maybe this is just a stupid crush. That would be a nice, stabilizing thought. But you don’t fantasize about a stupid crush for a decade—a new snippet of hot embraces or wholesome kisses popping up for every one you thoroughly pushed away.  

You don’t offer to spend the next ten years in prison for a stupid crush. 

That kind of certainty that you would give your life for someone—even when facing a dead-eyed cop with the exiled third cousin to House’s attractive smirk on his face—that means something. Something that would upend House and Wilson’s shaky equilibrium and set them on a path that Wilson knows leads to ruin. 

But luckily he has another reason to cling to whenever he gets too scared or too charitable to himself. The pathetic, evil reason:

Wilson doesn’t want to be the only broken one. 

If House was healthy and well-adjusted, he’d realize just how much of a fuck-up Wilson is. And he’d leave him. Because Wilson is the one who takes care of other people. No one takes care of Wilson. That’s just how it is. 

So to cover for the fact that he doesn’t want House to change, Wilson must continue to try to change him. 

And—Wilson is fairly sure about this—House must continue to provoke Wilson in order to be sure Wilson will stay. 

Wilson will always stay. So will House. Neither of them have ever truly wanted to leave, yet they can’t exactly say that to each other. And thus there will be another storm. But for now, there is calm.

“Are you angry at me?” House asks, faking casual with his eyes on the television and his arm splayed oh-so-nonchalantly against the back of the cushions. Wilson has the mad thought that if he scooted over, House’s arm would be around his shoulder. He dismisses it (more accurately, he stomps on it until it stays down) and focuses on the question. 

“No,” he says. This happens a lot: they both have reasons to be angry but decide it’s just not worth it. Not when they could be laughing at television idiots and gossipping about Xavier from Cardiology and his secret second family in Newark. 

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

House has always hated that answer. Sure enough, his brow furrows. He looks like a man out of a painting with that look. Stark and bold and breathtaking. Wilson wants to touch him, trace the lines on his forehead. But he doesn’t. House doesn’t want him to, can’t want him to. But if he did… 

Would things be different if Wilson made the first move? Would that break his curse? True love’s kiss breaks the curse. Maybe it’s not just noble princes and fair maidens, maybe it would work for two exhausted, haunted middle-aged men. Wilson still remembers how two years ago, drunk and high on Vicodin, House had leaned in, petted Wilson’s hair half-mockingly, and told him he was pretty. That has to mean something about something, but fuck if Wilson knows. 

House’s words jerk him back to reality. 

“Everything has a reason.” 

Wilson almost wants to laugh.

His belief in that Central Housian Principle ebbs and flows like a sinusoid graph. He believes it when he remembers Sam yelling and throwing a dish at him for forgetting her sister was coming to town, leaving him to cut his hand while cleaning up the shards. He doesn’t believe it when he’s diagnosing a seventeen-year-old champion mathlete with a stage three glioblastoma, and he has to mutter reassurances to the shaking kid as he sobs and clings. 

Wilson shakes himself out of mire this time, and tries to focus on House. He looks more intense than Wilson was expecting. Wilson secretly loves these moments, when House’s eyes bore into his and he’s important. This time he swears there’s a warmth in his eyes. The air suddenly feels charged. 

It’s nice. Wilson idly wonders what will break it, because he knows nice things don’t stay. Especially not with House. 

But he has an answer to give. 

“I don’t like change. I do like you.”

House stares at him, and Wilson realizes he has shocked the man who knows everything. He doesn’t have time to linger on that realization.

Wilson feels House’s hand on his cheek before he processes seeing him lunging forward. House’s eyes dart across Wilson’s face for a half a second, and Wilson is suddenly aware that his lips are slightly parted, and the tension in his jaw has vanished. He nods, a tiny motion, but of course House notices. 

His lips are chapped and not as soft as any Wilson has kissed before. But that doesn’t matter. The second they touch all thought flees his brain and he kisses back. He has no idea what to do. Somehow he’s a gay man nearing forty who has never kissed a man before. It’s hard to worry about that now, though. He feels a little bit on fire, the flames growing and growing as House makes a sound against his lips and begins pressing Wilson against the couch. 

