#They said goodbye to Ash and left together

[moonxpalace]

Considering how a Charizite X Stone turns Charizard into a Fire and Dragon type, I would bet that Iris would absolutely love to have a battle against Alain! In B&W, she thought Charizard was a Dragon type by nature, until Ash revealed that Charizard is actually a Flying type. When she learns that Charizard is capable of Mega Evolving into a Dragon type, and then learns that Alain has the capabilities to do so, she would most definitely want to battle him! What do you think?

I haven't thought about an Iris VS Alain battle, but I really love this idea!! (guess I was too annoyed about Ash and Alain not battling each other at the M8 tournament to consider this, lolol)

Imagine if Iris wasn't written off so soon during the M8 and her interacting with Alain and Lance?? Maybe Ash could reference to Iris mistaking Charizard for a Dragon type in BW. She would be mind blown about the fact that Charizard capable of Mega Evolving into a Dragon type after all

And as a bonus, Iris could meet her bestie Dawn and get to know Chloe as well. Iris' VA Aoi Yuuki really wanted Iris and Chloe to have a girl talk ...

Imagine all the potential we were robbed off!!!!!!

[midatwrtr]

Two For One

Aespa Minjeong & Winter x Male Reader

10k words

Credits

Tags: Threesome, Creampies, Squirting, Riding, Missionary, Doggy, Virgins, Deepthroat, Double blowjob

It was a bad idea, a horrible idea. You knew it as soon as you decided to listen to another one of Minjeong’s 3 AM sleepy thoughts: go to the forbidden library of the academy, read the ancient spell manuals, and try their magics. There was already one word you didn’t like in that sentence: forbidden. Most libraries prohibited access to certain books because of their fragility or rarity, which was understandable. However, in a magic academy where not only the teachers could put protection spells on the manuscripts but also repair the damage with ease, surely there must have been another reason. Obviously, it was going to be an important one.

The second thing Minjeong said that sounded suspicious was her desire to try the spells. Both of you knew how hard ancient magics were and knowing that they came from forbidden books should have been a sufficient warning to keep you from attempting them. It was also well known that Minjeong wasn’t the most talented of witches. You didn’t want to be mean to your friend but her academic performance was difficult to ignore.

You thought that being the magic academy��s top student, Minjeong would have brighter ideas, but no. Although you were strongly against the idea, her excitement and puppy eyes got the better of you and you followed through with her plan. 

When you were between the dusty bookshelves and the sounds of the rooms resembled more and more the cries of ghosts and haunted souls, it was already too late to back away. 

“Look, don’t they look so cool?” Minjeong exclaimed, pointing at the black leather book, with ashed gold linings and crooked letters. Clearly a cursed book. You could already feel the languish moans of the unfortunate victims of its curses.

“Wanna take a look at it?” she asked. You were surprised by her lack of worry at the obvious danger in front of her.

“No!” you screamed and pushed her before it was too late. 

“What’s to worry about?”

“What do you mean? If you were to touch that thing, you’d probably lose your hand, you idiot!”

Minjeong looked at you with an offended frown. “You worry too much…” her tone drifted off and she ran to the next bookshelf.

You followed her everywhere, preventing her from killing herself and yourself. There was a moment that almost got you. Minjeong jumped on the shelves with her full force. It was a good thing to remember that these shelves were centuries old and left unkempt for as long as you could imagine so obviously the wood gave out and Minjeong fell together with the ten books she managed to grab out of greediness.

You managed to catch her and shield her from the falling books with your back. Later, she apologized profusely but you had to go back to the dorm with an uncomfortable back pain.

Minjeong followed you to your room. You thought it was to bid you goodbye or apologize some more but then she took a book out of her coat. The weathered leather-bound book seemed to stare at you with its emerald green cover, warning you about its possessor. 

Your friend opened the book and let you see the elegant swirling calligraphy, red and deep. The pages had acquired a creamy yellow color with time and it was hard for you to read it. 

“We should try this spell,” Minjeong declared with a serious tone. 

“We—what?” you replied.

“I said we should try this spell. It will be good,” she said and cleared her throat, gaining a deeper shade in her voice. “It is said to possess the power to bring one’s deepest desires to life. It delves into the very essence of longing and seeks to materialize the aspirations that reside within the caster’s heart.”

“You managed to translate all that from this squiggly writing?”

Minjeong nodded proudly with a bright smile.

Your eyes took the shape of horror.

“Are you really sure? I mean, really really sure.”

“Mh!” she confirmed. Minjeong carefully laid the book on your desk. Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she traced her finger along the faded text. “Imagine, our dreams made real!”

You eyed the ancient script warily. “It sounds like a scam. It really does. Do you really think one spell can make all of your dreams come true? It’s even better than the philosopher stone,” you said. “The forbidden section is forbidden for a reason. What if this backfires?”

Minjeong dismissed all your concerns with a wave of her hand. “Oh, come on! This is our chance! Let’s try it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Uhm… that we would die? Worse, we could be cursed for life and beyond as soulless ghouls.”

“Pfft. You read too many books,” Minjeong brushed it off.

“Minjeong, we’re literally in a magic academy!”

“It will be fine.”

Reluctantly, you sighed, “Fine, let’s just be careful. We have to follow the instructions precisely. By the way, what if they hear us?”

“Don’t worry, everyone has gone on the school trip. The nearest students are in the other building.”

The moonlight filtered through the tall windows and cast a soft glow on the center of the floor. The flickering candles seemed to get agitated as their flames danced more frenetically. 

You and Minjeong stood next to each other. She held the wand in her hand with confidence, ready. The air in the room was becoming heavy, there was a palpable energy.

“Are you sure about this, Minjeong?” you asked one last time.

“Absolutely.”

You both closed your eyes in unison. Minjeong’s mind cleared as she focused on channeling her energy into the wand. With a shared breath, they opened their eyes, the moonlight and candlelight casting shadows that seemed to dance with their anticipation. Wands at the ready, they spoke the incantation with a synchronicity that echoed their shared purpose.

"Manifestum Desideria."

As the words hung in the air, a surge of magical energy enveloped the room. You could feel the invisible threads of desire weaving around them, responding to the call of the ancient spell. The air crackled with enchantment, and a faint mist began to materialize, swirling around Minjeong.

The air vibrated and anticipation built up more and more until… it just stopped.

Minjeong opened her eyes and looked at you.

“Was that it?” she asked.

“Yep,” another voice answered. 

Minjeong jumped and screamed her lungs out. You got started as well from the unknown voice and her scream. As you turned around, you could see clearly who it came from. It was a girl and she looked exactly the same as Minjeong. 

“Hey, who are you?” Minjeong asked with a trembling voice, pointing at the other girl.

“What do you mean who is this? I’m you,” she said laughing. Her voice too was extremely similar to Minjeong’s but it was slightly sultrier, more playful, and sexier.

“Uhh, Minjeong? No, Winter?” you suggested.

“Yes, I’m Winter if that’s what you like to call me.”

“You can’t be me,” Minjeong said, more confused than anything. Your friend turned around to search for some kind of reassurance from you but you had no idea either.

“Yes, I am,” she repeated. There was a look of pleasure on her face seeing Minjeong confused. “And I know everything about you. Every little secret you try to hide.”

“W-w-wait, you’re just playing with me.”

“Yeah, like how you stole Karina’s makeup.”

“How do you—”

“And how do you like your friend, right over here,” Winter said, wrapping her arm around you and pulling you closer. Your heart suddenly started beating faster. You could smell her perfume, a strong sensual smell. You had hugged Minjeong before and all of Winter’s sizes were the same as Minjeong’s. She was a clone. If what she was saying was true, you might just roll with it.

“What?” you asked.

“What?!” Minjeong asked too.

“What? Are you going to tell me you don’t?” Winter said, getting closer and rubbing your chest. “Then this won’t bother you, right?” she said smugly, tracing her finger along your neck, then under your jaw and near your lips, right as she got her face closer. You felt goosebumps. You knew this wasn’t Minjeong, but she was so real and so identical to the real one that you wanted to enjoy the moment a little.

“Hey! Get off him!” she screamed, pushing her away. Too bad.

“Why? You like him?” 

“N-no!”

“Mh? Stop lying to yourself, sweetheart…” Winter got closer to your face. “What about you, handsome? Do you like her? You got a Minjeong all to yourself, you know? You can do anything you want with me.”

“Hey! What are you saying?!” the real Minjeong exclaimed.

“I see you staring at my lips, do you wanna taste them?” she asked and leaned closer, slowly enough to wait for a reaction, “Oh, you aren’t backing away.” Truth was, you did want to kiss her.

“You’ve done it now!” Minjeong pulled you away and hugged you hard. She felt territorial, almost possessive. “I’m supposed to be his first!”

“Oh, dear…” Winter laughed.

“Wait.” Minjeong turned to you as you stared at her with eyes wide open. You looked at each other for a moment, both slowly starting to blush.“Oh my god… you’ve ruined everything!” Minjeong screamed in frustration, holding her head in her hands.

“I don’t think so,” Winter turned to you, “You like her don’t you?” 

You opened your mouth and stopped for a second. You felt a gentle tug at the back of my mind. “Well, uhm, yes…” you said. It’s a only after a few moments that you realize what you said. Your eyes widen slightly in surprise, and a hint of nervousness creeps in. 

“Ain’t that lucky?” Winter said and clapped happily while the two of you looked at the floor, not baring the sight of the other one. Your feelings had been confessed and so were hers but you did not know what to do now. Your wingwoman did though.

“You guys should kiss now.”

“What?! Listen, uhm, me, you helped us a lot but that’s too much,” Minjeong said angrily, pointing her finger at Winter who on the other side looked at her with a surprised yet content smile. 

“Why not? You want it.”

“Yeah, but we are going too fast.”

“Listen, I’m not leaving until you’ve done everything you have to,” Winter said, folding her arms and leaning her hips on one leg, showing her attitude.

“Right, are you going to stay here forever or is there a way to let you free?” you asked. “Also, why did you appear?”

“Did you guys not read the warning?”

“What warning,” you and Minjeong said in unison. You rushed to the book and immediately found a blood red paragraph on the other side of the page. 

[Exercise great caution when wielding the Desiderium Manifestum spell, for the line between reality and desire is delicate and easily blurred. The spell has been known to personify desires in unexpected ways, and the manifestations may take on a life of their own, beyond the caster's control. Use this enchantment responsibly, and be prepared to face the consequences of desires brought into the tangible realm. It is advised to thoroughly understand the potential repercussions before attempting to cast this spell.]

Minjeong’s eyes widened in realization. “Wait… the warning in the ancient spellbook? It said something about completing the ritual fully to manifest our desires.”

Winter nodded, a smug smile on her face. “Exactly. You manifested me because of your desires, right? To send me away, you have to acknowledge and act on those desires. I am just here to help you.”

You looked at your friend with disappointment as she laughed awkardely. 

After reading the paragraph you quickly understood that ‘making your desire come alive’ was really meant literally. You blamed Minjeong for not realizing it—she was the one that wanted to use the spell in the first place—and scolded her for not reading everything thoroughly before trying it. She apologized and said that it was her excitement that got her so worked up and that normally she would’ve seen it.

“So, we really have to…” Minjeong’s voice trailed off as she glanced at you, her cheeks flushed.

You felt your heart race as you met her eyes. The air was thick with unspoken emotions. “I guess we have to kiss,” you said softly.

Minjeong bit her lip nervously. “This is so embarrassing.”

Winter sighed dramatically. “The longer you hesitate, the longer I stay here. And believe me, I can be very persistent.”

You took a deep breath and stepped closer to Minjeong, gently taking her hand. “We can do this. It’s just a kiss, right?”

Minjeong nodded, her eyes locked onto yours. “Just a kiss.”

Then came the moment you had been waiting for: you had to kiss Minjeong and Minjeong had to kiss you. Your two figures illuminated by the warm light of the candles inside your room stood still as both of you looked at each other, uncertain. Minjeong bit her lip, her fingers playing with the hem of her sweater. “Whenever you want,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. A brief silence hung between you, filled by the soft noise of the wind.

You took a deep breath. You were the man, you had to do it. You took a step closer, your eyes met Minjeong’s for a brief moment and shy smile played on your lips. She felt her heartbeat quicken and a nervous giggle escaped her lips. Their eyes locked and you both inhaled. 

You held your breath and gently cupped Minjeong’s cheek. Minjeong’s breath caught in her throat as she met your gaze, eyes wide open. 

Your lips met in a soft and hesitant kiss. It was delicate, shy, and quick. It was just a moment but you clearly felt her soft skin press against yours and it was a shock. You’d want more of it, it was the final gift of your long wait, and you wanted to savor it more.

As you pulled away, your eyes met again and a shy smile appeared on your lips while Minjeong had an ecstatic expression, her mouth still open. 

“Oh my god, good job you guys,” Winter said, clapping behind you. You almost forgot about her. “That’s your man now, you have to kiss him better, you know?”

“Calm down, that was our first.”

“Yeah, I know but don’t worry, I’ll show you. I really can’t hold myself back with him…”

“Wha—” Minjeong couldn’t finish her sentence that Winter jumped on you.

She kissed you ferociously—deeply, passionately. If she was the embodiment of Minjeong’s desire, she must have waited for years. You could feel the pent-up frustration and all the regret in that one kiss. Winter moans into you, pulling your face roughly into hers as her tongue invades your mouth, taking away the innocence that has sealed your lips until now. She moves quickly and hungrily, taking your breath away.

Your hands are naturally drawn to her hips. You’ve hugged Minjeong before and you knew how her body felt against her—Winter was exactly the same. Your fingers dig into her ass as you exchange the kiss. Winter’s hands on your neck felt possessive and territorial. She pulled you in even closer than you already were, pretty much grinding against you.

It took Minjeong’s whole effort to detach you from Winter’s grasp.

Minjeong immediately glued herself to you. 

“What the hell was that?!” She screamed with territorial fierce.

“I just showed you how to kiss properly?” the other said nonchalantly.

“Wasn’t that too much?” Minjeong stuttered.

“You left me waiting for too long. If you confessed sooner…”

You could see Minjeong pout under you. You placed your hands on her waist and pulled her close to you, making her annoyed expression fade away. You take her lips and meet her in a kiss more intense than her previous one. Her tongue timidly pushes forward, searching for your mouth. 

Her words resonate inside your head: “Touch me.” Your hands move around, alternating between her ass and her back, greedily taking all of her into your arms. Minjeong’s hands instead move to your chest, to search for support for what’s stirring inside her.

After a couple of moments, Minjeong’s lip turn into a shy smile and she backs away a couple of centimeters.

“You’re-you’re poking me,” she says softly.

“I’m sorry! I- it was you—no, the other Winter, have you seen how she’s dressed?” you quickly try to excuse yourself, thinking it might have been too embarrassing if you were to admit that she was the cause. But after all the blood rushed to your groin, your brain was left empty and the poor judgement would cost you.

“You pervert! You just confessed to me and you’re getting hard from another girl?!” Minjeong quickly yells at you.

“But she’s you! I’m getting a boner because of you!” you yell back, afraid that you might hurt her.

“You can’t scream this kind of stuff, you fool…” her tone becomes soft and she hides away.

“Oh, it looks like you two are starting to finally be honest with each other,” Winter announced, patting you two, “well, what are you going to do about this?” she said while rubbing your member. You jolt back, goosebumps running through your skin. The feeling alone was enough to have you throbbing. “Because if you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

“You can’t!”

“I know I can and I know you want it too. Remember? I know everything about you,” she says. “Do I have to tell him about all the restless nights you had rubbing yourself thinking about him? Screaming his name in your bedroom, night after night after night…” “Stop! It’s not true!” Minjeong said. She was so embarrassed that she was almost in tears. You couldn’t tell who was redder in that moment: Minjeong, whose secret was revealed to the last person she wanted to tell it to, or you, whose surprise left you frozen.

“So? You already know how her mouth tastes, want to know how it feels too?” Winter said, turning you. You couldn’t answer her question: your legs gave out and you fell into the bed. It was almost as if someone injected you with morphine. Your head started spinning, you couldn’t stand up but you couldn’t stand still either.

“What have you done to him?” Minjeong asked worriedly.

“Just my powers, he’s really really horny right now and his body is starting to lag. I have a really good aphrodisiac in my spit,” she confessed.

“Why are you doing this?” 

“Sorry but I don’t get to leave until he fills both of us with cum.”

“W-what?!” Minjeong was left startled at her clone’s calm demeanor. Their words were a confused blur, from what you knew, you were living a dream, a very fun one.

“The purpose of the spell is to make your deepest desire come true.”

“You must be joking right?”

“Have I said a single lie, yet?”

“No…”

“Look, I’m doing you a favor here, you have to stop being so against me,” she whispered in Minejong’s ear. “Your deepest desire is finally going to come true. Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”

Winter takes your pants off and your cock springs out. At the sight of your erect penis, Winter lets out a satisfied sigh, being able to finally take a good look at it. Her excitement was vivid, her wide eyes scanned the whole length of your member, from your balls to the tip. Awkwardness, on the other hand, was devouring Minjeong alive. She had her hands plastered on her face, trying to cover her eyes, even though she could see perfectly through them, flickering her fingers to reveal her aroused pupils.

The seducer smirked and looked at Minjeong with a bright grin. ‘You like it?’ is what she’d hear if her eyes spoke and ‘yes’ is what you’d hear coming from Minjeong’s mouth despite her bit red face.

“I know what you want, baby,” she said, brushing the cuter girl’s warm cheek. 

“I-I-I don’t want anything,” the poor girl stammered, suddenly feeling the need to look away at the confused boner between your legs.

“Right, sure,” she giggled. Then she reverted her eyes to you. “You know, dear, I’d really really want you to fuck my mouth and swallow you right up… but,” she looked at her identical friend. “I think she needs it more, don’t you?”

Minjeong was now looking down, rubbing her thighs together. She couldn’t matter a single word

“Scoot up close and give him a little taste,” Winter said, pointing between your legs.

Minjeong little steps on her knees, gulping down when she stood really close. “Are you sure?” she asked again, with a shaky voice.

“Lick him. Make sure to look up into his eyes, too.”

Minjeong took a few breaths to prepare herself. She hesitantly brought her head down, shaking throughout, and placed her closed lips on the bare tip of your cock. You felt shivers running down from your member throughout your thighs. 

Anticipation was killing both of you. “Is she gonna do it?” you thought. “Am I gonna do it?” she thought. She looked at you, looking for some kind of encouragement, reassurance perhaps. You looked just as lost as her, just as excited. You placed a hand on the side of her neck, picked up a few strands of hair, and brushed her cheek with your thumb. 

She smiles, her lips still planted.

Minjeong was ready. She inhaled the scent that was coming from your skin, closed her eyes, and took a long sensual lick, from the base of your cock, right to the tip. She straightened up and looked at you with her puppy eyes.

“D-did you like it?” she asked. 

You quickly nodded. You were twitching terribly at the cold humid air. 

“Take it in your hands and stroke him while you lick him,” Winter said.

“Okay… I’ll give it a try.”

Minjeong gave you a couple more licks, bringing her head down, and up. Her mouth was salivating and it wetted your cock completely. Then she placed her slender fingers, awkwardly holding you with excessive care. ‘You can hold it tighter,’ you whispered. Minjeong nodded.

She jerked you off, your cock slick in her palm. Uncertain about her rhythm, she alternated between fast and slow. Her fingers were thin and delicate but they were enough to make you desperate. 

The licking on the head of your cock wasn’t stopping. Minjeong continued, slowly easing to a more regular rhythm as you began to moan.