Wilson can’t think, he can want. 

Either this is the craziest or most easily predictable thing they’ve ever done. And there’s no turning back. 

-----

There’s no fixing him. 

What is he even doing here? House will hate this. Any of this. What’s the point in choosing either a teddy bear, or a plastic rose, or a box of chocolates that will taste like candle wax when the mocking reaction will be the same? 

Make a choice .

He can’t. He’s only able to summon that weird sense of certainty when in House’s presence.

All of a sudden, everything is too much. His breathing is coming too quickly, and his stomach is in knots. He can’t be here. He can’t make this choice. Can’t do this again. Can’t try and watch everything apart. Not with House. He can’t, can’t, can’t can’t can’t-

The displays seem to be laughing at him, searing their gaudy images into his brain. Perfect stock cartoons of people in love, smiling with a perfect red heart between him.

That kind of love is for other people, not for him. 

None of this is for him. 

He’s only distantly aware of his feet carrying him out of the store. He hasn’t even bought anything. Go back in . But he keeps walking towards his car.

There are only a few other drivers, because most people are at work. Wilson should be at work. Yet he left his work and his patients who need him to stare at a grocery store display and do nothing . He has no gift for House, no plan, no way to save himself.

The thought of facing House at the hospital makes him panic, so he heads for their apartment. What will he even do there? He doesn’t know, it doesn’t matter. As long as he’s alone, he should be fine. 

And because he was stupid enough to think that last thought in its entirety, House’s motorcycle is in its parking spot, when Wilson knows he rode it into work. Wilson contemplates turning around, heading back to work, doing his best to act like a functioning human being as he prescribes poison and comforts his victims. 

No, there’s too much chance that House has seen him. And he doesn’t want to give House any more evidence that he’s a coward. 

Each step towards the door feels like he’s climbing Mount Everest, but he makes it.

When he swings the door open, the first thing he notices is that their dining table is piled high with gifts. The same types of gifts Wilson just fled, tacky Valentine’s Day fare. The universe has a fucked up sense of humor. 

“If this is a burglar, get out while you still can. I’ve got a gun the length of a refrigerator with your name on it.”

“No you don’t!” Wilson calls back, the instinctive smile clashing wildly with his lingering terror. 

When House steps into the Wilson’s line of sight, he looks like he actually might have preferred that burglar.

“Wilson?”

“Present. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same question.”

“I asked first.”

“We both know I’m going to be more annoying about it.”

“ House .”

Strangely, that tone of voice has always been more effective against House than any logical argument. Because Wilson doesn’t really need an argument, not when he has the pile of what House had once called “capitalist fake-outs for love.” It makes him feel better than any words could ever have. At least he thinks that, until House says:

“Fine. I know tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and you get off on mushy crap, but I…couldn’t decide on what to get. I might have panicked a little bit, but what’s more likely is that all the sugary nonsense sent me into an abnormal allergic reaction-”

“I got it.”

“This is your cue to fall maddeningly in love with me,” House deadpans, but he’s still fidgeting, with his eyes darting between his pile of offerings and Wilson’s face.

He’s scared too.

“I don’t think I need an entire shelf of gifts for that,” he says. Then he waits to see if there is going to be any lingering on that comment. He doesn’t expect a reciprocal statement, he doesn’t care. The dining table is covered in reciprocal statements.

“My turn. What are you doing here?” House finally asks. 

It’s easy to admit now.

“I thought you’d expect something, but I couldn’t make a decision, so I came back here to contemplate my failures.”

The judgment Wilson had been torturing himself over never comes. 

“If you didn’t get me anything, I get to keep half of this stuff.”

“Sounds fair.”

They stare at each other, not talking. Wilson doesn’t know what to say, he doubts House has any ideas either. 

“Maybe we should talk,” Wilson finally offers. A bit of honest conversation might be good. It’s certainly the healthy thing. So naturally, House refuses.

“I’d rather spend the day in the clinic.” Harsh words, but understandable. 

“How about a cooking show?” Wilson asks bizarrely, not entirely sure of where it came from. But it does make House grin.

He takes a few shaky steps forward, before grabbing Wilson by the arm and dragging him towards the couch. 

“Deal,” he says, and leans in to kiss him.

[loki-is-my-kink-awakening]

Tell Me Some Things Last

Mobius & Sylvie (and Lokius at the end). Rated T. Angst, healing, friendship, minor references to self-harm, happy ending.

Mobius is paralyzed by his grief after Loki sacrificed himself to save the multiverse. It will take Sylvie helping him to face his emotions to give him his own happy ending.

Mobius couldn’t tear himself away from watching Don tidy up the front lawn after his kids had run havoc through the place. It was a life he hadn’t known, and even though he knew he could ask Sylvie to show him the memories if he wanted to, it wouldn’t change the fact he had a gaping hole in his heart. Looking back at his previous life was painful in a numbing kind of way. It was like his emotions were stuck somewhere within his body, unable to go anywhere. Tendrils of ancient grief floated along the surface but when he tried to grab hold, they slipped through his fingers and sank into the depths once more. He was weighed down by it, and yet it paled into insignificance at how much his heart ached from losing Loki. In all his time at the TVA—however long it actually was—he had never been close to anyone. Then Loki had arrived and he’d begun to feel again, to experience something within him: a hope, possibilities for the future. Now all he had was the tattered remains of his heart. “I wish I was with you,” he sighed, looking down at the ground and scraping his shoe up and down the sidewalk. The sun had been shining since he’d arrived here, reminding him of how another Loki had told his brother they would find their happy ending eventually. If only his Loki had been able to have one. Instead, he was trapped at the end of time sacrificing himself to outwit yet another egomaniac intent on removing choice from others. It should be embarrassing how often these things seemed to happen in the multiverse. They were an almost constant, just as Lokis were destined to lose. He knew Loki hadn’t wanted to be alone, and neither had Mobius. The only difference between them was that he could be surrounded by people if he wanted to; Loki was cut off from everyone. Mobius had never met He Who Remains, only a variant—and from what Loki had said, Timely was nothing like him—but he knew he had controlled everything and decided their fates, no matter how cruel or sweet. He’d been a dictator, an enslaver, and a tyrant. But he’d also lived a solitary life at the end of time with only Miss Minutes for company, and that would be enough to send anyone insane. Mobius knew loneliness, but he couldn’t imagine not being able to numb and escape it. When he’d had nothing but endless reports to wade through, never-ending detail to get lost in, it had been easier to cope with the scars he wore. The TVA hadn’t been a good place. He hadn’t been a good man while he was in it. He’d done terrible things as a hunter until his conscience refused to let him do it any longer, and then he had done ghastly things as an analyst by helping find variants when they went rogue. He’d once told Loki he was born to cause pain and suffering and death, but the truth was Mobius’ own role in the world had been to do the exact same thing to billions. He reached up and slipped a finger inside the sleeve of his shirt, rolling it across the silvery marks on his skin. In his worst moments, it had been a way to cope with the soul crushing pain of having taken people’s lives from them, until he’d sunk so low he almost felt nothing anymore. Above him, the sun was setting and he knew it was time to move on. He’d stood here for hours and now the curtains in Don’s house were being drawn and it was time to go. If only his feet could move from this spot. It took another flash of a timedoor and that same hand patting him on his shoulder to finally tear his gaze away. “Come on,” Sylvie said softly. “I think that’s enough. It’s time you had a drink.”

For @insert-witty-user-name-here. I hope you like it. 💕

Prompt fill for @lokiusbingo | wounded.

For anyone who has read the snippet and wants more, you can read the full fic on Ao3.

[werewolf-cl4ws]

Sonsally Week 2024: Day 7 - Transformation

I couldn't come up with a full scenario for this one, but I really, really, really, really wanted to write this scene in general because my absolute favourite thing about Sonic in general is that he's a silly little guy, a goober, a clown. Until he isn't because the universe thinks he's the right person to give god-like powers to.

Plus I wanted to play with one of my favorite SatAM theories.

This is just a spillage of thoughts but it was fun to just write, y'know?