Winter let her original do all the work, while like a snake, she wrapped herself around your shoulders, whispering in your ear: “She looks really hot licking you, doesn’t she?” she giggled. “I know you’ve waited so long. You’ve been patient. I can’t wait to suck your cock with her…”

“Use your lips too dear,” Winter said. “No teeth.”

Minjeong placed her lips on the tip of your penis and started lightly sucking it. She looked more confident than before. Her hand continued jerking you off, her cheeks sunk in to give you small suckles, while her lips brushed her saliva away. 

You started to moan more deeply. You couldn’t help it. You placed your hand behind her neck this time. You weren’t sure what this meant for you—were you too stimulated and needed some support, were you praising her, were you caressing her—but for Minjeong it meant, “go deeper”.

So she did.

She lowered her head further until her lips touched her fingers and her tongue fully coated your frenulum. Your hips jolted for a moment. It seemed to please Minjeong a lot, who started to suck with more passion.

“You look really cute sucking his cock…” Winter commented again with her lowly seductive voice. “What about you, do you like her?”

“Yeah,” you said in a single breath.

“Minjeong, I want you to take him deeper.”

Minjeong raised her head, detaching herself from you. A big strand of thickened saliva pooled down from her lips to to her hands. “I can’t take them that deep…” she said in a tiny voice as she wiped the liquid from her face. Her eyebrows curved down in a worried frown.

“Don’t be silly, you’re me,” she said. “You can do it. Besides you dreamt about it every night. Taking his cock right down your throat to the deepes–”

“Stop! I’ll do it. Just,” Minjeong blurted out, “shut up!”

“Alright, alright. Just put him in your mouth. You have to relax your throat.”

Minjeong gulped and opened her mouth as wide as possible. Her warm breath made you stand taller. She wrapped her small hand around the base of your penis, to guide to her. You could feel it slide through her tongue, her lips grazing your skin, enveloping you completely.

She stopped midway.  You could feel the bump of her tongue with your tip. That warmth and wetness were already making your heart race, your breath was short and quick.

“Thaaaat’s right. Good,” she said. “But you can go deeper. Mmmmh. Show him how much you love him, how much you love his cock.” The last sentence sounded way too lewd. The growl from Winter shocked you. It was almost demonic, of pure lust and desire.

Minjeong took you deeper and seemed to struggle at first but then your penis touched the back of your throat. You weren’t breathing anymore and neither was she. She squinted her eyes, trying to keep you there, nice and snuck, until she couldn’t anymore and had to come up to catch her breath. 

The moment she took you out, you gasped. 

“I-I’m sorry, was that too much?” Minjeong mumbled.

“Don’t worry. He liked it!”

“Is that true? Did you, um, like it?”

“It… it was amazing, Minjeong. I’ve never felt this before.”

“Oh, that’s a relief! Okay,” Minjeong smiled, puffing her cheeks. She looked adorable, cute. Just like before the whole deal started. Just that this time, she was covered in spit and her eyes were slightly pink.

“Let me show you,” Winter said, taking you away from Minjeong. She put her hand on your cock and started stroking you up and down, while she was explaining. She picked up all of her previous spit that pooled on your crotch, using at lube. Somehow, she knew the perfect pressure, the perfect rhythm.

“I know just how to take my his cock. Watch me. You move your tongue like this,” she pulled her tongue out, “and sucking, like gasping just a little will allow you to get his cock down without gagging as much, well unless you want to. You can slowly take him in. Like this…”

For the demonstration, Winter tried to take it in as slowly as possible, that took a lot of holding back, you could tell. She blinked a few times, her eyes crossed on your penis as it slowly slipped inside of her throat. Her throat was the same as Minjeong but her technique was completely different, this time it was smoother, tighter, and deeper.

She held you there, her lips planted right on your crotch, balls deep. You continued to gasp, feeling the twitches of her flesh caressing you and her throat trying to swallow you down. It was about ten seconds later that she decided to take you out. 

You were left disappointed but now was Minjeong’s turn.

“Like that. Now you try,” Winter said casually, whipping her lips clean.

“Okay. I’m going to try my best,” she agreed and then looked at you. “Can you keep your hand on me?”

You pat Minjeong’s head again, like a little puppy. She smiles cutely and closes her eyes as you rub her head. She giggles and smiles brightly. “Okay, now,” she said and focused. You kept your hand on top of her head, trying to guide her in.

She did just as Winter said, sticked her tongue out, gasped and let you in. She struggled again but this time she actually took you all the way in. She kissed your crotch and puffed up her cheeks. You could feel her moan, the vibration caressed your whole skin, you must have hit a good spot. 

Then she took you out. 

“I did it!” Minjeong exclaimed.

“You did so well, baby,” you said and continued patting her.

“Hehe, I like it when you compliment me,” Minjeong mumbled. She wasn’t usually like that. Well, she did become very touchy sometimes and demand your hugs when she drank too much, but she was never this… submissive. You glanced at Winter with a suspicious gaze. She just giggled and raised her shoulders.

“She’s just cock-drunk.”

Minjeong took you again, deeper than before. And when she couldn’t hold it anymore, she took you out, caught her breath, and went again. Again and again. And then she made a discovery: she didn’t need to take your cock out of her mouth to breath, just half was good. She maintained a constant suction, leaving you no rest at all.

“You’re so good Minjeong, your throat feels like heaven.”

After a minute of slow bobbing she made a second discovery: having you graze her throat actually felt good. So then she started bobbing her head up and down, just small centimeters, enough to feel you go in and out of her throat. She continued her moderate bobbing, gasping, and moaning, while her thick spit went everywhere. She was affectionate and sucked with passion, she really wanted to make you feel good, and she loved you.

“God, you’re making me lose my mind,” you moaned as well. Minjeong loved your moans. That and your hands on her head made sure she knew how good you were feeling and she just wanted to suck you more.

Winter giggled and brushed your ear. “Isn’t she doing so good?” she whispered. “Wow, all the way down. I’m a little jealous…”

“You know,” she started. “I think you should fuck her face. I think she might like it…”

It was like her words took control of your body. You kinda wanted it but you also wanted to be gentle for her but you stood up. Minjeong stopped and breathed heavily. She looked at you with confusion as she didn’t hear her counterpart. 

“Dear, why are you standing? Is everything okay?” she asked. You didn’t answer as your knees were getting weak but you didn’t want to leave her hanging either. You put both of your hands on her head and patted her, playing with her hair, caressing her gently. “Ah… I love it when you run your fingers through my hair…”

“Minjeong, do you want to feel him take...a bit more control?”

Minejong looked at you with her puppy eyes, submissive and innocent. “I-I’d be okay with that. I trust you.” She held the hand on her head. “Mmm, I trust your touch. I know you’ll be gentle. I’m ready. I promise. Guide your cock into my throat, please.” You wonder how such a pure girl could pronounce suck lewd and naughty words with the same innocence as when she asked for cuddles.

You stand up and she follows you on her knees, holding your thighs. You kinda of felt bad for her, she had to be the only one to stay on the floor, but she looked more than happy. You pushed back into her, as gently as possible. Minjeong wiggled her head to take you in with a slurp and started lightly sucking on you, with care and love. With both of your hands on her head, you started pushing in and out of her mouth.

At first, you only used your hands at a slow pace. You wanted to make sure she got used to the feeling. You didn’t want to be too rough. But then she got more enthusiastic, you could tell she was buckling her head herself, telling you to go faster.

So you did.

You start moving your hips as well, properly fucking her pretty mouth. It was a moderate pace, you were still afraid of hurting her. She felt amazing, out of this world. If her mouth was already pleasurable before, now with the rhythm, it was ecstatic. 

You almost got carried away when you heard the wet sloppy sounds of her spit pooling out of her lips. You had to stop yourself. You pulled out and saw Minjeong coughing. You quickly brushed her face with worry.

“Are you okay?”, you asked.

She looked at you with resolution. “Please, don’t stop.”

Who were you to refuse? You were back in no time and fucked her face even faster than before. Now she started moaning, the vibration of her voice adding to the pleasure. Your legs start shaking and you moan together with her. Moans, slop, and plops, the sound of spit and her mouth were all you could hear.

“Oh wow. It’s so hot watching you fuck her face like that,” Winter coos. “I feel left out… Do you want my mouth and throat, too?”

She put her hands on you, it’s a seductive hypnotizing touch that took your mind out of the moment. You stare at her, blinking vividly, and you slowly stop fucking Minjeong’s face. Winter must have been a succubus, there was no way she was just a “manifestation of Winter’s desire”. She controlled your every muscle, every thought. You reluctantly let go of Minjeong’s head altogether and turn to Winter.

“Why did you stop?” your friend asked needly.

“Because it’s my turn, he’s gonna fuck my throat now.”

Winter’s knees are already on the floor. She crawls towards your crotch. Her eyes are already more riled up than yours. She sticks her tongue out and you’re buried deep inside her throat. She doesn’t gag at all, instead, she starts giggling and sucking you violently. Her hands on your buttocks help her pull your cock inside of her. 

You give her slow hard fucks. You try to break her throat. The wet mess that is her mouth is way too pleasurable for you to hold back. There comes a point where you stop caring and start fucking her throat as rough as you can.

Fast and rough, hard and deep. Every thrust brings you closer to the edge. Your eyes roll back into your head, slowly but surely, and your mind fogs up. You can only feel pleasure, pleasure, and hunger for more.

You went on for so long, you were even surprised at yourself you could last that long. It must’ve been Winter’s doing. 

You were two thrusts away from cumming when you stopped. Actually, you didn’t stop, it was Winter again who pushed you away. She slurped all her spit and cleared her throat. 

“You know I loved it but I didn’t want to keep you all for myself. I want Minjeong to taste your cum too,” she declared and pushed you back down into the bed. Winter continues to work on your cock with small licks and suckles. She gestures for Minjeong to come closer and join her. She does.

Now both of the Minjeongs are licking and sucking you, with such eagerness and hunger, that you were wondering who the original was. But you didn’t have enough brain left to think about it.

Thinking about it, Minjeong was being a lot more affectionate, mixing her licks with little kisses, she was sloppy and inexperienced. Winter was being a lot rougher, her licks were fast, and she sucked you hard enough that she could have left hickeys on you. Both of their faces were smushed together trying to claim more of you from the other.

But you couldn’t last long. You came right after.

You came harder than you ever did.

Strings of thick cum came raining down on their faces. They both stopped in surprise and admired the cum shooting out of your helpless cock. It was a piece of art. Both of them were painted white. Your penis continued to twitch and contract even when there was no more cum left—the pleasure was too much.

Winter went right back with gentle long strokes of tongue to clean up after their mess. She swallowed your cock once again, to suck up all the cum that was left. 

Minjeong instead slowly picked up the cum from her face and stared at it in the palm of her hand. It took her a moment to decide that she wanted to taste it. She licked it. Picked more and ate it. She continued to brush all the cum from her face and hair and licked it right up, like a cat trying to clean her paws.

Heavily breathing and with your heart still pounding, Winter flashed you a very bright smile. “So what do you want to do now?” she asked you. 

“Huh?” you responded. Your mind was still cloudy.

“You can do anything you want. What’s your next move?”

You breathed a couple of times and swallowed. “I want… I’d like to return the favor, Minjeong.”

“Eh?!” Minjeong jolted up. “W-what are you saying?”

“I want to eat you out, Minjeong,” you said with more resolution.

“You’re being too direct.”

“Come on, have you seen what we have just done? There is really no point in hiding now.”

“You’re right…”

“Oh my, you’re so selfless, baby,” Winter joined the conversation. “It’s okay, I can help with this too. After all, this was one of Minjeong’s desires as well. I have the full knowledge.”

“Please, will you ever stop saying this embarrassing stuff?” Minjeong pleaded.

“No, hehe” she giggled.

Minjeong replaced your spot on the bed, but this time she sat right in the middle and you crawled before her. She spreads her legs. The action makes her blush terribly but you’re just as embarrassed. You position in between her thighs and awkwardly smile at her. “I’m– I’m kind of nervous.”

“Well are you gonna leave me here with my legs open, you jerk?” Minjeong teased you.

To break the ice again, you softly kiss Minjeong’s lips, trailing down to her neck. While you’re sucking her skin, your fingers make her towards her heat. Softly brushing her legs, her thighs, and then her panties. Your fingers start playing with the drenched cotton. It had already absorbed all her juices, one squeeze and it would’ve overflown right onto the bed.

“You’re so wet, Minjeong.”

“Please don’t say that,” she said breathily.

You moved down, bringing her panties away. Your breath hits her very core. You stand low, admiring her pussy, completely wet and excited. “You smell sweet,” you said before placing a kiss between her lower lips. She let out a soft moan of anticipation.

You then started licking her pussy and clit with your full tongue. Minjeong moaned louder and her hands immediately strapped to your head for support. Your tongue started moving around and licking her wildly.

The feeling of your warm breathing hitting her core and your tongue making swirls around her clit was a feeling she had never felt before. “That’s so good, baby,” she moaned. You inserted a finger into her hole and your tongue continued to lick onto her bead.

Second finger in, Minjeong let out another lewd moan. “You taste so good, Minjeong.”

“Wait—you have to slow down! Hhhngg, I’ll cum!”

And that’s what you wanted. The continuous licks and motion of your fingers send Minjeong to her high. Her pussy continued to let juices flow out of her hole, which you licked right up with excitement. She could feel the knots forming inside her stomach and her back beginning to arch more and more with each pump, and each lick.

The poor girl couldn’t hold it in anymore. She was twitching everywhere, the pressure inside of her was begging to overflow and her toes and fingers all curled up in an attempt to resist.

Eventually, she let out the most lewd noise that you had heard yet. “Fuck!” as she came. Her pussy let out thick transparent cum, with such a lewd noise as well. You slurped it all up. It was as sweet as all her other juices. With her hands still on your head Minjeong is breathing heavily and looking at you with surprise as you’re still cleaning her up.

Jaw still open, there is a vague smile on her face.

But she wasn’t satisfied and neither was Winter, especially her. She was here for a reason, to make sure Minjeong’s darkest deepest desire came true. Unfortunately, fortunately for you, it wasn’t simply kissing you, which you have already surpassed by now, and it wasn’t pleasuring you either. It was, to put it simply, to have you cum inside her, but you didn’t know that.

“It’s time for the main course, dear,” Winter said, amused at your little work with her twin.

“What do you mean?” you asked.

“Well, we aren’t done,” she said, giving you a confused glance. She wondered why she even had to explain it, of course, you weren’t finished. “You have to…” with a softer voice, “put it in.”

“Uhhhh…”

Winter smacked her lips. “I can understand why you’d be nervous, but don’t tell you me you don’t want to. After all, you haven’t been this hard throughout this whole… ‘interaction’, and I only mentioned the possibility of fucking her.” She giggled and brushed your shoulder. “Look at you, so excited.”

You turned around to search for Minjeong’s opinion but you could only find her cloudy, drugged eyes. She was mindlessly staring at you, full of lust and desire, her lower lips were slightly twitching at your sight. Goosebumps all over, she didn’t need any more time to recover from her previous orgasm, that was her warmup.

She stretches her arm to grab the back of your neck and pulls you into her lips for a soft kiss. “Please, don’t you want it as well? We have already come so far… I don’t think I’ll have that courage again,” she told you in a weak airy voice.

Minjeong was ready. She was ready to take you.

“Alright,” you decided.

Minjeong’s pussy was already dripping wet, warm, and stretched, waiting for you to come in. The demon on your shoulder was caressing your ear the whole time, whispering words of lewd and temptation, encouraging you to act. 

You grab your penis and inch yourself closer to her already parted legs. You position yourself and after Minjeong’s nod of approval, you start lowering yourself into her, steadily, slowly. You stare at your cock disappearing into her folds. The girl whines helplessly and you groan when your shaft finally enters completely, breaking her lock and burying itself completely inside her.

She moans loudly and instinctively hugs you, searching for support. 

You never forget your first time, they say. The first thrust is always the hardest, it makes you grit your teeth. The first time you feel something so tight and warm. Never in your life have you felt such wetness, your lower body stiffens and you already want to cum.

After breaking her lock, every sort of profanity seeps out of Minjeong’s lips. “Fuck! So… full…!”

It takes time for Minjeong to get used to the burn from the stretch. She could feel your every throb and pulse inside of her, so snug and tight. She quickly gets used to this new feeling and finally finds herself begging you to move. 

You’re being careful, not to push too deep and not hurt her more than necessary. But Minjeong liked it. She wanted to feel you against her cervix, your tip brushing against it, and she pulled you deeper and deeper with every thrust, with her ankles clenched around your hips.

Your mind had already lost it. Reduced to grunts and curses, you only knew to push and pull into her pussy, worshipping the beautiful body of your greatest love with the deep motion of your hips. “You’re amazing, Minjeong. You’re—ugh—incredibly tight,” you said. You wanted to let her know. Your movements still don’t stop and you find it a great feat to let out any words at all.

Minjeong responds with a couple more of her moans. Something the lines of ‘Why did you take so long to finally fuck me like this?’ and you were sure to make up for the lost time.

You switch the pace in a desperate attempt to make yourself last longer. Your hips live her and slam against her again, hard, with glistening slick strings stretching between your and her skin. She’s wet, incredibly wet. Everything is too slow for Minjeong, too slow for how desperate she was but you were doing great. You hit exactly the right spot, that exact spot to drive her crazy. All her past frustrations come back with vengeance, building up in her belly, reaching a crazy strong pressure. 

Minjeong’s screams are almost silent, breaking against her vocal cords. Her body finally succumbs to the insurmountable pressure and pleasure of your penis, and she finally cums. She grips you tightly and roughly pulls you into her body, finding comfort in your warmth and weight.

“It’s okay, let it go…” you murmur against her wet skin.

You gently pull out of her, letting yourself rest against her lips and two fingers on her pulsing clit to help her ride her orgasm out. However, you get the opposite reaction. It might have been the heightened sensitivity from her previous orgasm, or how wound up she had been for this long, but your fingers push her over the limit. Another screech and she’s convulsing again, the pressure building up again, and all of a sudden she’s gushing, spraying your arms, sheet, and wetting your whole body.

Her hips buckled and twitched while streams of squirt poured out of her twitching cunt. Her moans were loud, desperate, and helpless. 

“Oh my god, look at her go,” Winter said with a great smug plastered on her face. “Good job,” she said with an even more seductive tone, “look at your work. Look at how totally drenched the sheets are.”

As she talked, her hand came to wrap your cock. She started to stroke you, slowly, and carefully. It was a strange feeling. You were ready to burst, your penis was rock hard, and you were on the edge. But no matter how much she touched you, you just couldn’t cum, it was a constant edging.

“Mh? Wondering why you can’t cum?” she giggled. “Let’s just say it’s a little magic of mine…” 

She turned around to Minjeong, “And to think you were trying to deny it just moments ago and you came so hard. Fucking slut you are.”

“Shut up,” Minjeong replied weakly. She was still trying to recover from her violent orgasm.

Winter laughed with amusement and let you lie down. “Do you think you’ll make me cum as well? But let me tell you something first: I’m the one in charge.”

Her fingers suddenly clamp tightly on your cock, straighened out, she aligned you and sunk you inside of her. It was a totally different feeling. Way sloppier, way wetter, way tighter. You couldn’t believe they were the same person. It was like her pussy was trying to milk everything out of you, clamping down with a choking grip. 

Winter wastes no time and starts jumping on you, with hard pumps. She knocks the air out of your lungs. It was an aggressively fast pace, paired with her tightness, you were already going to cum. But you couldn’t cum. Winter had you on the palm of your hands. 

“So helpless, I bet you want to cum, don’t you?” she laughed.

“Please slow down,” you begged. 

Soon enough, her hips slow down. She remains glued to you, twisting and moving her hips around, your cock swishing inside her pussy. You could feel every single fold of her pussy, she was inviting you to explore the inside of her body. 

It didn’t last long though. There you go, Winter was pounding you inside of her again, with wild hips. You wondered how could she move that fast, even you couldn’t do it. Your hand was just a tiny bit faster than her, which was extremely impressive. 

Your mind was broken. You had difficulty moaning—the pleasure was spreading all the other parts of your body, your fingers were jittery, you curled your toes, and started salivating. 

“Fuck, finally, that’s good…” she exhaled. Her own pleasure was her goal but it was inevitable that you were going to be broken as well.

She stopped once again. With slow forceful strokes, she got up and smashed herself down. It was intense, you had to admit. 

Letting you cum was an act of compassion. She pulled you out and let you spurt your semen everywhere. You covered her tummy and yourself. You collapsed immediately from the exhaustion. Winter lowered herself and started cleaning you, licking your hypersensitive head, and swiping up all the strings and droplets of cum.

“You did a great job, handsome,” she congratulated you with your cock in her mouth. “Didn’t think you’d last that long without passing out.”

“You’re… you’re crazy,” you said with a faint voice.

“Sure, I’m not even human,” she giggles. “Pull yourself together, handsome. We’re not done yet.”

The Deja Vu makes you stand up. “What do you mean?” Her response is a wet kiss. She swivels her tongue inside of your mouth, playing with your tongue and inside of your mouth. A small peck and you’re hard again. 

“Consider that a little help,” she said.

You feel two hands hugging you from behind. It’s Minjeong. She sounds tired but determined. “I haven’t made you cum yet,” she whispered.

“It’s fine, I don’t—”

“It wasn’t an offer.”

When you look at her, your blood runs cold. Pure lust. Pure desire. Pure libido. Stripped of her innocence, there was nothing different from Minjeong and Winter anymore. Strangely enough, her eyes alone were enough to get you riled up. Seeing her desiring you so much got you in the mood as well.

Again she laid on the bed before you, but there was something different this time. Her eyes were a lot more inviting, needy, and she made it clear as with her two hands, she stretched out her pussy, inviting you in. You watch her pink folds slowly open up, completely drenched and tight. You couldn’t resist such a naughty sight.

You slide yourself inside and it’s heaven all over again. Holding onto your arms, you fucked her hard and deep. With her cunt utterly drenched from the non-stop cumming, every thrust was a loud sloppy mess. Her grip was demanding. Her pussy gripped you tight, with her lips glued onto you, trying their best not to let you slip out.

“Don’t worry about me,” Minjeong said. “You can be as rough as you want…”

You were already exhausted but her words could only fire you up even more. You had lost all control of yourself, you pounded her with desperation. 

Her face was contorted in frowns and grimaces of overstimulated pleasure. You got lost in her eyes. They desired you, they wanted you. 

“Please, please, I need you to cum inside of me.”

Minjeong made herself clear. It wasn’t a request, it was an order. Her legs wrapped around your waist and locked you against her pelvis. She squeezed you, forcing you to go even deeper into her wet pussy. You continued pounding her as much as possible, trying to enjoy your last moments. 

“I’m really gonna cum now,” you warned her.

“Do it,” was all she said.

You couldn’t hold it in. With Minjeong’s nails deep into your skin, her legs tightly locked around your hips, and her lips quivering in your ear with that needy lustful voice of hers: “Please, I want it inside. I want you to cum inside me… please,” you couldn’t do anything else but fulfill her desire.

You grunted as you cum so deep inside her womb.  Minjeong had complete control over you, leaving you with no choice but to release more of your semen into her. Her tight walls eagerly accepted every intense release, filling her with an abundance of creamy fluid. The relentless contractions and pulsations continued as she milked you completely dry, not allowing a single drop to escape. Even after that, you couldn't resist the urge to keep thrusting, pushing your messy and heated load deeper and deeper inside her.

As soon as you pulled away from her warm embrace, Minjeong loosened the tight hold her arms had around you, and sat upright on the bed with her legs spread wide open. You cam so deep inside of her that it took a great effort of pushing and squeezing for your cum to finally pour out of her. With her wet pussy lips on display, you both observed as your cum trickled out of her—a steady stream of white liquid that left a mark on her thighs.

"Wow, you totally filled me up," she inquired, breathing heavily, as she slid a finger into her wet pussy and provocatively licked it clean. “Was that too lewd?” she giggled.

“Yeah, totally,” you responded and laughed with her.

“Don’t you think you’re forgetting someone?” Winter cooed, grabbing your chin. “I think you still got some more juice inside those balls. They don’t look empty to me.”

“Is that fine, Minjeong?” you asked. Unsure. At this point, with your seed inside of her, she probably had some kind of right over you. 

“Oh, what a gentleman you are,” Winter said. “But just so you know, I am not leaving until you fill me up to the brim.”

“If that’s what she wants,” Minjeong sighed. “I don’t want to deal with her anymore.”

“Come on, what are you waiting? Are you gonna cum inside of me or what?”

You don’t want to make her wait any longer. You force Winter’s face down to the mattress. Ass up, hands on her lips, she’s full spread, ready to take you in. One single push and you slip inside. There is no need to warm up again, no need to pick up the pace. Her pussy was already molten and shaped to accommodate your cock perfectly.

You quicken your pace, Minjeong rests with her back fully arched to help you reach her deepest spots. Your cockhead taps against her cervix, arousing you more than it should. 

Your hands kneed her asscheeks with greed. It only turns her on, your lips grip you with fierce. Her hole tightens and twitches as you mistreat her pussy.

Winter laughs and moans with joy. “Oh my god, yes!” She squeals. In a sudden burst of energy, she fucks herself back on your cock. “Come on, give me your cum!”

“Fucking cumslut. You’ll get all of it.”

Your hands grab her waist tightly, pulling her hips right into your crotch. Minjeong plants kisses on your neck and lips, to encourage you. The warmth of her breath itches your ears, causing pleasure to the upper part of your body as well. She surrenders completely to you, allowing you to have your way with her. Or maybe it was the other way around and you were her slave, fucking her just how she wanted. 

You couldn’t let Minjeong standing there. You turn around and give your attention to her breasts. They are just the right size to fondle, and you do so generously upon discovering how sensitive they are. You roughly sick on her nipples, pulling on them with your lips and licking them to make her squirm and whimper. She hugs your head, pleading you to continue. 

“Oh God, it only took you one girl to get this good?” Winter mumbles.

“Fuck!" she swears right after. Just like Minjeong, of course, like her clone, she is a messy squirter. 

Winter’s spurts make a total mess of your room. Her climax is intense and drenches the whole floor. Spurts of squirt shoot out from her hole onto the tiled surface and your body, causing her to grip your shaft so tightly that it completely overwhelmed you and triggers your orgasm as well. Although your moans are embarrassingly loud, they are drowned out by Winter's ecstatic cries.

Her cries are shrill compared to the mature and seductive tone she had blessed you with until now. You don't pullout, you can’t. To do so would be to defy her orders. 

You pour all the rest of your cum inside of her with the assistance of the spasm of her vagina, which milked you till the last drop. It takes you a couple of minutes to recover from the mind-numbing orgasm when you finally pull out to witness your cum rushing out of her pussy.

Winter laughs with satisfaction, laying lifelessly on the bed, her hair disheveled, her body ruined. You lean into Minjeong, who was holding you on for support.

“That was your third load? It was so much,” Winter said. “God, I’m sure would have gotten pregnant if I was human…”

“Wait, what about me?”

The color drained from Minjeong’s face, her smile disappeared as the weight of the situation sank in. The fun and excitement of the moment evaporated, replaced by a sinking feeling of dread. Your hands hands, which had been vigorously grabbing Minjeong’s waist, now clenched nervously. Her heart pounded as they exchanged worried glances.

“Right,” you said. “I- I just came inside of you.”

“What’s gonna happen?” she asked you.

“You might— no, you will definetly get pregnant.”

“Don’t worry guys,” Winter said. “I put a little spell on you, you won’t get pregnant.”

“Really?!” you almost screamed.

“Yeah,” she said.

The tension in the air broke like a popped balloon. You and Minjeong’s shoulders relaxed visibly, and you let out simultaneous sighs of relief. Your hearts, which had been pounding moments ago, began to slow to a normal rhythm. Your clenched hands opened, and a tentative smile returned to your face. Minjeong’s eyes, wide with worry, softened with immense relief.

You glanced at each other, grins spreading as the weight of their fears lifted.

"I really thought I messed up," you said, your voice filled with a mixture of amusement and relief.

Minjeong’s face flushed a deep crimson as she started speaking. “Uhm… and how long does this spell last?”

“Oh my god,” Winter laughed. “You want him to cum inside you again?”

“No! No– I mean…”

“To celebrate you two I’ll make it last a week, just for you two.”

“Oh, thanks…” Minjeong smiled shily.

“Well, my job here is done,” Winter said, standing up on her wobbly legs. You could see the cum still dripping down her legs, with droplets of squirt painting the floor.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” you said.

“Yeah, thank you,” Minjeong repeated after you.

“I had fun guys. Farewell,” she said one last time and disappeared with sparkles falling to the floor. 

Both of you remained still for a few seconds reflecting on what just happened.

Minjeong played with her fingers absentmindedly, her thumb circling around her ring finger. You watched her, your eyes tracing the curve of her hand, the gentle movements of her fingers. The moonlight shined on her skin, her completely naked body. With your lust completely drained, she looked a lot smaller than before.

“Hey,” she said softly, breaking the silence. Her voice was gentle and intimate. “What are we now?”

You looked up, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were trembling. “What are we?” you echoed. It wasn’t a nice conversation with the both of you smelling like sex and sweat, but it was necessary.

She nodded, waiting for your response. “Yes. You and me. What are we?”

“At this point… you already know how I feel about you,” you said. “And I guess I also know how you feel.” You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. “I want us to be together.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes meeting his again. There was a flicker of something there, a spark of understanding. "Boyfriend and girlfriend?" she asked, the words tentative but hopeful.

"Yes," you said, the certainty in your voice surprising even you. It was the first time you were this honest. "Boyfriend and girlfriend."

Minjeong smiled. “Good. I felt the same.”

“Glad we got that out of the way,” you said. “But let’s get cleaned up now.”

Minjeong giggled. “You’re right. Wanna go in together?”

“You… are you not tired?”

“You know, unfortunately, we didn’t get a clone of you to tell me exactly the whole truth about you, so I am not totally convinced… Take my doubt away. Show me how much you really love me.”

THE END

Written, January 5 2024 - June 26 2024

[batsovergotham]

Chapter 9: Echoes of Heartbreak: The Final Goodbye Approaches

"I wonder if Mark is looking at this same moon at this same moment. I like that - connected by light. Angstrom has been fighting against it, trying to keep me all to himself. But it's my turn now, to get what I want. To embrace my family."

Main!Mark Grayson x Psychic! Reader

warnings: depression, mental breakdown, child abuse mentions, manipulation, blood, violence,

w/c: 16k

a/n: cut down this chapter a lot. the next chapter will be.. something alright ><

You’ve stopped checking the time.

The clock across the room displays 4:52 AM in faint blue numerals, but you don’t move to turn it off. You used to try. Used to close your eyes and count backwards, let your breathing slow, pull the covers tight like they’d bind you to this world. But now, every time your lids droop, the lights come quicker. Stronger.

So you sit motionless. Silent. Sleepless. Barely breathing.

Insomnia has been your constant. Your baseline. You don’t even recall the last time you had more than twenty minutes of actual, uninterrupted slumber. And even then, it wasn’t rest. Just a dark, stifling descent into someone else’s memory. Someone else’s life.

You see them. All the other Aces. Or what’s left of them.

Dead in many ways. Broken, twisted, obliterated. Some never made it past childhood. Others survived long enough to fall in love with the same boy you did, only to die with his name on their lips. One was exploited by the GDA until her mind cracked like glass. One burnt out her abilities protecting a planet and crumbled into ash. One, you, pregnant and alone, dying slowly on a cold slab of rock as Mark yelled through a portal too late to save you.

You see all of it. And none of it belongs to you. Except maybe it does.

Because lately… you’re not sure which of these memories are actually yours anymore. They feel the same. They sit in your body the same manner, thrum in your chest like nerves long dead are waking up. You’ll be brushing your teeth when suddenly, you’ll see your own hand covered in blood that isn’t there. Or grab for a drink of water and feel the ghost of a pistol barrel in your mouth.

You’re unraveling. And Mark isn’t here to notice. But he would’ve. If he could. Because he didn’t leave. He didn’t flee, didn’t walk away, didn’t pick Eve or his goal or the Viltrumite name. He was stolen.

You watched it happen.

One second, he was holding your face in his hands. He was saying something stupid, something nice, pleasant, easy. The type of thing he only ever said to you when no one else was present. And suddenly the air behind him ripped.

Not like your gateways.

This one wasn’t created. It simply was. A pristine rip in the fabric of the cosmos, a wound that didn’t bleed light, it bled emptiness. A hush so complete it seemed like a scream.

You didn’t have time to stop it. He reached out for you. You reached back. And suddenly he was gone.

No coordinates. No trace signature. No multiversal tether to trace. Just gone, like he’d never been standing there at all. And you’d collapsed to your knees, hands beating the floor, shouting so hard your neck bled. But nothing came back through.

And nothing has since. You still sense him. That’s the only reason you haven’t fully lost your head. He’s alive.

You’re confident of it, not because of science or proof, but because something in your bones knows. Like gravity. Like breath. Like instinct. You would know if he were dead.

And yet…

That understanding doesn’t stop the loneliness. The agony in your chest that continues increasing like a void devouring your ribs. The grief that doesn’t know how to rest since it’s still waiting for a body. Waiting for a confirmation. A dieu.

And while he’s out there, maybe in pain, maybe caged, maybe alone, you’re here. In the apartment you spent so much time in together. The blankets that still smell like him. The chronology that's gotten increasingly unstable since the day he fled. Because reality doesn’t know how to replace the void he left behind. And neither do you.

You drag yourself out of bed because laying still feels like drowning. Cold feet on colder tile, you make your way to the kitchen, not really sure what you’re searching for. You open a cabinet. Close it. Forget what you desired.

Your hands are shaking. You don’t feel real.

The image of you in the mirror doesn’t look like the girl Mark kissed in the sunlight months ago. Her hair is limp, complexion too pale, eyes ringed crimson and sunken like you’ve been weeping for a hundred years. Like she’s already died a hundred times.

And in a way… maybe you have. The worst aspect isn’t simply that you’re alone. It’s that all the other versions of you? They’re gone. Every one of them. Dead.

Extinguished across the multiverse like candles snuffed out in a storm. You don’t know how or when it happened, only that one morning, the noise became quiet.

You used to sense them. Like whispers. Like background static. Like shadows at the border of your consciousness. But now?

Nothing.

Just you. The last one standing. The lone version of you left.

Whatever stole them didn’t end there. It wanted Mark next. And maybe it got what it wanted.

You grasp the edge of the sink, knuckles white. The metal moans beneath your might. You want to shout. You want to break. You want to open your chest and crawl out of your own flesh only to feel anything different.

Instead, you whisper his name.

“Mark…” Your voice breaks around it. There’s no one to hear.

You don’t know who abducted him. You don’t know why. But you know it wasn’t random. This wasn’t some cosmic accident. Something is seeking the constants. The multiversal strands that anchor existence.

And Mark. Your Mark, is one of them. But you? You’re something different. You’re the only one who recalls every variation of what’s been lost. You’re the final version of yourself spanning every limb of every branch. And it makes you dangerous.

You wipe your face, shoulders straightening inch by inch. You’re fatigued. Broken. Grieving. But you aren’t powerless. And you aren’t done. Because he’s still out there. And if the multiverse wants to eliminate him, then it’s going to have to go through you first.

You're not just going to find him.

You're going to rip reality apart until you do.

There’s a knock at the door. Soft. Hesitant. The type of knock that isn’t actually asking to come in, it’s asking if you can tolerate someone seeing you like this. You don’t answer at first. You simply gaze at the sink, one hand still braced against the counter like it’s the only thing holding you standing.

Another knock.

Then the gentle sound of the door opening, followed by footsteps cushioned by house slippers. The warm, familiar aroma strikes you before the voice does, something herbal. Chamomile with lemon. Debbie’s tea. You hear the delicate clink of ceramic as she lays the cup down on the table. She doesn’t speak straight away. Doesn’t press. Just… waits.

That alone nearly shatters you.

“I brought you something,” she adds after a time, her voice soothing with the type of experienced care only a mother could accomplish. “It’s still hot.”

You glance up. Just barely. Her countenance is tired, her eyes lined with tiredness that echoes your own. She hasn’t been sleeping much either. You both know why. She takes a step forward, gesturing toward the tea. “It might help. You’ve been up three nights straight.”

You try to talk. Try to thank her. But your throat tightens, and the words catch somewhere behind your teeth. Debbie doesn’t chastise you for the stillness. She merely brushes your hair gently off your face and offers the cup, holding it out with both hands.

You take it. Slowly. Your fingertips touch hers and you realize your hands are chilly. Shaking.

“You need to rest,” she adds gently, eyes examining your face. “Not just because you’re tired. But… for you. And for the baby.”

The words hang there. Heavy. You stiffen. Your gaze wanders to the tea, but you don’t sip. She means well. You know she does. But it lands improperly. Too calm. Too typical. Like all of this is doable. Like it’s just sadness and hormones and weariness.

It isn’t.

Your breath hitches. You attempt to keep your tone constant, keep your barriers up, but it slips.

“Rest won’t bring him back.”

Debbie’s lips separate slightly. But she doesn’t interrupt.

You shake your head, tears welling again. God, you’re so tired of sobbing. So weary of holding everything within till it spills out at the worst moments.

“They don’t get it,” you whisper. “None of them do. The Guardians. Cecil. Even Rex, he tries to actlike he knows what I’m going through. But they don’t. They didn’t see the look in his eyes when the portal opened. They didn’t feel it when it closed. Like someone pulled my heart out of my chest.”

Debbie kneels alongside you.

“I felt him disappear, Debbie.” Your voice breaks now, rough. “I still feel him. He’s not gone. Not really. But no one looks at me like that’s genuine. Like it means anything. They basically think I’m losing it. Like I’m too caught up with him to see straight.”

She slips a hand over yours, soft yet forceful. “You’re not losing it.”

You scoff, blinking hard. “Aren’t I? I keep seeing flashes of alternate timelines. Other me’s. All of them dead. All of them wiped like we never mattered. And I’m the last one left. Why me? Why did I survive? Why did he get hauled away and I just got left here?”

Debbie doesn’t have an answer.

She merely holds your hand. And somehow it makes the quiet feel less like a void and more like space to breathe.

You placed the tea down, untouched.

“It’s not just that I love him,” you add after a long pause, your voice softer now, almost delicate. “It’s not that simple. It’s deeper than that. It’s like… we’re linked. I know he’s still out there because he’s part of me. You don’t just lose something like that. It doesn’t just… end.”

Debbie squeezes your hand.

“I know.”

You look to her, astonished. She offers you a watery grin, and there’s something in her eyes, something sad and ancient and knowing.

“I felt that way with Nolan,” she says. “Even after everything. Even after what he did. I still felt him. For better or worse. You don’t suddenly quit feeling someone when your whole life has been attached to theirs.”

You swallow.