Sally had never heard of the Chaos Emeralds until a few days ago, when a strange red echidna named Knuckles had somehow entered New Knothole and demanded they hand over the one they had in their possession.

None of the Freedom Fighters knew what he was talking about, and a tiny war had almost broken out when Sonic tried to force Knuckles out of the village when he refused to leave until they met his demands. It was only when Knuckles marched over to the Power Ring pool and pointed to it, explaining he could feel its energy coming from under the lake’s surface, that everything started to make sense. If barely.

The Power Rock, a mysterious stone discovered by Sonic’s uncle years ago that could produce Power Rings only Sonic could use, turned out to be a Chaos Emerald that sat contentedly with them for said amount of years. And there were six others like it in Knuckles’ possession, as he had been hunting practically all of Mobius for them for the last year, and theirs was the last one he needed.

Why he needed them was still a little unclear to Sally, only because what she was seeing was not matching up to Knuckles’ explanation. He said he knew of a rumour that stated when all seven of the Chaos Emeralds were together a miracle would happen. What kind of miracle he didn’t know exactly, but he needed something to happen as his island was under attack by robots that looked eerily similar to a dictator long since dead.

They had all followed Knuckles to his island to help him, but also because they weren’t willing to give up their one defence until they were sure he was telling the truth. Sonic had been adamant of doing this as legendary item or not, he had been trusted with the Emerald by his uncle, and he obviously had a deep connection to it that they couldn’t just give away.

It turned out that Sonic not only had a connection with the yellow Emerald, the supposed Power Rock they had kept for most of their lives, but with the other six, according to what Sally was seeing now.

Sonic floated in the air, his quills now a bright, golden yellow that pointed upwards and wavered gently with a power that practically radiated off him. As he stared down the giant robot that now had a death grip on the Master Emerald – another Emerald that apparently controlled the smaller ones and allowed Knuckles’ island to float - his features were sharpened, a seriousness possessing him that Sally had never seen in her life.

Beside her she just barely heard Knuckles mumble something about Sonic having the power of a god now, something that would have injected cold fear into anyone’s bloodstream. The cold stare on Sonic’s face nearly made her fear it, too.

But she knew Sonic better. She knew whatever power was flowing through him wasn’t going to change him.

She hoped.

The robot suddenly jettisoned away in a blast of fire and burning fuel, moving much faster than its build should have allowed. Sonic watched it, his stare still cold and calculating, before he took off after it, practically disappearing in front of Sally’s eyes. The streak of glowing gold left behind him was her only clue of where he was, but his speed – already beyond any other mobian – had multiplied to a point that it was like he was teleporting to his destination now as barely a second later he was intercepting the robot like it had never moved.

Even with Sonic’s high speed intervention the robot still dodged him, and Sally watched as the robot’s chest compartment split open, revealing a chamber big enough for the Master Emerald to fit into. The robot placed it inside itself, and the second the chamber snapped shut, it too seemed to power up with a similar energy that possessed Sonic.

With another roar of its engines it blasted off into the sky, heading for the stratosphere. And, to Sally’s horror, Sonic followed it without hesitation, his Chaos Energy fuelled body taking on the feat like he was heading out for a jog.

Then… nothing.

Sally stared up at the sky where the two figures had disappeared into, her heart hammering in her chest against a cage of anxiety. After a while she fell back onto her rump, barely feeling the grass under her, barely acknowledging Knuckles or her friends sitting next to her, also waiting and watching.

Waiting for what she wasn’t sure about. Deep down she knew Sonic could handle… whatever it was that was happening. But it didn’t make her chest feel any looser.

It could have been hours, or even seconds later, but as they all stared up at the sky a small dot appeared. A dot that slowly became larger, and closer, until it was no longer a dot but a somewhat familiar glowing golden hedgehog. And in his hands was the Master Emerald, being guided to the surface of the island.

Sally scrambled to her feet as Sonic guided the Master Emerald down a few feet away from them, watching it land safe and sound – much to Knuckles’ relief – then looked it over for any damage. He hovered above the ground as he did this, and it made everything feel all the more stranger.