“But Mark isn’t his father,” she says firmly. “And you and Mark… it’s different. I see it. The way he looked at you. The way you look at him. You’re not insane. You’re connected.”

Your face crumples before you can stop it. You lunge forward, grasping her hand like a lifeline as your shoulders shiver. She hugs you close, wraps her arms around you like you’re her own daughter, and for the first time in days, you let yourself feel it.

Not only the agony. But the fear. What if you can’t get him back? What if whatever abducted him is stronger than you? What if you’re the only one left who even remembers what it was like to love him?

The tears come hard, hot and quiet. Debbie rocked you softly, caressing your hair, and for a time, you let yourself be little. Just a girl who wants the guy she loves to return home. Just someone concerned that maybe the multiverse has stolen more than it ever intended to return.

And when your sobbing calm and your breathing slows, she stays.

The tea turns cold. The night continues on. But for now, at least, you’re not alone in the dark. The next dawn drags in sluggish and drab.

Sunlight leaks half-heartedly through the blinds, putting your room in a washed-out type of haze. Your limbs are heavy when you wake, eyelids crusted, heart thudding with that dull, tired pain you’ve become used to. You don’t recall when you eventually fell asleep, only that Debbie stayed the night before leaving. Held you like something breakable, something worth protecting.

You feel a bit more human because of her. But it’s short-lived. You’re still sitting on the edge of the bed, tea cold beside you, when he appears. No knock. No announcement. Just there.

Cecil.

His presence sucks the oxygen right out of the room. He’s standing at the doorway, stance straight, hands tucked behind his back, suit coat slung over his shoulders like a warning. His countenance is unreadable, but you know that look. It's his interpretation of a siren blasting. He’s not here to speak. He’s here because something’s wrong.

Your shoulders go tense. “Is there-”

“Have you been in contact with Angstrom Levy?”

The words hit like a slap. Your breath stops, the shame rushing too quickly to bury.

But you handle it. Somehow.

“No,” you reply, too fast.

Lie.

Cecil’s face doesn’t alter. Not really. But you feel the shift in him. The way his jaw tightens. The way his eyes don’t leave yours.

“I’m not here to play twenty questions.”

You swallow hard.

“He’s manipulating you.”

Your lips split like you’re about to protest, but nothing comes out.

“He’s not training you. He’s manipulating you. That’s what people like him do. They put small parts of themselves in your thoughts. Wrap you in words till you forget who you are. Until you forget what you’re capable of.”

“I haven’t-” you start again, but he cuts you off with a swift, practiced step forward.

“I’ve seen what he’s done in other realities. I’ve watched it. And now you’re the only version of yourself remaining. You think it’s coincidence that he’s turning up again now?”

You flinch.

“Mark disappears, the multiverse starts destabilizing, and suddenly Levy slithers out of whatever rock he’s been hiding under just in time to comfort you? To provide guidance? Bullshit.”

You look at the floor, mouth clinched so hard it hurts. Your knuckles are white around the hem of your sleeve.

“He’s not manipulating me.”

Cecil lifts an eyebrow. “No?”

“He’s using me. I know that. I’m not stupid.” Your voice wavers, low but keen. “I’m not under some spell.”

“You sure about that?”

And that’s when it breaks. Your restraint. Your composure. The thing inside you that’s been kept together with duct tape and hope and fragments of Mark’s memories eventually breaks. You glance up, and your eyes are watery. But they’re angry, too.

“That’s already happening,” you remark, voice raspy. “And no one’s helping me stop it.”

He stares at you.

“I’m losing myself, Cecil. Every day. Every minute. I close my eyes and I don’t see me anymore. I see them. I feel them. All the other variants. All the ones that died. All the ones who were wiped or devoured or ruined. I don’t know which ideas are mine and which ones were born in a timeline I’ve never touched.”

You rake your fingers through your hair, tugging at the roots like it’ll ground you, like it’ll keep you from sliding again.

“I’m scared. I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept in days. And the only person who’s looked me in the eye and said, ‘I see what you are, and I know how to anchor you,’ is Levy.”

Your voice cracks. You hate that it fractures.

“But you know what else he says?”

You catch Cecil’s stare dead-on now, and it’s not rebellious. It’s desperate.

“He says Mark is still alive. He thinks he can help me find him. Everyone else has given up. You’re all just waiting for me to ‘move on’ or ‘remain calm’ or keep me locked down like I’m dangerous again. Like I’m slipping.”

Cecil doesn’t talk. But the corner of his mouth tightens.

“I am slipping,” you acknowledge. “But not because of Levy. Not yet. I’m slipping because I’m alone. And every time I look around, the only ones who care more about getting Mark back than monitoring me is Debbie.”

Silence. It stretches long and tight between you. The air is dense with everything unsaid. Finally, Cecil exhales from his nostrils. Slow. Cold.

“I don’t want to lose you, too.”

You blink.

“Mark’s disappearance hit all of us hard. You most of all. But if Levy’s dangling hope in front of you to get what he wants, that’s not salvation. That’s leverage. And I’ve seen what happens when he pulls the threads tight.”

You let out a sour laugh. “You mean you saw it with other versions of me. They’re dead. I’m not.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

He turns to depart, but hesitates at the doorway.

“If he contacts you again, really contacts you, I need to know. Not for your punishment. For your protection. This isn’t just about what you want anymore. It’s about what you are.”

You don’t react. You can’t. Because you already know, Angstrom will contact you again. And next time… you’re not sure you’ll say no. The door snaps shut after Cecil with a finality that is almost theatrical, like he intended you to hear it. Like he wanted it to resonate.

And it does. You don’t move right away. Your whole body is rigid, mouth clenched so hard your teeth ache, your hands curled into fists in the sleeves of your hoodie. You can still sense his presence in the room, lingering like secondhand smoke. Cold. Dry. Clinical. It adheres on your skin.

Outside the window, the sky’s gone wan. Morning pouring into the steady rhythm of existence you’re not a part of anymore. You sit down on the edge of the sofa like it’s muscle memory. Like you’re still pretending to be someone who lives in this space, in this reality. But you don’t. You haven’t in weeks. You gaze down at your hands. The same hands Mark used to kiss when he thought you weren’t looking. The same ones that held him on the hardest night of his life. The ones who wrapped around the edge of that damn portal the second it opened.

The ones that missed.

Your throat tightens again. You put your hand flat against your chest, just over your heart like you’re trying to locate something stable in the rhythm. You’ve done it so many times that it’s automatic. You’re not even sure what you’re wanting to feel anymore. Maybe the tether. Maybe him. You told Cecil the truth, buried under the falsehood. You are slipping. You are losing parts of yourself. But not to Angstrom Levy. Not yet.

You’re losing yourself to the absence. No one truly gets it. Not even Debbie, and she tries, she really does. She sits with you. Brings tea. Lets you cry without turning away. But even she doesn’t grasp the way Mark feels to you. How it was never just a love story. Never just hormones and late-night laughsand hands grasping each other through conflicts you weren’t sure you’d survive.

It was a thread. It still is. You feel it, even now. Pulled tight. Stretched across dimensions. Fading at the edges maybe, but not shattered. Not severed. You were never supposed to be whole without him. You press your face into your hands. The quiet feels loud. Mocking.

Levy warned you about this. About them.

“They’ll try to dull you. Soften you till you forget how keen you used to be.”

And he’s right, isn’t he? Because what has the GDA done since Mark vanished? Restrained you. Monitored you. Told you to relax, to settle down, to wait it out as timelines fracture and bits of you die in places you’ll never reach. Told you not to utilize your powers without approval. As if you’re the threat now. As if mourning loud enough makes you unbalanced.

But Angstrom doesn’t flinch when you talk about the visions. He doesn’t attempt to drug the sadness out of you. He listens. He knows what it feels like to lose every form of something you loved. To be the only one left. Even if his motivations are twisted and selfish and saturated in blood, he sees you in a way no one else has.

And that’s why you lied. Not because you trust him. But because he’s the only one who talks to you like you’re still in control. The communicator is still buried beneath the mattress. One of his customized ones, no trail signature, no audio logs. It hums quietly when you reach for it, like it knows you’re coming. Your thumb lingers above the activation button.

You don’t press it. Not yet. But you hold it. And in that instant, you can almost hear him. Not Mark. Levy. His voice like static under your skin.

“You’re not broken. You’re developing. The world doesn’t want you to notice.”

Maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s manipulation. Maybe you’re too tired to care about the difference. Your head falls back on the couch, and you close your eyes. Not to sleep. You won’t get that privilege. Just to ease your thoughts. Just for a second. And somewhere, hidden behind the buzzing of the communicator, you sense it.

The thread. Taut and vibrating like a violin string. He’s still out there.

And you’ll do anything to bring him back. Even if it means trusting the last person you should. Even if it means violating every commitment you made to yourself.

Because the world already forgot the other versions of you. But you haven’t. And you won’t let it forget him too.

You don’t sleep again.

But this time, it’s not grief that keeps you awake. It’s resolve.

You sit in the dark for hours, gripping the communicator like a lifeline. You don’t even notice your grasp has wounded your palm until the light of dawn starts to seep back into the apartment. The weight of Cecil’s warning pounds at the base of your skull, “He’s manipulating you,” but it feels far away now. Like a recollection from another lifetime. Like someone else’s worry. Because none of them get it.

None of them feel it the way you do. None of them heard the way Mark yelled your name seconds before the portal closed. And if Levy is your only road ahead, then so be it. This isn’t about trust. It never was. This is need. The days blend.

You don't see much of Debbie anymore. Or the others. Not because they’ve done anything wrong. Just because they’re related to before. To your old rhythm. To Mark. And now?

Now there’s this. Angstrom is usually quiet. Always deliberate. Never demanding. He doesn’t press you into anything, just provides suggestions. ‘Try this.’ ‘Focus there.’ ‘Feel what the world does when you want it to change.’

And it does. You start noticing things. The way time bends when you’re upset. The way your ideas push against space like waves in motionless sea. The way you can go into a room and choose the shape of it. Not via brute force. Not by knocking stuff over. Just by thinking.

It terrifies you. But it also thrills you. Because for the first time, you’re not terrified of breaking things. For the first time, you feel like you could build something instead. Angstrom observes you closely through all of it. Never pushing too far. But always present. Always ready with answers you didn’t realize you were asking.

And ultimately, one day, he says.

“Do you know why you’re the only you?”

You glance up from the shattered surface of Mark’s kitchen counter, where your fingertips had just accidently converted stone into vapor for the second time this week. Your powers have become like breath now, ever-present. Ready.

“What do you mean?”

He’s walking slowly, hands clasped behind his back like a professor, serene and inscrutable.

“In every known reality, every version of the multiverse I’ve traveled through, there is always a Mark Grayson. Always a Viltrumite. Always Invincible. But there’s only one version of you that’s alive.”

Your stomach tightens.

“It can’t be possible.”

“Oh, but it is,” he adds, voice subdued now. Too silent. “I’ve looked. I’ve searched through thousands of planets. Realities where Mark is a tyrant. Realities where he’s a martyr. A coward. A god. And in none of them is your mind alive. Not like this.”

You cross your arms. “So what? What does that mean?”

Angstrom draws closer, his words almost reverent.

“It means you’re a Nexus Being. A singularity. A fixed point of reality that doesn't duplicate between timelines. You’re anchored to the multiverse in a manner no one else is.”

You blink, attempting to process.

“I... don’t understand.”

“You will,” he says. “And when you do, you’ll realize why your power feels like it doesn’t fit here, why it never has. Because it doesn’t. Your body is made for one world, but your mind touches them all.”

You gaze at him. And then he adds, almost gently.

“And Mark is the reason.”

Your breath stutters.

He doesn't look away.

“In one of the first realities I crossed, he destroyed entire cities to protect someone he loved. He drew me through one of my own portals. Left me broken. Scarred. Changed. You see the devastation on my body, but you don’t see what he done to everything around him.”

You glance away. He’s twisting something in your chest you don’t want to identify.

“He didn’t mean to,” Angstrom says, “but it doesn’t matter. Good intentions don’t reverse the harm. And you…you were formed in the shadow of terrible catastrophe. You exist because of it. The only you. And if you could see what he’s done, really see, you’d question everything he ever told you.”

You want to dispute. You want to protect him. But your voice catches. Because deep inside, something has shifted. Not simply your power. Not just your body. You. You recall the last time Mark talked to you, right before he went. You were both hurt. Breathless. He’d reached for you, half a smile on his face, and suddenly he was gone.

No farewell. No promise. Just gone. And in the gap he left behind, you’ve become more. And you don’t know what it means yet. But it terrifies you. And it excites you.

Because if what Angstrom claims is true, then your power is the one thing that exists outside the multiverse’s rules. Not because it’s meant to, but because it wasn’t supposed to exist at all.

You sit on the edge of the couch, silent, staring at your hands.

“You think I can find him,” you mumble. “That I can reach him.”

Angstrom nods.

“When you’re ready. But first... you have to stop asking for permission to become what you already are.”

You gaze up at him. And something in you hardens. Because maybe he’s incorrect. Maybe he’s manipulating you. But he’s offering you something no one else could. A path forward. Even if it costs you the recollection of who you used to be. Even if it means seeing Mark, not as your anchor. But as the reason you’re untethered in the first place.

The days stretch on.

One oozes into the next, languid and weird, like time’s become elastic around you. You’re still living out of Mark’s apartment. Still sleeping on his bed. Still wearing his hoodie when the weight in your chest is too big to manage. But the person who used to do that, who curled up at night with anguish wrapped tighter in her lungs than breath, that version of you is fading away.

You don’t grieve her. You don’t have time.

Angstrom’s been coming by every day now, like clockwork. Never through the door. Always across space. He’s never pushy, never loud. His presence isn’t disruptive, but it fills the room. And when he talks, it’s always quiet and delicate, like he knows your boundaries by heart, and he’s treading the edge of them like a tightrope.

Your sessions endure for hours. You never meant for them to. But there’s something about him, about the way he speaks like he’s always five steps ahead, about the way he explains your talents like they were never supposed to be frightening, that keeps you listening.

And when you do? Things change.

You’ve quit making things explode when your emotions surge. Now you can remove a painting off the wall without touching it, then divide it down the middle cleanly, atom by atom. You can bend light across the room to reflect someone else’s face. You can slow time, not for long, not enough to weaponize, but enough to feel it pause beneath your skin.

“You’re not just moving matter,” Angstrom argues, pacing as you float a coffee mug across the flat. “You’re manipulating with reality.”

You gaze at him. “That’s what you think this is?”

“You ask, and it obeys.”

The cup wavers somewhat.

You close your fist, and it disintegrates into fine white dust. You exhale.

“You’re learning,” he adds. “Faster than I expected.”

So is he. You don’t see it at first, but he’s different now, less fragile, less timid. His motions are crisper. His statements more straightforward. You don’t see the fragility you saw when he first arrived, when he said Mark broke him. His spine is straighter today. His ailments don’t delay him anymore. The scars still remain, but you realize one day that they’re no longer cracks. They’re armor.

You’re making him stronger. He never says that. But you know. You’re not stupid. Still… you keep showing up. You keep allowing him in. Because whatever he is, however deadly he could become he’s helping you become, too. And part of you enjoys the person you’re becoming. Even if she terrifies you.

One evening, he pushes you harder than normal.

The air in the flat is distorting. The windows fog. The floor vibrates beneath your feet. You’re standing in the center of the room, eyes closed, arms lifted as you try to compel the universe to fold without breaking.

“Focus,” Angstrom says behind you. “Don’t push. Let it bend. Like water. You don’t punch water. You move through it.”

You grit your teeth. “It’s not working.”

“Because you’re still scared of what happens if it does.”

Your powers pulse wildly at that. The lamp bursts. A picture frame combusts into pieces. You stagger backward, breathing hard, perspiration sticking to your neck.

Angstrom doesn’t flinch. He steps closer.

“You want to bring him back, don’t you?”

You close your eyes.

“Then you have to stop seeing this as something you control. Start seeing it as something you are.”

The space bends slightly, the corners folding in like the margins of a dream. You feel your consciousness stretching outward, too quickly, too broad. You see a flicker of something, red sky, a broken planet, a version of yourself calling out, but it’s gone before you can grasp it. You slump to your knees, breath shallow, heart pounding.

Angstrom kneels alongside you. He doesn’t touch you. But his voice is gentle.

“It’s not just about control. It’s about surrender. You are the spot where realities meet. You are the thread.”

You clench your eyes shut. “I didn’t ask to be this.”

“No. You didn’t. But He created you this.”

You go still.

“Mark shattered me,” Angstrom replies, his voice firm. “And in doing so, he made you. There’s a symmetry about that.”

You shake your head.

“You keep waiting for him to save you,” he adds. “But he’s the reason you need saving in the first place.”

You feel it in your chest, that old aching, that loyalty, that love. The version of Mark who held you through the night. Who murmured ‘I’ve got you’ into your hair. Who vowed he’d always be there. But you also sense the emptiness he left behind. The one he disappeared through without notice. The one you’re still bleeding from. And now? Now you feel your powers whirling about you like a second skin. Reality flexing beneath your touch. And you don’t know what you believe anymore.

You don’t say anything that night. You just stand up. And when Angstrom disappears through space again, you don’t stop him. Because tomorrow? You’ll open the window again. And this time, you want to see what happens when you stop fearing what you are.

The air surrounding you is never still anymore. It hums gently, like something beneath the skin of reality is stirring in reaction to your presence. Your footsteps bounce lightly on hardwood. Lights flash when you pass. Sometimes, you gaze in a mirror and swear the reflection lags by a second, like the world is straining to keep up with who you’re becoming.

You haven’t spoken to Debbie in days. You don’t answer to William’s texts anymore, not because you don’t care, but because you can’t lie to him. Because if you talk to him, he’ll hear it in your voice, the way your trust is crumbling. The way your sadness is shifting shape. The way your love for Mark is no longer enough to mute the questions.

Angstrom is constantly around now. Never in the way. Never demanding. Just there. In the corners. In the silence. In the questions you’re frightened to ask yourself.

“They don’t want you to have this,” he says one morning, seeing you float half the sofa with nothing but a flick of your wrist. “Because they know they can’t control it. And if they can’t manage it, they’ll attempt to eradicate it.”

You say nothing. But you feel it. You’ve felt it ever since the drones started circling the building again. Ever since you caught a signal interceptor curled into the base of the toaster. Ever since a GDA satellite flashed online and didn’t blink off again. You feel watched. Targeted. And now? You don’t ponder if you’re correct. You know.

It starts with the knock.

Two in the morning. You’re half-asleep on the couch, draped in one of Mark’s old blankets, the TV flickering low in the background. You don’t move. You already know who it is.

The knock comes again, heavier this time.

And suddenly the door shatters inward.

They don’t utter a thing.

The first agent rushes for you with a suppression collar already ignited, the sort developed for high-level psychic-class abnormalities. You hardly blink when the collar splits into five pieces mid-air, torn by a surge of unseen energy.

Another agent launches a pulse dart, meant to disturb your neural system.

You turn it mid-air.

It loops once.

Twice.

And then burrows itself in the agent’s thigh.

He goes down screaming.

Your pulse is stable.

Your body moves before thought now. This isn’t fury. It’s not panic.

It’s instinct.

You rise from the couch gently, the world folding about you like a curtain being peeled back.

Your voice is calm.

“I asked you not to treat me like a threat.”

No one listens.

The third agent yells something over his comm,“She’s resisting, we need containment, deploy the drones now-!”

You quiet him without touching him.

He crumples into the wall.

And then the drones arrive.

Six of them, each one armed with sound pulses calibrated precisely to disrupt your power frequency. You feel them before you see them,the high-pitched vibration in your bones, the strain behind your eyelids.