His features were still sharp, almost wild, and being this close to him Sally realised his usually amber eyes were now a radiant red that were piercing in their own right. She felt her breath catch in her chest at the sight, and Sonic’s ears perked as his gaze snapped over to them. With how sharp his hearing was Sally could believe it, and she didn’t doubt that the Chaos Emeralds had enhanced all his abilities.

But she had caught Sonic’s attention, and for a moment he stared them down, his gaze almost cutting.

Then all at once his features softened, and he grinned, flashing all of his teeth, a rare full smile that was only seen when he was particularly proud of something he had done and didn’t give two damns who knew it.

Even with the glowing yellow quills that floated around him and the eerie blood red eyes, Sally now recognised him completely, and her chest finally loosened as she gave a relieved laugh.

Whatever those Emeralds did to him, it didn’t change him on the inside, where it mattered most. God-like powers or otherwise, it was still Sonic.

It probably wasn’t the smartest idea she ever had, but Sally ran to Sonic, relief washing through her. Sonic dashed forward, still hovering above the ground, and the second they were close enough Sally leapt at him. Without hesitation Sonic scooped her up mid-air and pulled her into a bear hug, giving a little spin in the air as Sally clung to him. When he stopped he looked down at her, grinning broadly.

“Please don’t ever do that again,” Sally scowled, or at least tried to. The giddiness of her relief and the warmth of Sonic’s chaos-charged body was making it hard for her to even pretend to be mad, and Sonic could see it in her eyes.

“First I gotta figure out wha’ I actually did, Sal,” Sonic laughed, and to Sally’s surprise his voice was deeper, almost ethereal as it had a reverb to it. It almost derailed her thoughts, and she had to shake her head to get her focus back.

“Of course you do,” Sally sighed, rolling her eyes, then gave him another squeezing hug.

It was still Sonic. Somehow doing the impossible, but that’s what made him Sonic.

[hakusins]

Very important question from someone you may or may not know:

Are you interested in Greek Mythology? If so, do you have any favourite gods, goddesses, creatures, and myths? Can we also know why you like them? 🎤

yeah i like greek mythology a normal amount. bjhEBRJHFBHJERBFJJEBRHF

BUT IN ALL HONESTY, anon - this ask had me running around clawing at my walls screeching and IT DEFINITELY WOKE UP A LOT OF DEMONS THAT WERE SLEEPING IN MY HEAD HJERBFBJHERF i actually had to take the whole day to just calm myself down.

no i don't like greek mythology i LOVE IT. I ALSO LOVE EGYPTIAN MYTHOLOGY, NORSE MYTHOLOGY, RIGHT NOW DABBLING INTO EAST ASIAN MYTHOLOGY LIKE KOREAN, JAPANESE AND CHINESE BUT IM GETTING THERE !!!!!! BHJTGBHJRHJHERFHBERFJ GRRRRRGRGGRHETGGRER. !!!!!!!!! IM SUCH A NERD, I LOVE LEARNING ABOUT MYTHS, I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT MYTHS !!!!!!!!!! its why I love the BL series ENNEAD and I LOVE LOVE LOVE xianxia danmei novels because ANYTHING WITH MYTHS WILL HAVE MY HEART!!!!!!

okay now onto your questions! In all honesty, from my very very deep and in depth knowledge of all of them, it is safe to say I can't say i think of any of them as cool or anything. i think they're all assholes one way or another. but i do quite like {oseidon because myths involving him are always the funniest to me JBHREFBJHREF but for goddesses... hm, there's not much but i quite like athena :DDD I honestly don't really have favourite goddesses/gods, but I do have favourite creatures!!!

THE MINOTAUR, ASTERION, IS DEFINITELY MY FAVOURITE !!!! HIS STORY TO ME IS SO TRAGIC, like he was always destined to be a monster - there was no moment since his conception that he could be anything BUT a monster and its just so utterly heartbreaking because this perversion of nature was created just by the gods, so by that principle, shouldn't he be something to be revered? something to be respected? or is it because his mom fucked the sacred bull gifted by Poseidon in order to conceive him that dictates that he is nothing more than a stain on his family, that he was an abomination that shouldn't have been born? bUT NOT ONLY THAT, his creation is the results of the gods' intending to punish King Minos for his arrogance and greed, but they made Queen Pasiphae, his wife, to bear the brunt of the humiliation? Like she's an innocent party in this matter, but she's the one who is forced to bear a half bull child and her husband just gets humiliation? I DONT KNOW ITS JUST, the creature of the Minotaur just fascinates me deeply that I want to nitpick the author or just the person who begun this myth because what was the cultural environment that inspired this myth? Was there a real life event that inspired this? Or was this just a cruel and sick imagination of how mortals think the gods dole out their punishments?