You raise your hand.

They burst like glass under pressure.

And now the room is full of smoke and static, and the walls are quivering, and someone is yelling into a command mic, and you…

You are calm.

Not blank. Not numb. Just… motionless.

At the core of it all.

A storm without sounds.

You exit the building on foot.

Mark’s apartment flames behind you, not from fire, but from pressure. From sheer spatial distortion. The heat has melted the railing. The concrete seems dissolved. The air ripples behind you, strange and electrifying.

Cecil’s voice crackles through a drone behind you, half-melted but still broadcasting.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You stop walking.

Don’t turn around.

“Defending myself.”

“This isn’t you.”

You tilt your head. “You don’t know me.”

“We tried to help you-”

“No,” you reply, voice like stone. “You tried to contain me.”

There’s a pause.

“He wouldn’t have wanted this.”

You freeze.

Your powers respond before you can stop them.

The drone implodes.

Not explodes, implodes. Crushed into a pinprick of space and wiped from view.

Angstrom finds you hours later.

You’re sitting alone in an abandoned lot outside the city, surrounded by the twisted shadows of the struggle. Glass melted into stone. Steel coiled like ribbon. The concrete beneath your feet is still vibrating softly.

You don’t glance at him as he enters into view. But he doesn’t say I told you so. He doesn’t need to. He just sits across from you.

“You were right,” you whisper. “They tried to collar me.”

Angstrom’s face remains inscrutable.

“They’re afraid of what you’re becoming.”

“I’m afraid,” you say, and your voice breaks now. “Because this doesn’t feel like me anymore. Because I don’t know where the line is. Because I don’t know what I’ll become if I keep letting go.”

Angstrom watches you. Then, gently.

“You won’t become something new. You’ll become what you always were, before they taught you to bury it.”

You place a palm to your chest, inhaling raggedly. It still aches.

Not the GDA’s attack.

Not the power blowback.

Just the place where Mark used to be.

“Why am I the only one?” you question. “Why aren’t there other versions of me alive? If I’m this important, why am I alone?”

Angstrom’s eyes glitter in the waning light.

“Because Mark Grayson didn’t just hurt me. He harmed the multiverse. In most futures, your mind, the force you’ve become, cannot survive what he is. But you did. Because this version of Mark gave you just enough affection to become something dangerous.”

You glance up at him, lips parted. And he kneels beside you, voice a whisper now.

“He made you powerful. But I will make you free.”

You close your eyes. And let the rest of your fear sink into the ground. The earth doesn’t stop buzzing anymore. It follows you now, low and deep and persistent, like the earth itself is reacting to your breath. You’ve tried suppressing it, masking it, disguising the wave your presence sends across reality. But it never truly stops.

Angstrom argues it’s because you’re no longer linked with one universe. That you’re beginning to shift, slightly, subtly, between planes. Not entirely. Not yet. But your power is reaching through the surface of the cosmos and contacting something below.

You believe him.

Because no one else has ever known how to explain you.

The gateway opens smoother this time. No huge swell of energy. No glimmer of resistance. Just a calm, continuous fold in space, like part of the planet decided it didn’t belong and slid out of place.

You stride through without hesitation.

The world you enter is… wrong.

Immediately.

There’s no ground. No sky. Just a horizonless expanse of fluctuating light and color, folding and stretching like oil over water. Gravity here doesn’t obey rules. Your feet don’t contact anything solid, but you don’t fall. Your body tries to protest, wants to reject it, but your powers, your real ones, hum beneath your skin like they’ve finally gotten a breath after weeks underwater.

You blink hard, steadying yourself.

Levy is already there. Waiting.

Of course he is.

He’s standing in the heart of it all like this is his home. Like he belongs in these in-between worlds, where nothing makes sense and everything obeys just mind and will.

His look is unreadable. Neither inviting nor aggressive.

Just… watching.

You don’t waste time.

“You said you could help me find him,” you bite out, each syllable hard and decisive. “Start talking.”

Levy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t engage in any huge speech or theatrical flourish like you half-expected him to.

He only nods once.

And motions for you to follow.

He turns, gliding through the twisting space with the assurance of someone who’s spent a thousand lifetimes inside the seams of the universe. You hesitate for a beat, then follow, each stride more instinct than action. You’re not walking, not precisely. The space around you merely bends in the direction of your will. You think about moving and you do.

But it’s wrong.

The air tugs at your flesh. Sounds stretch unnaturally, too long, too thin. Even your heartbeat feels out of rhythm. Like you’re slipping between versions of yourself every time you blink.

You stabilize yourself. Grit your teeth. Keep going.

Because behind all the wrongness… your powers seem clearer.

Sharper.

Like whatever leash reality held on you has loosened, if only by an inch. The buzzing in your bones is louder now. You feel each idea spread forth like sonar.

It makes your head ache.

It makes you feel alive.

“Where are we?” you inquire.

Levy talks without turning. “A nexus fold. Exists between defined timeframes. Think of it as a spinal chord for the multiverse. Fragile, but… informative.”

You don’t answer. Your body is already stiff with questions, but you hold them. You don’t want explanations. You want results.

He pauses unexpectedly. You nearly smash into him.

In front of you is a rip in space.

Not like the one who took Mark. This one is regulated. Contained. A thin slice of wavering light that hisses gently, like the edges are burning just by being.

Levy lifts a hand. The tear pulses in response.

“This,” he replies gently, “is one possibility. Not of where Mark is, but of where he was. A lasting imprint. A shadow of the instant he was taken.”

You inch closer, every cell in your body straining.

You feel it. That same pull from the night he disappeared. The same horrible lurch of the thread reaching out from your chest.

He was here.

Even if just for a breath.

You nearly speak, almost ask what it means, but your voice catches in your throat.

Levy observes you closely.

“There are hundreds of these,” he says. “Flickers. Footprints. We can follow them. But it will take time. And control.”

“I don’t have time,” you snap. “He’s out there alone.”

“And if you rush, you will only lose yourself next.”

That lands. Harder than you anticipate.

You glance away.

“Then teach me,” you respond after a long while. The words taste like iron. “Whatever you have to do, do it. But don’t talk to me like I’m vulnerable. Don’t try to save me from what I already am. I’m not scared of breaking.”

Levy’s eyes flicker, an emotion you can’t quite identify.

“I’m not here to break you,” he continues, voice low. “I’m here to make sure you survive what comes next.”

You don’t trust that. Not really.

But you also don’t care.

Because in this moment, poised between universes with your soul stretched thin, Mark’s imprint warm against your power…

Survival isn’t the goal.

Getting him back is.

And if this place, this man, can help you do it?

Then you’ll bleed for it.

You step forward, closer to the rip.

And for a second, you swear you hear him call your name.

Faint.

Muffled.

You close your eyes and push your fingers against the tear.

“Don’t move,” you whisper. “I’m coming.”

The “ground” moves beneath your feet, yet feet feels like the incorrect term here. You're not walking so much as existing forward, going through a space that doesn’t respect rules, only will. And even that feels loose, like gravity is a suggestion and direction is relative.

Below you, where solidness should be, the void begins to twist.

It isn’t simply light anymore.

It’s memory.

A mosaic, shattered and glowing, threaded together from moments that were never supposed to meet.

You freeze.

Because you see him.

Mark.

Flashes of him.

His lips brushing against yours, cautious and soft, hands holding your jaw like he believed you could vanish if he touched you too harshly. Another flicker, he’s smiling, breathless, hair disheveled by the wind as he lifts you across rooftops simply because he can.

Then

Blood.

So much blood.

Pouring from his side as he crumples in your arms. His lips opens but no sound comes out, and you’re yelling his name like it would fill the emptiness where his voice used to be.

Then it shifts again. Faster this time.

You’re the one who’s gone.

He’s crying, cradling your body. Clutching your hands. Eyes blazing, face split wide in anguish. A version of him you’ve never seen, older, weathered, ruined.

Then another

You’re both laughing, your fingers entangled in bed sheets, sunshine seeping through half-closed drapes. You remember this one. This one is real. Or at least you think it is.

And then

He's screaming again. But this time at you. Screaming for you, eyes wild as another version of you pushes open a doorway too late. You see the tear again, the one that took him. And the second before he’s gone, you see it in his eyes: not fear.

But regret.

You stumble.

“Stop,” you whisper. “I can’t-”

The ground underneath you pulses like a heartbeat. The memories keep moving, quicker now. A kaleidoscope of love and devastation. Of versions of you who held on, and ones who didn’t.

Mark kneeling before you, begs you to stay.

Mark turning away.

Mark kissing someone else.

Mark descending from the sky.

You collapse to your knees.

“Enough.”

Levy’s voice cuts in, crisp and anchoring. “These are echoes,” he replies, walking beside you like he’s been there the whole time. “Flickers of the lives you never lived. Or haven’t lived yet.”

You gaze at him, breath seizing in your throat.

“I…what is this? Why am I seeing this now?”

“Because you’re standing where time doesn’t know what to do with you. In this area, your perspective is free. There are no pasts here. No futures. Only possibility. You bring this with you.”

You attempt to breathe. It shakes. It burns.

“I didn’t ask to see any of this.”

“No one ever does,” he replies simply. “But now you know what’s at stake.”

You tighten your fists, and when you open them, your palms are shining dimly. Your power crackles along your fingertips, more reactive than it’s been in weeks.

“Why does it feel clearer here?” you ask, voice low. “Like I’m finally… awake.”

Levy’s countenance flickers, but he doesn’t answer immediately away.

Instead, he stares out over the shifting mosaic, over the unending dance of you and Mark, loving, fighting, dying, surviving.

“This place has no rules. Which implies the leash you’ve worn your whole life doesn’t exist here. Not the collar. Not the dread. Not their assumptions of who you should be or how much you’re permitted to feel. Here, you’re just you. The version of you your mind has spent years attempting to suppress.”

The words touch something deep in you. Something rough.

You mutter, “Then what happens when I leave?”

He meets your gaze. Calm. Patient. So calculated it’s almost comforting.

“That depends on what version of you walks back out.”

You gaze at him. The implication lands, hard and unmistakable.

He’s not only presenting a method to find Mark.

He’s proposing to change you.

Not only train you. Not only guide you. Rebuild you. Strip away the bits the GDA buried. The soft edges you’ve been advised to chop off. The guilt that’s been weaponized against you since the day you were born.

It should frighten you.

But it doesn’t.

Because when you glance down again, you see him.

Just a flicker. Just for a second.

Mark. Smiling. Alive.

You reach for it.

And this time, the recollection doesn’t go.

It lifts.

Like it’s waiting for you to follow.

“I want him back,” you reply gently.

Levy nods.

“Then we begin.”

The moment lingers, like breath trapped in the interval between lightning and thunder. You’re still looking at the sight of him, at Mark, caught in that delicate half-smile. His hair mussed, his eyes a little fatigued but still glowing in that manner that made you fall for him in the first place.

But it’s not him. Not really. Just an echo. A memory the multiverse hasn’t finished letting go of.

You can’t hold onto it. You can’t anchor yourself in it. You want to. God, you want to. But the minute you reach for it, it flutters, like a fading ember, burning away before your fingertips make touch.

Gone again.

Your heart clenches in your chest.

Angstrom is watching. Not with pity. Not with sadness. With study. Not detached, but… measured. Like he’s tracking how far you’re willing to go. How far you’re already gone.

He speaks without glancing at you.

“You’ll never find him if you keep chasing shadows.”

You turn to him carefully. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

His eyes eventually contact yours.

“Stop looking.”

You blink. The fire in your throat rises again. “You said you could help me find him. I’m not here for subtle analogies, Levy. I need something real.”

“I’m giving it to you,” he continues, calm as ever. “But this isn’t a rescue mission. It’s a retrieval. And the distinction is important.”

You say nothing, teeth locked, arms crossed tight over your chest like you can hold yourself together by force.

He approaches closer, his voice dropping just slightly.

“Sit.”

You hesitate. Then obey.

There’s no ground here, not really, yet you tuck your legs beneath you like there is, balancing in the weightless ether with the calm trembling of someone too sleepy to question weird rites.

“Close your eyes.”

You do.

The air you pull into your lungs is unsteady.

“Forget the images. Forget what you saw. That isn’t him. Not actually. Those are aftershocks. The multiverse’s leftover grief.”

You clench your fists.

“Now,” he adds, softly, like he’s helping you through something fragile, “I want you to feel.”

You’re going to snap at him again, feel what? but something in his tone stops you. You fall quiet.

“Beneath you,” he continues, “there are threads. You won’t see them. Not with your eyes. But they’re there. The cornerstone of every timeline. The connecting fiber of every form of reality that ever existed. And hidden in those threads… is him.”

Your breathing slows.

“Don’t search. Reach.”

The stillness that follows isn’t empty. It hums. You swear you can feel the air vibrating, like the whole area is holding its breath along with you.

So you do what he says.

You reach.

Not with your hands. Not with your voice.

With something deeper. Something… buried.

The same thing you used to grab Mark’s hand before the portal closed, when the universe was tearing itself up and your body was screaming and you couldn’t even think, just feel.

You sink inside.

And there they are.

Threads.

Not literal strings, nor tangible. But you know them. You recognize them like the way you recognize your own reflection in a mirror you haven’t seen in years.

They throb under your skin like veins. All hues, all frequencies, twisting and folding and joining times and people and places that exist and don’t exist, all at once. You feel a thousand versions of yourself ripple over your spine, some flickering out the instant your consciousness brushes them, too weak, too faded, too gone.

And then

One.

One burns hotter than the rest.

It doesn’t shine bright, it aches. A constant, pulsating pulse. Familiar. Constant.

Your breath hitches.

You know the sensation.

Mark.

You lurch forward automatically, but Angstrom’s voice grounds you.

“Don’t pull it. Don’t grip. You’ll snap it.”

You clench your teeth, battling against instinct.

“Let it guide you,” he adds. “It’s not a rope to drag him home. It’s a signal. A lifeline. If you tug, he'll be gone. You must let it come to you.”

You do. Barely.

The tightness behind your eyelids throbs as the thread vibrates, slow and low, like a heartbeat too far away to hear yet close enough to feel. It dances over your hand, tickling the edge of your consciousness like a whisper, like

You hear your name.

Your eyes bolt open.

The space around you is unaffected. Still alien. Still incorrect. But something’s different. Something inside your chest feels like it clicked.

You don’t say anything. You’re still too stunned.

Angstrom sees the look alter on your face, and for the first time since you came, something like… acceptance flickers in his eyes.

“You felt him.”

You nod slowly. “He’s not… close. But he’s there.”

“And now,” Levy continues, placing his hands behind his back, “we follow.”

He turns, starting to walk again, if you can even call it walking in this location.

You stand there a second longer, the ghost of his speech still echoing in your brain.

Your name…

It wasn’t said loud. It said wasn’t desperate.

It was soft.

Like a memory yearning for you.

You place a palm to your chest and follow Angstrom onward.

You don’t trust him.

But now that you’ve touched that thread?

You’d follow it into hell if you had to.

The quiet deepens.

You follow Angstrom across the shattered area between dimensions, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. That thread you touched, it’s still there. Thinner now. But vibrating weakly inside your chest like a string plucked in the dark. It hums to you, low and steady, like it’s waiting.

You know it’s him.

You know it.

Angstrom ceases. His hand raises.

“Don’t speak,” he adds, voice hushed. “Just hold onto the thread. I’ll do the rest.”

You want to inquire what he’s doing. What he’s about to open. What it will cost. But something in his voice stills you.

So you close your eyes again.

You concentrate.

You reach.

And then

Everything disappears.

The air. The light. The pressure in your head. The scentless chill of the between-space. It’s gone.

You’re not standing anymore.

You're just… there.

No floor under you. No sky. Just silence, thick and absolute. And then,

You see him.

You don't know how. You’re not present, not truly. But you sense his form before the vision appears. A presence, subtle and electrifying, cut into your ribs like you were intended to locate him.

He’s seated on the ground, slumped forward. Shoulders bent inward like he’s been carrying weight no one else can see. The area surrounding him is crisp and colorless. A cold, alien world, blasted stone and split sky, silent yet watching. Everything feels odd here. Artificial.

He’s alone.

He’s breathing heavily, like he just completed sprinting. Or battling. His suit is shredded, and there’s a large, terrible bruise across his cheekbone. Blood dried under his jaw. You see the rigidity in the way he moves. The fatigue underlying his stance. He looks like someone who’s been surviving, not living.

Then his eyes raise.

They don’t land on you, how could they? You’re not actually there.

But still, it’s like he knows.

He sits up taller, eyes darting side to side like he’s feeling something just outside his reach. Then he whispers your name.

His voice is cracked. Barely above a whisper. But your whole body responds to it. Like the music alone is enough to bind your soul back together.

He repeats your name like it’s the last thing holding him standing. Like it’s a prayer he’s been repeating every day since he departed. His lips quiver around it.

And for a moment

You’re with him.

No gap between.

Not quite tangible, but felt. The link drawn tight. And your heart expands so rapidly it hurts. You attempt to reach for him. You will your voice into the gap.

“Mark.”

But the second you do it shatters.

The link fractures like fragile glass under strain. A violent, whiplike recoil in your chest. You feel yourself ripped backward, your whole body pushed through unseen layers of time and space. You gasp, choking on breath that shouldn’t be there. The multiverse bends in on itself, color leaking into light, into nothingness.

You strike the earth, or what passes for ground here, with a horrible, sickening thump.

Back in the in-between.

Back in Angstrom’s broken realm.

You’re on your hands and knees, breath ragged, skin cold with perspiration. That tie inside you, his voice, the tether, it’s still there, but muted now. Muffled. Like a memory stuffed into the bottom of a drawer.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

Eventually, you hear Levy’s voice again.

Calm. Measured. But this time… not untouched.

“You reached too far.”

You sit up slowly, your body shaking. “I saw him,” you rasp.

He nods. “You did.”

“I heard him. He said my name.”

“You pulled,” he adds simply. “You got too close. That thread can lead you, but it cannot sustain your weight. Not yet.”

You tighten your jaw. “I had him.”

“You had an impression. A flicker of presence,” he corrects. “That wasn’t contact. That was alignment. And you ruined it attempting to make it more.”

You gaze at him, wrath mounting. “What was I supposed to do? Just watch him suffer and do nothing?”

“Yes,” he says. Unapologetic. “Because that would’ve preserved the link.”

You want to shout. Want to break this place apart till it gives him back to you. But there’s no space for rage here. Not now. You’re too raw. Too cracked open.

“I need to get to him,” you murmur.

“You will.” He studies you. “But not like this. Emotion doesn’t serve you here. Discipline does.”

You bite down hard, glancing away, eyes blazing. The afterimage of Mark’s speech still rings through your ribcage.

He said your name like he missed you.

Like he knew you were reaching for him.

Like he believed you’d find a way.

You place your hand to your chest.

You will.

You have to.

Because no matter how many timelines break

That thread is still holding.

Your knees give out before your brain realizes what’s occurring.

One second you’re trembling, tight with frustration, teeth grit, eyesight blurred, and the next, your body folds like wet paper. You slump forward with a sharp sigh, stopping yourself just barely before your face touches the odd not-floor beneath you.

The air here is different now. Thicker. Pressing into your skin like static cling, like heat from a fever. And your nose starts to bleed. Hot. Sudden. It seeps to the ground beneath you, if you can call it a ground, black-red against the pale sheen.

Your stomach lurches.

You brace both hands down and heave once, hard, yet nothing comes up. Still, the feeling lingers. Your mind is whirling, the world around you too loud and too near. You’ve stretched yourself too far. Something in your mind bent during the interaction. And it hasn’t settled back.