I CAN HONESTLY YAP THE SAME WITH MEDUSA, but Medusa had so many chances to not BECOME the gorgon Medusa. Like there could be timelines where Medusa was not a priestess in Athena's temple, where her tragedy began. Medusa could've chosen to be something or someone else and there's a chance she could've escaped her fate. THE MINOTAUR NEVER GOT THAT CHANCE, hell if you asked anyone with a mild knowledge of Greek mythology, no one would know that the Minotaur's name is Asterion! They only know him as the Minotaur, the beast of the Labyrinth.

but for myths, I honestly can't choose - Helen of Troy? Odysseus? Arachne? King Midas? Ixion? Sisyphus? Tantalus? Lycaon? Europa? The foundation of Athens? The birth of Peresphone? Hades and Persephone? Eros and Psyche? Adonis? Narcissus? Jason and the Argonauts? Perseus? Theseus? Heracles? The Titanomachy? The birth of Aphrodite? The Gigantomachy? Atalante? Typhon and Echidna? The birth of Dionysus? The several renditions of the birth of Zagreus? The birth of Hermes? Achilles and Patroclus? The women of the Amazon? The Titans? Pandora's Box? I CAN GO ON BUT THERE'S JUST TOO MUCH FOR ME TO TALK ABOUT !!! I HONESTLY HAVE SO MUCH FUN AND IM LOVING SO MUCH BERJFJBHERJBFEJHRF URHGRGHT please come back to talk to me about greek mythology anon please please please please, i swear i'm normal.

[hiddcnhorizcns]

@moondustlings from here

tristan walked beside her, his posture relaxed but his mind far from at ease. every step they took together, through the familiar gardens where they had once run as children, stirred memories he had tried hard to push aside. but the woman at his side was no longer the carefree girl who had laughed with him in secret corners of the castle. she was eira, the future queen. and he was no longer just her friend—he was her protector, sworn to a duty that now seemed to widen the chasm between them. her words, lightly teasing at first, brought a faint smile to his lips, though they held a deeper weight that he couldn't ignore. he looked at her, catching the way the moonlight softened her features, casting an almost ethereal glow on her skin. eira had always been beautiful, but there was something more now—something regal, something distant. as she spoke of court politics and hollow finery, tristan felt the familiar surge of frustration that often brewed within him. he had never fit in with the court’s world of masked intentions and gilded lies, and hearing eira speak of it so resignedly stirred something bitter in his chest. she deserved more than this, more than a life dictated by duty and expectations. but then, what could he offer her that the throne could not? he was just a guard now, another soldier at the edge of her grand future. "poetic verses or drunken fools," he repeated, his voice quieter than before, though there was a sharpness to it. "at least the fools are honest in their clumsiness. the poets … they speak like they're trying to gild their own words." he shook his head slightly, his frustration rising again, but he caught himself before it could spill over completely. eira didn’t need that from him tonight.not now.

her voice softened, and tristan found himself listening more closely, sensing the vulnerability behind her words. it was rare for eira to let her guard down, even with him. when she gestured to the castle, a place that once held so much of their shared history, he couldn't help but feel the weight of what she was truly saying. the crown. the throne. the choices made for her long before she even had a chance to voice her own desires. his heart twisted as he heard the resignation in her tone, and for a brief moment, he wondered if she had ever truly been happy—or if happiness had been something she had quietly sacrificed along the way. "eira," he said softly, turning his gaze to meet hers, "i don’t think you should have to settle for what’s been written. not entirely. not if it doesn’t feel right to you." he knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but the thought of her accepting a life of hollow propositions and courtly facades gnawed at him. his mind raced, searching for the right words to say, but he was never good at grand speeches. that had always been her strength. "i can't change what’s expected of you," tristan continued, his voice steady, "but i can promise that not everyone in this world sees you as just a future queen. not everyone wants something from you."