You gasp, shivering, fingers curling on the surreal surface.

There’s no sympathy. No reassuring hand on your back. No whispered you did good.

Just the silent tread of boots, and suddenly Angstrom crouches beside you, even and unmoving.

“Did you see him? Really see him?”

Your voice is hoarse. Barely above a whisper. “I think so.”

He tilts his head. Like a disappointed professor.

“Then next time,” he replies bluntly, “don’t think. Know.”

That cracks something open in you.

The tears come swiftly. Hot. You’re not even sure when they started. They’re not silent either. You sob, forehead pushed to your arm, the cool shimmer of the space below you blurring through the tears. Everything inside you is shaking. From fear, from failure, from pain. From the rage of touching the one person you love and losing him again.

“I can’t-” you choke. “It hurts. I can’t even hang on, I-”

You attempt to breathe, but your lungs feel full. Too full. With everything you didn’t say. Everything you couldn’t. The screaming inside your chest has nowhere to go.

And just when you think you’re about to shatter completely

The space moves.

Everything shifts.

The air around you stutters. You feel it like a heartbeat beneath your teeth. The mirrored fragments that dangle like glass in the great abyss start to tremble. The buzz of the multiverse deepens. Thickens.

You glance up, and your breath catches.

Reality itself starts to fold.

The shimmering bits surrounding you, stationary, drifting like debris, start to whirl. Spin. Refract. And inside them you see…

A room.

Mark’s bedroom. Not the one you last saw him in. The real one. Messy. Posters peeling. A Seance Dog mug on the desk. A hoodie hanging over the bedpost, your hoodie.

It gone in a flash.

Then

White walls. Surgical illumination. The tight buzz of containment fields.

Your former GDA cell.

The collar hurts around your neck even if it’s not there.

Then again, another change. Another tremor.

Soft pink wallpaper. A mobile over a crib. A white rabbit resting on a shelf.

Your nursery.

Your first incarceration.

Each memory bursts like lightning, intimate, impossible. And you’re not just seeing them. You’re feeling them. Every thread of every life you’ve ever lived, every dread, every scream, every awful decision you never got to make, they’re inside you now.

You drop backward onto your knees, breathing fast and shallow, like the whole universe is bearing down on your chest.

“What’s happening?” you ask, voice cracking, hardly a thread of sound.

And then he says it.

Angstrom moves closer, just enough so you can hear the words like a secret.

“You’re not seeing the multiverse,” he murmurs. “You’re becoming it.”

The words struck like thunder in your belly.

Your eyes expand. The throbbing in your skull grows. The reality around you starts to twist toward you instead of away. The shards respond to your emotions now, flashing too rapidly to identify. Your grief. Your fury. Your hope.

You don’t need to hunt for Mark anymore since the *whole multiverse* is starting to resound inside you.

You are the last of yourself. The only surviving variant. And now… all the others are seeping into you. Layer by layer. Emotion by emotion. Every version of you that died is filling you, reattaching like phantom limbs you didn’t realize you missed.

Your voice is a whisper.

“What am I?”

Angstrom doesn’t answer immediately away.

He just stands.

And watches the bits of you swirl like stars.

“You,” he continues slowly, “are the seam between what was and what will be. And if you can endure the pull of that, if you don’t rip yourself apart first, then maybe… just maybe… you’ll be able to bring him home.”

You tremble.

But you don’t fall.

Not again.

You glance up, blood on your lip, tears on your cheeks, strength shaking under your skin like it’s barely holding shape.

And for the first time in weeks

You feel closer.

Closer to him.

Closer to you.

He doesn’t say anything else for a time.

Just turns, and goes forward, into the spinning, unfathomable vastness like it’s a corridor in his own house. And you follow, because there’s nothing else to do. No direction except onward. No road but the one that burns.

The area surrounding you vibrates with tension. Like it’s holding its breath.

You still taste iron in the back of your throat, but the nausea’s disappearing now, replaced by something colder. Not calm. Not yet. But clarity. The thread is still inside you, buzzing faintly, tugging. And whatever Angstrom has planned next, whatever comes after becoming the multiverse, you’re not walking away from it.

Eventually, he slows.

Then ceases.

And you know, before he says anything, that he’s about to do something you won’t like.

He lifts a hand. Twists it.

And the gap spreads outward, like a drop of ink spreading in water. The shards around you still, then bend inward. Closer. Compact.

They form walls.

You feel it before you see it.

That stifling familiarity. The sort that climbs into your lungs and stays. Your heartbeat stutters, and your knees nearly buckle as the universe grows up around you.

Not in bits. Not in bits.

All at once.

You’re standing in that room.

You haven’t been here in years.

White walls. Seamless. Sterile. The subtle hum of fluorescent illumination, mild yet ever-present. A shelf packed with picture books you never got to pick. Floating blocks moving in synchronous orbits, stunningly flawless in their symmetry.

The collar is gone from your neck, but you still feel it. Ghost pressure. Like a phantom limb around your throat. Your hand goes up automatically, rubbing against flesh that’s too exposed.

You take a step forward, sluggish and unbelieving.

Everything is identical.

Down to the uneven thread in the corner of the rug you used to twist between your fingers when you were terrified. Down to the crooked drawing of a butterfly that Dr. Ramirez said you drew, even though you know, you know, you didn’t.

And then you see her.

Yourself. Your child self.

Seven years old. Sitting cross-legged in the far corner. Half-shrouded in gloom, yet still watching you.

Her hands are clasped on her lap. Her expression unreadable. She doesn’t talk. She simply stares. And you gaze back. Like staring at a ghost that never received a funeral.

Your chest tightens so rapidly you gasp. You know this is a simulation. You know it’s Angstrom’s creation. A reconstruction, maybe, from files or fragmented timelines or your own recollection. But it feels too real.

The air smells like disinfectant. The floorboards squeak in the same rhythm they used to. The blocks still drift in slow, quiet loops above where your crib used to be.

“I don’t want to be here,” you gasp. Not to him. Not even to yourself.

But Angstrom hears it. And doesn’t respond.

“This is where it began,” he adds simply, voice free of judgment. “Where they taught you to fear yourself. To contain yourself.”

You tighten your jaw, but you can’t look away from her. The youngster in the corner. Your kid self. The one who never got out. The one who sat in this room day after day, trying to make sense of why the world continued looking at her like a bomb.

“She was made to believe she was dangerous,” Angstrom continues. “That her thoughts were threats. That her instincts were crimes.”

He steps closer. The illumination doesn’t alter. The blocks never stop whirling.

“They told her her emotions were weapons. That her love may kill. That if she wasn’t good, wasn’t quiet, wasn’t small, someone would get hurt.”

You flinch.

“She never had a chance to grow,” he adds. “So you buried her. Deep. You developed a new self on top. One the world would tolerate.”

You put your arms over your torso, since you suddenly feel cold. Your eyes hurt. You’re trembling and you don’t know why because it’s just a room. Just you. But the tiny child in the corner doesn’t blink. Doesn’t talk.

She simply waits. You shake your head. “This isn’t helping.”

Angstrom eventually turns toward you.

“This is the most important step,” he explains. “You cannot become what you are while you're still afraid of where you came from.”

You shut your eyes tight. “You don’t understand.”

“No,” he responds gently. “But I see.”

You don’t answer. The hush extends.

And then softly, like paper crumpling in your chest, you speak.

“She didn’t know what was wrong with her,” you mumble. “She didn’t know why no one would touch her. Why everyone flinched when she smiled. She thought… if she just stayed quiet, if she just kept motionless enough, maybe they’d stop being afraid.”

The girl in the corner tilts her head.

You place a palm to your mouth, attempting to keep your voice steady.

“She just wanted to go home. But they made her believe this was it. That this room was all she deserved.”

The murmur becomes louder. And the tiny child eventually stands. She walks toward you. You don’t move. She pauses only a few feet away, little hands motionless at her sides. You don’t know what to say. So you kneel. You look her in the eye, and for the first time, she blinks. And then she speaks it, quiet, little, but steadfast.

“Are we still in here?”

You don’t mean to cry. But you do. You nod, trembling. And she walks forward, wraps her arms around you. It is like being enveloped by sadness. Like mourning a version of yourself you didn’t realize you missed.

You hug her close. And for the first time, the bricks above you fall. One by one. Silent. And the hum stops. She doesn’t talk.

The younger version of you merely stays there for a little longer, arms at her sides, chin up with that weird stillness you remember too well. It’s the quiet defiance of a youngster who learnt too early not to cry. Who learnt silence was safer than yelling.

She meets your stare like she’s been waiting years for you to really look at her. Not through the prism of shame or fear. Not with pity. But recognition.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe. And then she grins. Just barely. It's not joy. Not even forgiveness. It's understanding. She steps backward, and with no sound at all, her body flickers, just once, before vanishing into a gentle ripple of static, like an old recorder giving up its final frame.

Gone.

You exhale, unsteady and harsh, the stillness in her absence seems louder than when she was there. Your chest feels hollow and filled all at once, pain and calm and bewilderment all washing over one other like waves in your ribcage.

You thought seeing her depart would shatter you. But it doesn’t. It grounds you.

Because now you know she was never just a memory. She was a piece of you, ready to be seen. Waiting to be heard. And now that you’ve finally faced her, finally let her speak, she doesn’t have to torment you longer.

But you’re not free yet. Not even close. Because when you lift your head You’re no longer in the nursery.

You’re alone.

And the room around you is mirrors.

Endless, towering, reaching like glass monoliths into a skyless nothingness. Each one reflects something different, not just your face. Not even your body.

Versions of you. Some standing stationary. Some yelling. Some staring back.

You whirl in a leisurely circle, breath seizing in your throat. One mirror shows you in your GDA uniform, hands quivering, collar around your throat sparking softly with static. Another, your hair longer, skin gray, veins like fissures, eyes flashing white while the world burns behind you.

Another, Mark’s arms around you, your face buried in his shoulder, laughing. Not a nasty mirror. A kind one. It hurts more than the others.

You take a hesitant, quivering step. Then another.

The mirrors react. Their surfaces vibrate. Some stretch, distort. Others flare with light and vanish totally, replaced with fresh sceneries. New variations. Ones you don’t recognize.

You glance into one and envision yourself holding a child, his hair dark, his eyes just like Mark’s.

You stagger back.

Another version advances forward in one of the mirrors. She’s older. Worn. Dressed with battle-worn armor. Her face is harder. She doesn’t appear scared.

You don’t know if you detest her or want to become her.

You start walking again. Fast now. You brush past them, each one a fresh wound, another option, another fate, another life you didn’t pick. The air in the room is electrifying, packed with memories you haven’t lived.

And finally, you stop. There, ahead of you, a mirror just like the rest. But it shows you now. Shaking. Eyes red. Hair matted. Blood still drying beneath your nose. But alive. Not perfect. Not repaired. Real.

You gaze at her, yourself, and for once, the mirror doesn’t alter. Doesn’t flicker. Doesn’t give a better or worse version of the girl standing in front of it.

It just holds you.

Your hand lifts, fingers shaking as they reach the cool glass. For a heartbeat, you anticipate it to break. To turn you away. But it doesn’t. It stays still. Solid. And in the reflection, you see her, just a girl who’s done everything she could to survive.

You touch your palm to the mirror. And the version of you does the same. It’s silent for a long time. Then, gently, almost behind you, Angstrom says.

“You’re ready now.”

You turn. He’s standing just outside the wall of mirrors, hands behind his back, as poised as ever, but there’s something in his eyes now. Something closer to regard.

You don’t talk. You just nod. You turn back to the mirror one last time. The girl inside still appears afraid. Still looks exhausted. But now, she looks like someone becoming.

The quiet holds.

Not cold, not quite, but clinical. Like a place scoured clear of everything human. And maybe that’s what this space actually is. A place for rebuilding, not rehabilitation.

You draw your hand away from the mirror carefully. The version of you inside doesn’t move. She stays immobile, pushed against the glass like she’s waiting to be let out. Or maybe you’re the one who’s confined, and she’s simply observing.

You turn, finally catching Angstrom’s gaze.

He stands at the edge of the mirror room, calm as ever. Distant. Precise. That half-lidded serenity he wears like a second skin never falters. And when he speaks, it’s not a question.

“It’s time.”

Your throat tightens. “For what?”

“The next step,” he continues, as if it should be apparent. “It’s inevitable.”

That word lands in your chest like lead.

Inevitable.

Like a prophecy. Like a phrase you were born with.

You want to ask him what that step is. You want him to explain, to provide you reasoning, control, choice. But he doesn’t.

He traverses the distance between you soundlessly.

You don’t step back.

You’re too exhausted.

His hand raises.

And before you can stop him, before you can ask whether this is going to hurt or if it’ll transform you in ways you can’t undo, he places his fingers to your temple.

The contact is immediate. Cold. Not harsh.

But detached.

Not intimate.

Surgical.

Your breath catches as something surges through you. Not pain, worse than agony. Truth.

Every nerve in your body lights up with recognition you don’t recall earning.

You see everything.

Not in words. Not in thoughts.

In threads.

Every moment you’ve ever lived separates into bits, folding open like the wings of a mechanical bird. You saw your mother’s eyes the instant she learned you were different. You saw your father’s fingers trembling as he touched your cradle. You saw Dr. Ramirez studying you like you were a fault line waiting to split. Cecil, giving you a name and a cage all in the same breath. Mark, gazing at you like you were someone, not anything.

You see all the versions of you that died. All the versions of you who screamed and battled and cracked beneath the weight of this same thing you’re carrying today.

You see yourself from above. Like a map being rebuilt in real time.

And all at once, you grasp what Angstrom meant.

You’re not merely becoming the multiverse.

You’re becoming its tether.

Its remembrance. Its weapon. Its anchor.

You gasp, wobbling beneath the strain of it. Your knees nearly give out again, but he keeps you steady, not with warmth. With purpose.

His hand lingers at your temple as long as it takes.

And then he smiles.

Soft.

Eerie.

Like he’s seeing a flower emerge through fractures in concrete.

He removes his hand.

You feel transformed in a manner you can’t measure.

Like something just fit into place inside you. Or maybe cracked wide open. You’re not sure which is worse.

“You’ve seen the shape of yourself,” he adds. “Now you’ll begin to fill it.”

You breathe. Or attempt to.

Your voice is hoarse when it finally comes out. “You said this wasn’t about reprogramming.”

He nods. “It isn’t.”

“But you just did something to me.”

“No,” he says. “I didn’t do anything.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“I just made you remember.”

You want to dispute. You want to yell at him. But the reality is, he’s correct.

The things you saw weren’t planted.

They were yours.

They were always there.

And that’s what worries you more than anything he could’ve made.

He moves back to the edge of the chamber, hands still clasped securely behind him.

“The work begins now. You’ll rest. Then we’ll train.”

You stand there for a long while, heart thudding in a beat you don’t know. You peek back at the mirrors. They’ve stopped shifting. They’re still.

Every version of you is quiet now.

But watching.

Waiting.

And somewhere, somewhere amid the thrum of fresh strength in your bloodstream, you sense that link again.

Mark.

Still alive.

Still pulling.

You don’t glance at Angstrom when you talk.

“When I’m done,” you add gently, “when I’m ready, he’s the first thing I bring back.”

And Angstrom’s voice drifts back to you like a promise.

“I know.”

It’s too much.

Too quick.

The second Angstrom turns away, something inside you fractures.

You stagger backward, your legs lethargic, muscles slack with overuse. Like you’ve ran a marathon you don’t remember starting. The air in the mirror room begins to shimmer again, only this time, it’s not controlled. It’s writhing, bending at the edges like heat distortion on concrete. You feel the space around you twisting, distorting, resisting your existence now.

Or maybe you're resisting it.

You place a hand to your chest. Your heart isn’t racing, it’s vibrating. Like it’s synchronizing to a frequency your body isn’t used to.

You take a step and the floor wobbles. Not obviously, but in the way your perception stutters. Like your senses are glitching, attempting to adjust for something that doesn’t belong in the world you come from.

You breathe in.

And you

wake up.

Not lightly.

Not safely.

You're lying on your back. Your cheek is crushed against chilly metal. You hear the distant thrum of a hovercraft overhead, the faint drone of city sounds borne by wind.

The ground smells like oil and dust.

You blink hard against the thin light of late afternoon, gazing up at a sky that feels *wrong* in its normality.

It takes a moment to realize where you are.

Not in a facility.

Not in your room.

Not even on a battlefield.

You're on a bench.

A roadside seat immediately outside what looks like the west gate to the GDA training camp. You've sat here before, weeks ago. After your evaluation. Mark waited for you on this bench, legs swinging, his smile twisted, arms outstretched like he already knew you'd pass.

Your fingers twitch.

You sit up slowly, breath shallow, eyes searching your surroundings like someone waking up amid the wreckage of their own house. Everything is fine. The world appears unspoiled.

But you aren’t.

You peek around.

No one's staring. No agents. No guards. Just a few of recruits passing by the training grounds across the lot, sparring in the distance. The usual. No alerts. No sirens. No indication of what just transpired.

You wipe your nose.

No blood.

You examine your reflection in the metal bench arm, smeared with filth, but still yours. Your hair’s matted. Your skin clammy. Your eyes…

You pause.

There's something new there. Something awake.

You pull your arms down, prepared to massage your face, when you see your hands.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Your fingertips are glowing.

Not bright. Not evident. Faint, like veins of light beneath the skin. Silvery, changing threads pulse just under the surface. Soft. Rhythmic. Not visible to anybody else, you’re sure of it. But you see them.

You feel them.

The same threads Angstrom spoke about.

The ones you reached across time with.

The ones you followed to discover him.

You gaze at them, startled. Flex your hands. The brilliance diminishes somewhat, but doesn’t vanish. It feels… connected now. Rooted.

You know, without having confirmation, that this is permanent.

You are not who you were.

Not exactly.

A breeze rushes past the seat, bearing the familiar aroma of the GDA’s oversterilized halls. You close your eyes. For a second, you hear echoes of the mirror room of your infant self. The static. The wave of her disappearing.

You swallow hard and open your eyes again.

There’s no going back.

No faking.

No shrinkage.

You reach into your coat pocket and feel it, the communicator. Still there. Cold. Inert. Silent. You should toss it. Smash it. Walk directly into the GDA and present it to Cecil like a confession.

But you don’t.

Because you’re not finished yet.

You gaze down at your hands one last time. The threads pulse again, warm. Familiar.

One of them hums louder.

Mark.

You can’t describe how you know.

But you do.

You rise slowly from the bench, body hurting like you’ve lived a hundred years in a single hour. You gaze up at the complex. You see the future racing toward you.

And for the first time, you don’t flinch.

You walk forward.

Not because you know what comes next.

But because you’ve already become it.

The days, or maybe hours, since you returned have blended together.

Sleep becomes optional. Hunger, unimportant. Your body has been moving through the motions of what it used to be, but your mind has gone somewhere deeper. Somewhere outdoors. Every time you close your eyes, you feel it, those strands vibrating beneath your skin like a second heartbeat. And every time you touch them, the world around you shifts.

It terrified you, at first.

Not the power.

The ease.

But now, here, with Angstrom monitoring, leading, testing, there’s no space for fear.

Only control.

Only truth.

You're standing in a hollowed simulation room well beneath ground level, one so off-grid even the GDA doesn't know it exists. He constructed it for this. For you. The air is weightless here. Thick with static. Nothing in this space obeys gravity unless you tell it to.

Angstrom stands behind you, arms folded. His voice is calm. Clinical.

“Again.”