there was a fierceness in his eyes as he spoke, though he quickly tried to mask it, looking away. his hand clenched at his side, the weight of his own unspoken feelings pulling at him. he had always been there for her, even when their paths had diverged. and now, standing beside her again, it struck him just how much he wanted to protect not just her life, but the part of her that the court, the crown, could never fully claim. "fewer offers at court?" he added, his tone lightening as he glanced back at her, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "i could arrange that if you’d like. make a point of scaring off the most persistent ones." it was a jest, but there was truth behind it. he would do anything for her. and though he knew she was destined for a future far beyond what he could offer, tristan couldn’t help but wish that, in some small way, he could still be the one constant in her life—the one person she could always rely on, no matter how much the world around them changed.

[woodsfae]

B5 s04e04 Falling Towards Apotheosis previous episode - table of contents 

I had to look up what Apotheosis meant, having only been able to draw up the vague idea of one of itstwo definitions: the highest point smething can reach. And the other, glorifying something, or someone, to the point of godhood. 

Hm, god Sheridan or god Valen?? Surely Valen became a sort of demi-god to the Minbari. Probably Sheridan? But it would be cool to see Sinclair one more time. 

Ivanova updates us on the situation via an emergency broadcast to B5. That's clever, I like that as a method of exposition/don't forget where the plot is. 

Wow, Sheridan parting the stampeding masses just by walking through. Also lol at the 90s fear of trampling. Looks like some early stage apotheosis alright. 

the credits: "The year is 2261 [...]" Partner: "If this doesn't actually happen in 2261 I'm going to be so pissed." 

Personally, I would not.

Garibaldi is suspicious of and investigating a god. Lorien is pretty strange and a very random, new element without much explanation. 

And he's having a weird time. As he says, the captain disappeared for even longer, and just says he's back from the dead and everyone's fine with him running things. But Garibaldi comes back and gets closely monitored and not allowed to return to work without multiple medical examinations despite being seemingly fine.

Well. He's wrong because he is compromised, but yeah, they also have no way of knowing that the captain isn't. More of that being venerated by the people, clearly. 

Sheridan better not get a swelled head over it, is all I'm saying. If he doesn't take his ascension with an aw shucks then is he really a wholesome side of corn-fed Iowa beef? 

Morden's still fucked up. And he's dictating defense policy on Centauri, while Cartagia blithely agrees. 

Cartagia has another secret room which I assume witll be as fucked up as his secret torture-murder chamber.  

Aaaand it is. He has a secret council where he sits in a room with the corpses of deceased members of court. Lovely. A very sane sort of thing to do, to keep oneself grounded. 

A very sane plan, Cartagia. I commend you on the whole "become a god by being the person who caused the end of Centauri while dying too" is a normal thing to want and possible to achieve.  Very unfortunately possible to achieve. And lowkey destined. 

Living the trainwreck he willfully set into motion would be satisfying if it wasn't so horrible and tragic and wide-reaching in scope and loss of life. 

Garibaldi is most likely clean of Vorlon technology impanted in him. But sadly he cannot, or does not, test if he has a secret personality implanted in him by psicorps. 

The Vorlons are going fucking murder-serious, wiping out planets, colonies, and ships. 

I suddenly wish I paid more attention to the types of clothes and colors of clothes that Delenn wears. Her red and blue outfit is vivid, and I feel like I recognize it, and she's worn it before. 

Cute Delenn and John. The sweeping romance feels well earned, and solidly set up, and the actors have really good chemistry. 

Ah! They finally mentions not-Kosh. He's still here. Sheridan wants him gone. 

Lyta! And she's here to help carry out Sheridan's plan to kill not-Kosh! Presumably while Garibaldi is off trying to kick him out without knowing about his plan as not to betray it telepathically. 

Another planet down. With all this destruction the Shadows have certainly won ideologically already. 