You grit your teeth. Sweat clings to your spine. Your lungs burn. But your hands are steady.

You lift them gently, fingers splayed.

The empty space before you folds in like paper folding in flames. Threads of light stretch and bend, knitting themselves into a shape you don’t name, but feel. It’s not simply movement. Not only telekinesis. It’s remaking.

You see it now. The difference between pushing reality and inviting it.

You breathe in.

And the simulation bends.

The entire room tilts without tilting, the air itself rippling like heat off asphalt. You turn your wrist slightly, and time pauses within the fold, dust motes pausing mid-air, the faint whoosh of the chamber's motor locked in a loop, trembling at the borders.

You release.

The energy collapses in on itself, sound surging back like a tsunami smashing into your ears. The floor underneath you steadies. The dust falls. The chamber hums to life again.

You’re shaking.

Not from terror.

From exhilaration.

You turn to Angstrom, your chest rising and sinking swiftly. Your eyes are large, yet clear. Your voice comes out breathless, electric, like lightning attempting to speak.

“I… I understand it now.”

There’s a pause.

Then he smiles.

It’s soft. Measured.

But it doesn’t reach his eyes.

You gaze at him for a second more, heart still racing, perspiration still sticking to your neck. And something about that smile sits the wrong way in your belly. It’s not pride. It’s not satisfaction.

It’s confirmation.

Like a scientist seeing a theory become fact.

Like he knew this would happen all along.

You gaze down at your hands, strands of light still twitching at your fingers like nerves that never learnt to sleep.

You should feel strong.

You do.

But power without grounding is dangerous.

And deep inside, even while the high still buzzes through you, you recall what he said in that mirror room.

‘You’re not viewing the multiverse. You’re becoming it.’

And you wonder now, quietly, whether he’s teaching you to bring Mark back…

Or to bring something else through.

It’s late.

The sun’s gone set, and the city is asleep.

But you’re wide awake, barefoot on the rooftop of an abandoned building just beyond the city’s border, the stars flashing softly overhead, and your skin pulsing with energy that doesn’t belong to this world anymore. Not entirely.

You’ve been practicing with Angstrom for days. Weeks. You’re not even sure how long it’s been, time acts differently around you now. It slides and stretches like wet clay, changing itself every time you reach for it.

He told you this step would be different.

You believed him.

But you didn’t know how much.

You stand alone now.

Arms loose at your sides. Head tilted back. Eyes closed.

And for the first time, you stop trying.

You don’t grasp for the threads.

You become them.

It starts tiny.

The sound around you begins to alter. The night air deepens. The world slows to a crawl, pulse by heartbeat, breath by breath.

You feel it rise from deep inside you, not a flood, not a burst, but a release. Like the final, slow breath before sinking.

And then

The sky fractures.

Not with thunder. Not with lightning.

With you.

A deep, uncanny vibration travels forth from your body, rolling across roofs, into alleyways, over sleeping streets. The city doesn’t tremble, it responds. Lights flicker. Buildings groan. Windows fog over with heat that has no source.

Time bends about you, twisting the air like you’re standing at the heart of a black hole that loves you.

Every atom hears now.

Every law of physics kneels.

And for a time, you are limitless.

You open your eyes, and the stars are moving. They shift with you, constellations bending into shapes you almost recognize, like memories from a life you haven’t lived yet. The structures under you bend slowly, respectfully, like stone dragged to gravity.

You raise your hands.

Space cracks.

Fractures cleanly.

Like glass being ripped open.

A gradual, precise split in the air shows the curvature of another planet behind it, one where the sky burns purple and gravity flips sideways. You don’t mean to open it. You don’t try. It merely responds to your ideas.

Your heart bangs in your chest.

Because you could break it all apart now.

You could reach through. To him. To anything.

But just as the power surges, just as it starts to climb

Something changes.

A shift.

A tug.

You gasp.

Sharp. Sudden. Real.

“...Wait.”

Your voice is hoarse, just above a whisper, yet it cuts through the air like a warning.

Because something is wrong.

The power keeps flowing, but not from you.

Out of you.

A pull.

Like something on the opposite side of the fracture is taking. Like your burst cracked more than just space.

You feel it drain from your fingertips first. Then your chest. Your breath shortens.

You stagger back a step.

“No-” You attempt to close it, to will the fracture shut, but it stays open, shaking. Feeding. Drawing from you like a vein split too wide.

You can’t feel the ground anymore.

Your knees strike something, maybe the rooftop, maybe nothing at all, and your hands rush through the air, attempting to grab threads that no longer respond the way they used to.

They flash.

Unstable.

The tie to Mark, his thread, flickers too.

Your stomach lowers.

Because if this drain continues, if you can’t stop it

You could lose it.

You could lose him.

Your breath hitches. Panic twists in your spine. You feel your strength start to swirl, to grasp desperately for foothold. The world around you begins to shake, not because you’re in control.

Because you’re not.

Then

Footsteps.

Measured.

Familiar.

Angstrom steps into view, emerging from the shattered gap like it was always his to stroll through.

And he’s smiling.

That same grin.

Soft.

Eerie.

And empty.

Like he’s watching a narrative finally reach the chapter he’s waited years for.

You stare up at him, gasping, eyes wild.

“What’s happening to me?”

And he tilts his head, hands behind his back.

“You’ve opened the door,” he adds, softly. “Now you have to decide who walks through it.”

You try to talk. Try to close the rift. Try to resist.

But something else is already reaching back.

The wind picks up, but there’s no weather system.

It’s not air that’s moving, it’s you.

The sky above pulses with a shattered brightness, the stars trapped in a tempest you didn’t create, bending into spirals that make your stomach spin. Time around you ripples again, but this time not at your command. It trembles like something dying, like a building crumbling beneath the weight of usage.

And you feel it. The drain.

It starts at your center, deep in the region where your tie to the cosmos hums. At first, it was simply a tug. A peculiar pull. But now it’s worse. Hungrier. Your breath shortens. Your limbs get heavy. Like your blood is being drained away one heartbeat at a time.

You can’t stop it. Not this. Reality doesn’t settle. It funnels.

The fracture you opened, elegant, clean, beautiful, has become a wound. It’s not only energy pouring from you now. It’s possibility. Potential. The cosmos itself bleeds through you, ripping at the seams of your flesh, and still

Angstrom stands stationary. At the middle of it. Smiling.

The light from your breakdown streams toward him. Your authority. Your inheritance. The essence of everything you’ve become, rushing to him like water down a drain.

He doesn’t lift a hand. He doesn’t chant or demand or lash out. He merely stands in the slipstream of your undoing and sucks it in like air.

“And there it is,” he breathes, voice low and steady, respectful.

The words struck you like ice.

Your knees buckle. You fall hard, palms skidding across the rooftop’s rough surface, bones jolting. Your head swims. Your vision shifts, the buildings around you tilt like they’re caught in a vortex, twisting, pulling downward.

Your fingers quiver. The bright threads that previously responded like extensions of your will are sputtering now, flickering in and out like fading stars.

You glance up at him, jaw slack, the truth sweeping over you with the weight of a thousand falsehoods.

He never wanted you to control it. Not really. Not entirely.

All those weeks of training. The guided sessions. The cautious words of mentoring. The surgical touches and musings and recollections. They weren’t to strengthen you. They were to loosen you.

To open you just wide enough that the multiverse would flow forward. Not a weapon. Not a warrior. You’re a conduit. Your breath catches. You gulp for oxygen like it’ll stop the terror growing in your throat.

“Stop-” you gasp, struggling to stand. “Angstrom, stop.”

His glance flickers down to you. His smile doesn't fade.

“Why would I?”

Your body shakes furiously now, your power battling itself. Your mind is a flooded circuit board, cognition and emotion short-circuiting under the load.

You reach within, desperate. You try to grip the thread, his thread. Mark. But you can’t feel it. He’s slipping. You scream. Not loud. Raw. Like something tearing in your chest. You felt you were the key to rescue him. But you were the door. And Angstrom ? He’s the one who built it. He moves closer, the wind whirling around him like a crown.

“You were never meant to bear it forever,” he murmurs, smooth as silk. “You were just meant to survive it long enough. To make it real.”

“No-” Your voice is softer now, smaller. “You said… you said I was the beginning…”

“And you are.” His tone alters, something harsher sneaking in beneath the serenity. “The beginning of me.”

And then he kneels. Right in front of you. Like a man bowing at the shrine of his own invention.

“I didn’t lie to you. You are the seam. The location where all things intersect. That type of power can’t belong to one person. It needs… direction.”

You flinch, barely holding yourself upright, fingernails pressing into the rooftop like anchors.

“You’re taking it,” you whisper. “You’re taking everything-”

“Only what you’ve been aching to give away.”

His hand climbs gently, brushing just over your sternum, but not touching. Just hovering. Your flesh burns beneath it. The light inside you pushes closer, strands of energy blazing from your breast into his hand.

You can feel it, the unraveling. Not your power. You. Your identity. Your self. Your knees slide again. Your voice shakes.

“Please…”

That’s when the air around you shifts. Not Angstrom’s doing. Not yours. Something else. A pressure beneath the barrier of space. Familiar. Faint. Like a breath in the dark.

And then, one word, not said, but felt. Mark. He’s still out there. Still tethered. Still reaching. And you recall something in the middle of the collapse. This power was never supposed to be shared. But it was always supposed to protect. And if he wants to take it? He’s going to have to kill you first.

Your fingers scrape against the rooftop, nails cracking, blood spilling onto the stone as you try, God, you try, to force yourself up. But your arms shake with every inch, your muscles scarcely reacting. The drain doesn’t stop. It deepens, tugging at more than just power now. You can feel it stretching further, siphoning memory, identity, will.

Your eyesight keeps blurring, whiting out at the corners, but you don’t let it take you. You strain to focus on him, on Angstrom, standing so serene above you. A silhouette backlit by your own disintegration. He seems ethereal in the most horrible manner. The static rising around him bends toward his body like the universe itself is bending to him now.

With your energy, you clench your teeth and pull. Hard. You try to recover your power, try to bring the threads back, will them to obey the way they did before. But they hesitate. They're still yours. You know they are. But they’ve been warped now, diverted fro, pain and manipulation. Like vines bent toward poisoned sunshine.

“Y-You…” you gasp out, voice breaking. Your throat feels dry, like it’s full with smoke. “You said-”

Angstrom doesn’t even blink.

“I said exactly what you needed to hear.”

The words are flat. Merciless. Stripped of all warmth, all pretense. And somehow, that’s worse than if he’d laughed. It’s worse because it validates what you always suspected, he never ever believed in you. He just believed in what you could do for him.

The man who complimented your progress, who told you you were becoming the seam, the connection between every version of yourself, never wanted you entire. He wanted you open.

Exposed.

Harvestable.

You tremble fiercely, your arms giving out again when the wind kicks up, spinning your own loose hair over your face. The strands in your fingertips sputter. You watch them, eyes wide, terror beginning to break beyond your tiredness.

They’re disappearing now. One by one, they fade. You feel yourself disintegrating in ways you can’t even define. Images flit across your mind, memories sliding, dispersing.

Mark, beaming with mustard on his shirt in a food court. Debbie brushing your hair. Your hands trembled as you struggled to learn how to handle a pencil since the GDA never taught you how to write. Nolan holding Oliver with that rare gentleness, asking you if you’d forgive him. Rex teaching you how to play poker. William sneaks you out of HQ just to see fireworks.

Each one flickers. Each one fades.

You choke back a sob. “Stop-”

He doesn’t. He advances closer, that same chilly detachment in his gaze, and you realize something terrifying He’s not angry. He’s not vindictive. This isn’t personal for him. It’s necessary.

“You were always going to burn,” he replies, almost knowingly. “But at least now, your fire means something.”

You spat blood at his feet. “You used me.”

“No.” He tilts his head, almost sorry. “I freed you. From sentiment. From humiliation. From limits. You’ve been burdened by human attachment since the minute you woke up crying in that cot. All this pain, all this trembling, do you believe the cosmos cares for your tears?”

You blink hard, tears streaming now. Not because of the agony, but because somewhere deep down, some part of you believed him. Believed he was unusual. That he saw you. Not simply as a tool, but as a person. As a girl whose powers had always worried her. As someone who wants to do something good with the curse that dictated her life.

You trusted him. Even if you didn’t mean to. Even if you know better.

Your arms droop to your sides. Your chest heaves with exertion. And the light inside you dims further, flickering like a candle in a falling universe.

[rapunzelbro]

A Sacrifice For a Friend Angel Dust x Reader 2

This is super angst sorry not sorry part 3 will be up later in the week or two I decided to switch to story format

Masterlist Taglist

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“WHAT THE FUCK Y/N!” Angel Dust was late. By the time he got to where you were that sick fucks fog pulled you down to who the hell knows where and Angel’s chains appeared before they shattered “Goodbye Angel Cakes, seems like a bitch did actually love you after all..” Valentino just had a smirk, the contract signed with his name, Anthony, suddenly appearing, getting set ablaze as the ashes hit the ground “Enjoy freedom bitch” Valentino disappeared. Angel was just stuck in silence as the tears began to pool up is his eyes “No I no..” he struggled to get his words out, his breathing labored as he slowly begun backing away from the spot you were preciously, staring at the space like he could still see you “this wasn’t- this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen you’re so reckless damn it! You know that right? You just.. you..” his voice was mumbling as it turning into sobs “Why did you leave me Y/n?”

He drank a lot that night, he almost lost all his progress with quitting his drug addiction, he didn’t know what to do. The guilt just consumed him entirely that he just was left questioning why. His room was torn apart out of the frustration he was left in. The rest of the hotel found out about the news later on, they never saw any of the signs of Y/n changing and becoming distant. Part of Husk felt responsible that he didn’t force Y/n to stay at the hotel that night, he knew something was wrong, he knew what stupid shit you’d be willing to do for Angel Dust.

His stubbornness on not getting involved caused all this bullshit to follow through, he didn’t have the heart to tell Angel Dust or any of the hotel. Charlie was the first to go into your room after you were finally gone, the photos on your decorated door remain, ones with you and Angel Dust together, ones you took with the entire hotel. She decided for Angels sake it would be better if she took them down. Entering your room hit her like a rock. It was so empty, like someone was moving out or just moving in, It was nothing like how you had it before. The once pink and glamorous room that resembled a lot of Angels room, was bleak dull and boring. That alone broke Charlie’s heart to see the progress even if it was a little, go away. She remembers when you first arrived how you said you weren’t going to be here long so why the fuck should you decorate? You said you were going to jump here and there, but that’s before you met Angel Dust. You two spent the last two weeks decorating your room to perfection, you were always next to each other and there for each other, she remembers when you first made your decision to stay and try to be redeemed. She had such a proud smile and had a cake in celebration, that was captured in the photograph that once was on your door. But now you were just gone. She could only worry about Angel Dust and how she had to be strong for his sake.

Angel didn’t leave his room for days and that’s when Husk went to investigate, he wanted to give him time but if he didn’t come out soon he wasn’t sure what would happen. He didn’t knock, he just opened the door to see multiple bottles of liquor on the ground, he’d lie if he said he wasn’t relieved there wasn’t any drugs in that mix, he didn’t want to see him go that far down. Angel was just on his bed with Fat Nuggets cuddles up to him, as he just laid there silent. “Angel” Husk started before Angel visibly tensed up “The fuck do you want? Haven’t you heard of knocking” he didn’t bother to look at him, he didn’t want to look at anyone. “You’ve been up here for two days, what the fuck I want, is to make sure you’re okay” Husk replied annoyed crossing his arms looking at his silhouette. Angel didn’t respond to him for a while but Husk remained in place waiting for whenever he is ready “Why… why did Y/n do it Husk? Please tell me.. why would they do this..” Angel weakly said, trying to not break out sobbing again “Angel I wish I had the answer to that, but you knew how crazy Y/n could be, they said it once before at the bar, they would risk their life for those they loved. Y/n did just that..” Husk tried to explain before Angel jerked up glaring at the man “I never asked them to! Do you remember me ever fucking saying that shit!” He yelled, startling Fat Nuggets who jumped off the bed and retreated elsewhere “No but they knew you wanted out. Y/n was the one who took care of you and knew the most. Y/n’s room still has their stuff in it.. I didn’t know if you wanted in there but if you wanted to go through her remainings you can.. there’s food downstairs if you decide to head down there” Husk left after that and Angel just sat up wiping his tears standing up and going into the mirror. God he looked like shit, he would be caught dead if anyone saw him like this under his contract with Valentino, but now he doesn’t have to worry about it. He doesn’t have to worry about coming home bloody and bruised. It still didn’t make any sense to him why you did what you did. He left the room after trying to fix his appearance, he didn’t care as much right now as he went to your room. His heart ached more the closer he got to your room, he didn’t see the photos there anymore, the ones with the hotel all together and the ones with him and you. When he opened the door he instantly started sobbing when he saw your stuff in boxes and the once lively room looking absolutely lifeless. He tried to look through the boxes but it only caused him to break down more. He didn’t know if his heart would ever recover..

Angel Dust tag list: @vendetta-ari @brithedemonspawn @satansmanager @storydays @saturnhas82moons @zamadness @fizziepopangel

[written-with-clouds]

I Found Love (Where It Wasn't Supposed To Be) Pt. 2

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen/ Rhaenyra's Daughter!Reader

Summary: You and Aemond had always been close, even after he lost his eye and your mom moved your family to Dragonstone. What will happen when your grandsire dies and Aegon takes the throne from your mother? Will you and Aemond be able to stay together? Or will family drive you apart?

Authors Note: Cross posted on AO3, Aemond and Reader are of legal age during all spicy scenes.

CW: Uncle/Niece, Secret Relationship, Minor Character is badly injured

Part 1 Part 3

You stand alongside your brothers, watching as your mother and Daemon burn your dead-born sister. Joffrey clings to your legs, unsure of the sadness that permeates the air, and you pet a hand soothingly through his mop of brown hair. A few stray tears running down your cheeks. 

The wind carries the sound of armored footsteps approaching. You turn, seeing a lone Kingsguard, not one of your own, carefully approaching your mother where she stands atop a small rocky hill. He bends the knee before her, holding out your late grandsire’s crown.

“I swear to ward the Queen, with all my strength… and give my blood for hers.” The Kingsguard starts, Daemon approaches him, taking the crown from his hands, as he continues. “I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.”

 You hold your breath, watching as Daemon slowly returns to your mother and gently places the crown upon her head. He kneels before her and you watch as the other inhabitants of Dragonstone follow, kneeling down before her in a show of fealty. You and your brothers follow suit, bowing your heads to your mother.

The next days go by in a blur. Jace is sent north to secure the support of House Stark and the Eyrie, Luke sent to Storm’s End. Rhaenys leaves on Meleys, to patrol over the barrier made to cut off all sea trade to King’s Landing. Beala patrols over Dragonstone with her sister, Rhaena, on their dragons. 

You, on the other hand, are left to watch your youngest brothers. You spend your days trying to entertain a seven year old Joffery, corral a four year old Aegon III, and keep a two year old Viserys II from eating loose stone. And even with the help of the wetnurses and maids, it is a daunting task. 

During the night, your mind wanders to Aemond. At first you were angry, fuming, at the fact that he could stand aside and let his brother usurp the throne. That he would then, in turn, ask you to leave your own family behind. Then, you were sad. You would sit in your bed night after night and reread all of the letters he had sent you over the years. From the beginning, when you had first moved to Dragonstone. When he had first asked to meet with you in private, in the very same spot you had just days ago said goodbye to him. To the few letters he had sent in the days following your last meeting. 

Meet me at the island, please. I need to see you one last time. 