Y'know, I don't remember Sheridan saying "force him to leave," but Garibaldi apparently heard "fire guns at him a lot till he kicks your asses." Like, I didn't get the sense that was Sheridan's order. Luckily, no-Kosh didn't kill any of them. 

Sheridan shares information about when the Vorlons might arrive at Centauri Prime freely when Londo asks. 

Operation: Kill A God is underway. Lyta lures him out, with the fragment of Kosh that is/was in Sheridan. I don't know if the fragment of Kosh passed on when Sheridan died or not. 

not-Kosh walks into a trap of an electrical field and a couple dozen soldiers firing plasma guns. 

Although they succeed in discorporating the Vorlon, it still isn't down! 

Ah, it seems that the Kosh fragment survived! It, and a bit of Lorien, join the discorporated Vorlon, and reverberate outwards like ripples on water till they joined the Vorlon ship and exploded. Wow, Kosh literally turning on the Vorlons that are massacring in his name. At least we know Kosh didn't approve of it! Not all Vorlons :P

Londo's assassination plan is to lure Cartagia out to Narn, to have a trial for and "execute" G'Kar on his homeworld. 

John Sheridan is going to die young becase he died already, and Lorien could only give him so much biochemical energy, Yeah, younger death, but like the mildest of death sentences. That would be pretty rough as a member of a long-lived species! Counting on sixty years or more with John and already knowing you'll outlive him by a lot would make the loss of that sixty years pretty heartbreaking. 

Awwww they're being cute again. Sheridan and Delenn are engaged. I wonder what the Minbari custom is - or was that the three nights of sleeping that was interupted by puppet!Anna?

Cartagia is having G'Kar's eye "plucked out" fuck man. That's so augh. C'mon. If he must lose an eye have it be in a fight, it's just overwhelmingly negative. No one else is getting this. 

Also a bummer point to have the episode end on! It does build a sort of dread fascination though. What horrible thing is going to happen to G'Kar next episode. 

onwards!

[umalvie]

i have yet ANOTHER fn family take for you believe it or not once again run first in the server. the fact that the comics even teased the idea that zuko wasn't ozai's biological son is so insane to me like even if you put aside the gross eugenicist implications of the idea that azula was born evil because she's ozai's biological daughter while zuko was born good because he's not ozai's biological son (even though they later confirmed that ozai is in fact zuko's biological dad, this was still the implication of even teasing that especially considering the eugenicist implications of roku as zuko's grandfather meaning he was destined to do good or whatever), it would be so absurdly boring if ozai just hated zuko because zuko was ursa's bastard son and the proof that she cuckolded him.

i think that what bryke believe is the reason for ozai hating zuko (aside from the fact that he's just generally evil) is that zuko wasn't meeting his standards in terms of his education or firebending as well as being too soft for ozai's taste, but the reason that i find actually compelling and supported by canon, unintentionally or not, is that ozai is living a lie. he projects himself onto azula and molds her in his image and makes his will hers, her an extension of him, all under the guise that he does this because he has always seen himself in her. she is strong like him, ruthless like him, prodigious like him, the secondborn child who was never meant to overcome or inherit but deserves it more than a weak, frivolous older brother who birthright dictates will have the throne and the country to boot.

but ozai doesn't actually see himself in azula. he sees what he WISHES he had always been in azula, perhaps what he has grown into on some level, but not what he was as a child. the truth is that zuko is the mirror of all of his childhood weaknesses and failures, and so he hates what zuko represents. he sees the privileges iroh was born with as a firstborn son, yes, and he sees what he perceives as iroh's weak nature that came with age as the war and loss of lu ten softened him, but he does not see what iroh was as a child. because iroh was the favored child. iroh was the fearsome general. ozai was nothing.

ozai is simply trying to revise history by projecting himself onto azula, to create the narrative that he was always strong and iroh was always weak. all the while, he is completely blind (willfully or not) to the fact that even though she's the secondborn and a girl at that, he's actually recreating history by favoring azula the prodigy and abusing zuko the failure. he's even creating adversity for zuko to overcome to inherit something he wasn't born with the right to while also breaking down azula by taking away the thing that she's valued the most.