I waited for you. I will wait again tonight. Please come.

I am to leave King's Landing tomorrow, please meet with me tonight. Kostilus, ñuha jorrāelagon, (Please, my love,). I will be waiting, as always.

I leave today. Avy jorrāelan (I love you)

Luke was the first of your brothers to return. 

He had been badly burned. The right side of his body had taken the brunt of it, the skin peeling and red. Arrax was only slightly better, his wings and scales singed and ash covered. Luke’s screams echoed throughout the whole of Dragonstone as the Maester’s worked to help him. After hours of listening to him cry and scream, you had had enough. 

You walked along the coastline, fighting to keep your composure. In the end, it was a losing battle. You screamed, chucking rocks into the ocean and kicking sand around until you exhausted yourself. Collapsing to the ground, you wailed. For you or for Luke, you couldn’t tell. You cried for what must have been hours, every frustration and tension leaving your body. Over time you tired, curling into yourself, your eyes drifting closed.

You woke up in your room, laying overtop the blankets of your bed, still clothed for the day. Glancing outside you could see that night had long taken over, the sky filled with a crescent moon and glittering stars.

“You’re awake,” you turn to find your mother sitting in a lounge chair by the hearth. Rhaenyra stands, walking over to you and placing the back of her hand against your forehead. “Are you feeling alright, darling? We hadn’t seen you for hours and then Ser Erryk had carried you inside. He said he found you on the shore, asleep and trembling.” Her voice was laced with worry. 

“I went for a walk to get some fresh air and grew tired.. I must have fallen asleep.” You say, “I’m sorry to have worried you.” 

She sits next to you on the bed, pulling you against her in a hug and petting your hair. “It’s alright darling, I’m just happy you're safe.” The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the night. 

Rhaenyra speaking breaks the silence. At first, you don't realize she had asked you a question. But when she repeats herself, your blood runs cold. 

“You were close with your uncle Aemond… weren’t you?” You pull back from her, sitting up to look at your mother. 

“Why do you ask?” You inquire, heart beating loudly in your chest. 

“In truth, I’ve noticed that something has changed in you. I had no hope of knowing what it was without you telling me and had long resigned myself to not knowing… until tonight.” Your mother paused, standing from your bed and walking over to the small table next to the lounge she had been resting on. Your heart beats impossibly louder inside you as she picks up the letters Aemond had sent you. You had forgotten to put them away. “I read some of them… it’s nice.. that you had formed a good relationship with your uncle. You are perhaps the only one of us that could…” 

You watch as she measures her next words, thinking over the best way to say them. 

“But, I hope you will understand that this cannot and will not continue.” 

You stand abruptly, “What! Why? Because of Aegon? Because of this fight between you and Queen Alicent?” 

“Not just that dear.” She walks over to you, running her hands down your arms and grabbing your hands gently, “It’s–“ 

Interrupting her, pull your hands out of her grasp, walk out onto the balcony, and cross your arms over your chest. Turning to face her as she follows you, “It’s what? I need a reason, an explanation. A good one, not just some excuse about who his family is.”

“Aemond is the one responsible for Luke’s pain,” she says calmly. 

Whatever anger you held in that moment shattered. “He… n-no.. you’re lying! He may have had his problems with Luke when they were children.. but he’d never give that sort of command! Aemond wouldn’t do that!” You wrap your arms around yourself as you begin to pace. “It isn’t true,” you whisper as if trying to comfort yourself. 

Your mother stands in place, watching your inner battle. Her expression shows nothing but sympathy as she speaks again, “He didn’t just command it, dear..” Her words are gentle. 

You abruptly stop, facing away from your mother. “You don’t– He didn’t–“ you struggle to find the words, tears clouding your vision. 

“He… Aemond was the one to burn Luke.” Your mother’s words are drowned out by the ringing that fills your ears. Letting out a sharp cry, you drop to your knees sobbing. You jerk away from your mothers touch when she tries to console you with a hand placed on your shoulder. “Leave.” You whisper, crying into your hands. You listen as Rhaenyra’s footsteps recede and the door to your room opens and closes.

You didn’t leave your room for days… maybe even a full week. Servants brought food to you, even if most of it didn’t remain in your stomach. Most days you didn’t dress, remaining in your sleepwear and staring blankly out across the sea. When you weren’t transfixed on the water, you were sat at your desk. You wrote what must have been dozens of short letters, none of which would ever be sent. 

How could you?

Did your hatred for Luke outweigh your love for me?

Why did you do it? 

I hate you. 

I’ll never forgive you. 

I still love you.

It’s when Jace returns from the North that you finally decide to leave the safety of your room. Dressed for the first time in days, you join the council to welcome your brother, much to your mothers surprise. 

“Welcome home, Prince Jacaerys.” Your mother spoke warmly. “What news do you bring us?” 

Your brother bowed his head in greeting, one hand resting over top the hilt of his sword. “The Lady Jeyne Arryn has pledged her support to you. In return, she requests a dragon be sent for protection.” 

Your mother nods approvingly, “and the North?” 

“Lord Cregan Stark has promised two thousand men…” Jace hesitates slightly, glancing to you and then to your mother. 

“Does he request something in return?” You ask.

He nods, answering. “Yes, He asks for (Y/N)’s hand in marriage.” 

Your eyes widen and you watch your mother. Nothing in her expression gives away what she is thinking as she replies with a gentle, “Please send a raven North. Let Lord Stark know we will accept the terms of his offer.” 

“What?” You say loudly, “Mother you can’t be serious!” 

“We need to secure-“ Your mother starts, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“-Secure all the support we can.” You finish for her. “I know. But marrying me off to someone… a stranger at that? Sending me North? You’re okay with that?!” 

She sighs deeply, placing her hand against the table. “Give us the room.” At her words, everyone in the room left. All but you and Jace, who hovered by the door, unsure of what to do. “Jacaerys, you may leave as well… go get cleaned up. Visit your brother.”

“Mother I–“ You start to say. After the door thuds shut behind your brother.

Rhaenyra shushes you, standing and walking over to you. Her jaw is clenched as she takes your hands in hers. Exhaling sharply through her nose and closing her eyes briefly to gather her thoughts. “I don’t want to send you away. I don’t want you to be seen as a prize or bargaining chip.” She reaches up to cup your face, “You are my daughter.. My first born… But I have to make choices I don’t want to make.” 

Her voice cracks and you can see a tear fall down her cheek. Your brow furrows as you step away from her, shaking your head in disbelief. “No…” you say softly, almost in a whisper. 

“We need the men,” She follows after you carefully, like you’re a wild animal that she is trying to tame. “The Starks are good people… they’re loyal and just… you’ll be safe there… protected.” 

“But I won’t be happy.” You spit. 

“You don’t know that..” Your mother bargains. 

“I will be miserable. I will be nothing more than a trophy won in a war. A bargaining chip. A piece of the puzzle. A pawn in your game to move as you wish!” You scream at her. 

She eyes you sympathetically, her expression holding nothing but pity. She sighs deeply before calling for Ser Erryk. “Take her to her room. She is not to leave Dragonstone until I have given explicit permission. I want one guard posted outside her door and her dragon is to be supervised at all hours. She goes nowhere without a guard or me. Am I understood?”

“Mother–“

“Yes, My lady.” Ser Erryk grabs your arm firmly, not enough to hurt but enough that you can’t twist out of it. He escorts you back to your room. Muttering a quiet apology before shutting the door.

You spent the next week pacing in your room. Throwing things against the door while screaming until your throat was raw. At first, your mother would try to visit only to be turned away with insults or ignored completely. Jace would sit with after night had fallen and update you on Luke’s recovery. The only happiness you felt was in hearing that Luke was fine. He would scar, but otherwise be okay. Even his walking was expected to recover nearly completely over time. These conversations were possibly the only reason you hadn’t gone insane. 

On the seventh day of your confinement, you overheard the guards outside your door speaking with each other. 

“How long do you think this’ll continue? I’m gettin’ bored of standin’ outside a door for hours.” One whispered. 

“Not much longer I think,” There was a long pause where all you could hear was the slight shifting of metal. “I heard that Lord Stark is sailin’ here to claim his prize.” The second guard jokes, groaning after what sounds like he got hit in the stomach. 

“Don’t speak about the Princess like that.. she could hear ya.” The first guard whisper-yells. 

At the mention of Stark, you paled. Your heart stuttered and your breathing increased. Stepping away from the door you rushed out to the balcony, hands gripping the short stone wall so hard you cut your hand in a few places. You can’t feel the pain though, as you struggle to catch your breath. Tears cloud your vision for the thousandth time in the past three weeks. Slumping to the floor as your legs give out, you draw them towards your chest. Wrapping your arms around them tightly. 

You sit there, gulp down whatever air you can for what feels like forever. You distantly hear a knock at your door. And another when you don’t answer. A few moments pass silently before the sound of a door opening startles you. You quickly push yourself backwards, attempting to hide within the shadows of the setting sun. Fearing that Lord Stark was closer than you assumed, that he had arrived at Dragonstone to take you. 

Instead, in the archway leading to your balcony stood Luke. He walked with wooden crutches to support his weight and he had bandages adorning his right leg and most of his right arm. He carefully made his way to you. Unable to crouch or kneel, he leans back against the short wall. 

Looking at you with concern and confusion, “What’s wrong.. am I so horribly disfigured that you hide from me?” He tries to joke. Hoping to lighten the mood and set you at ease.

You don’t move, only lifting your head to meet his eyes. “I can’t stay here…” you whisper, it’s barely audible over the breeze that passes through. When Luke doesn’t respond you speak again, “I need to leave… please Luke, I need help.. I can’t be forced into a marriage.. please– please help me..” you beg. 

Luke considers you for a moment, deep in thought, before he speaks again. Sighing loudly, “Fine…” he says finally. “Tonight, after the guards last check, tie your sheets together and anchor them to the balcony. Climb down them and get to the shore line on the far east, there is a small boat tied to some rocks. No one will see you with how dark it gets, and by the time they do you’ll be gone.” 

You take in his words, committing them to memory, before standing slowly. “Thank you, Luke..” You hug him, mindful of his wounds. 

By the time Luke leaves your room, the sun has set completely and the moon is visible. As he leaves, you thank him one last time and ask how he knew of the boat. Luke simply turns to look at you over his shoulder and mutters a quiet, 

“I have my secrets like everyone else.”

The moon was at its highest by the time you reached King’s Landing. You pulled the hood of your cloak over your head to conceal your face as you carefully walked through the streets. 

Quietly you slinked through hidden hallways of the Red Keep, following the same winding path you have for years. Stopping only once you stood in front of the familiar backing to a painting. You strained your ears, listening for movement in the room on the other side of the painting. When you heard nothing after several minutes, you slowly pushed the painting away from the wall and climbed out into the room. Before you can put the painting back into place, you’re shoved against the wall with a dagger placed at your throat. 

“I thought you’d be happy to see me..” You joke weakly. The dagger hits the floor with a loud clink and your hood is yanked off of your head. Hands grip your biceps tightly, as if afraid that you’ll run the second their grip loosens. 

“Is it– Are you really here?” Aemond whispers into the space between you. He isn’t wearing his eyepatch, the sapphire gem reflecting the light from the fireplace. 

You reach a hand up and gently trace along his scar, just as you had so many times in the past. You give him a small smile as tears well up in your eyes like they had so many times these past weeks. Although, unlike the other tears you’ve shed, these are tears of joy. 

“I’m here…” you reassure Aemond, resting your forehead against his. “I’ve missed you..”

Aemond breathes a sigh, his shoulders slumping as he relaxes. His hands move from your biceps, one cupping the side of your face and neck while the other rests against your hip. The two of you stand in silence, enjoying the peace of being near each other. Of being in the other's embrace. 

“I wrote to you…” he whispered.

“I know.” You respond equally as quiet. “I wrote many responses.. and even more questions… none of which I could bring myself to send.” 

Aemond took a shuddering breath, pulling back to look you in the eye. He cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs rubbing against your cheeks, “I’m sorry… about Luke, I– I didn’t mean to hurt him…” 

You shush him, bring your hands to rest on his forearms. “I believe you,”

He swallows, Adams apple bobbing, carefully asking “Did– is Luke… dead?” 

You’re shaking your head no before he finishes his question. “Luke is alive and healing. He will be fine.” 

Aemond nods. It’s a small, barely there, movement that had you not been so close to him you wouldn’t have seen it. 

As silence falls over the two of you once again, you gently remove his hands from your face. Releasing them only to remove your cloak. You grab one of Aemond’s hands and guide him to his bed, softly instructing him to lay down. You climb into the bed after him, curling up alongside his body with your head resting against his chest. He holds you against him with an arm around your back that rests on your hip. His other hand lays flat against his stomach. 

“Why did you come here?” Aemond asks. You can hear his heart beating against his chest, a dead giveaway to how unsure he is. “Why return to me? When I waited for you… I was sure I’d never see you again..” 

“I needed to leave…” you say simply. Your hand traces nonsense along his torso and over the back of his hand. “Dragonstone was becoming a prison…” 

You feel Aemond tense beside you. “What do you mean?” He asks carefully. 

You sigh deeply, “While my eldest brothers were off on their dragons, securing allies for our mother, I was stuck on Dragonstone babysitting my youngest brothers…” as if he can sense your hesitation in continuing, Aemond squeezes your arm reassuringly. “When Luke returned… my mother practically doubled the workload of the guards. Especially those that protected my brothers and I.. it was all very suffocating.” 

“And this caused you to leave?” He asked carefully. You shifted in his arms, propping yourself up on one elbow. 

“Yes… but not just that…” You trail off again, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. 

Aemond watched you worriedly as you swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat. “What is it, Issa jorrāelagon (my love)? What happened?”

“Lord Cregan Stark asked for my hand in marriage… and in return, he promised two thousand men. My mother accepted and, when I refused, she locked me inside my room.” Your jaw clenched as anger welled inside you, Aemond’s arm tightening around your waist. “I sat there for a week… trapped and miserable, with guards outside my door and under my balcony all day and all night. I could do nothing but sit and wait. When I heard that Lord Stark would soon be arriving.. I decided, for sure, that I needed to leave.. funny enough, it was Luke who helped.. whether or not he knew of us I couldn’t say…”

Aemond was quiet for a moment. Taking in what you had experienced, the fact that your own mother would do this surprised him. He expected it from his own mother… but he always assumed yours cared more for her children than Alicent. “What matters is that you are here now. And I will not let you go again.” Another beat of silence. “Marry me, Issa jorrāelagon (my love).” 

You breathe out a quick laugh gazing down at Aemond. “That alone would start a war, Aemond… our families would never allow it…”

“Then we won’t tell them.” He sits up hastily, nearly knocking his forehead against yours in the process. “We can leave. Leave Kings Landing… leave Dragonstone.. hells, even lease Westeros if need be.”

“Aemond–“ he continues to speak, cutting you off.

“We can start a new life together.. just us, our dragons… maybe a kid or two somewhere down the line..” 

“I–I would really like that..” you say, smiling dreamily as you imagine it. “We should leave soon.. they’ll notice I’m gone come sunrise..” 

“Then we will leave before that..” Aemond guides you to lay back against the bed, smirking as he kisses along your jaw.

“We should leave now.. no one is awake… no one would notice.” You whisper. You gasp as he licks along your neck. Your skin heats up from the warmth of his breath as he sucks against your pulse point, likely leaving a mark. You feel him hum a ‘no’ against your skin as he continues to kiss gently along your neck and collarbone. “Aemond~” you drawl. 

Stopping his assault on your neck, he lifts up to meet your gaze, “We will leave… as soon as I’ve had a taste of you..” 

Aemond returns his attention to your neck as his hands work deftly to remove your dress. The feel of the soft fabric sliding down and off of your body elicits goosebumps and the chill of the room hitting your skin causes you to shiver. Aemond kisses every newly exposed part of flesh, marking his way down your body. Sitting back in his heels, he tugs the dress off of your legs and tosses it aside. Your underwear follows suit. 

“This feels a little one sided,” you joke, looking through half lidded eyes. 

He simply laughs to himself, tugging his own shirt up over his head and tossing it to join your dress. His pants follow soon after along with his underwear. Quirking an eyebrow he smirks at you, “Better, issa jorrāelagon (my dear)?” He teases. 

Aemond hooks his arms under each of your thighs as he makes himself comfortable between them. He lays his hands flat against your stomach and gently kisses your inner thigh. You watch with bated breath as he sticks out his tongue and runs it through your folds. The tip barely manages to push inside you before it is removed again. He groans against you, the vibrations causing your hips to stutter. Aemonds hands held you in place, trapped against him as he devoured you like a starved man. 

“Aemond! Fuck.. oh gods, it feels good!” You moan. Despite the hold he has on you, your hips manage to grind against him with small circular motions. One hand fists the sheets below you as the other tangles into his hair. 

Aemond lifts his head to look at you, licking his lips before saying, “Nyke jorrāelagon se sylutegon hen ao, issa dōna (I love the taste of you, my sweet),” One of his hands shifts down so that his thumb lays overtop your clit. You gasp as he begins to circle his thumb around it. “It’s sweet and far more addictive than any wine in the whole of Westeros.” 

Your breath catches on a moan as Aemond continues to ravish you. He thrusts his tongue into you as far as it will go while his thumb quickly works over your sensitive clit. You writhe against him as you bring your hand up to cup your breast, flicking and pulling at your nipple. Your eyes shut as your head falls back against the pillows, back arching, as two fingers join his tongue. His fingers curl inside you, coaxing moans and shuddering gasps from your mouth. Heat pools in the bottom of your stomach as your climax rapidly approaches, Aemonds name falling from your lips like a prayer, begging for more. His tongue and fingers working in earnest as you writhe against him feverishly. The hand in his hair gripping and anchoring him against you. Your thighs tremble on either side of his head as your orgasm explodes through you. Your eyes rolling back and head falling limply to the side with a drawn out moan flowing from your mouth. 

Aemond works you through your climax, thumb gently rubbing over your clit as his tongue and fingers slowly continue to stretch your entrance. It isn’t until you’re whining and struggling against him from overstimulation, that he stops and pulls back. Making a show of sucking his fingers, soaked with your release, into his mouth and moaning around them before pulling them out with a pop. 

He looks over your body, skin glistening in the candle light. His eyes darken and he smiles. You meet his gaze as he crawls up the length of your body and captures your lips with his own. You moan into him, your tongues dancing against each other and you can taste yourself on him. Your arms wrap around his middle, hooking up to rake your nails down his back. You smirk into the kiss, hearing his sharp intake of breath and feeling his muscles spasm under your hands. You break the kiss, pulling his bottom lip with your teeth gently. He growls, chasing after your lips. You smile, chuckling lightly at his failed attempts to recapture your lips as you turn your face away from him. You position your mouth next to his ear, biting the lobe gently.

“Nyke jorrāelagon ao isse issa, sir (I need you in me, now).” You whisper into his ear before licking the shell of it. “Kostilus gaomagon daor mazverdagon issa umbagon (Please do not make me wait).” 

Aemond shifts above you reaching a hand down and running it through your folds before quickly fisting his cock, using your arousal to slick himself. He guides his length to your entrance, prodding against you. “Skorkydoso kostagon nyke vestragon daor skori ao epagon sīr sȳrī (How can I say no when you ask so well)?” 

Slowly, He pushes in. “You’re doing so well, issa jorrāelagon (my love).” Aemond praises. He runs his hands soothingly over your body, trying to help you relax as you adjust to his size. “You’re taking me so well… sīr vok (so perfect)... made just for me,” He groans, bottoming out inside you. 

He remains still, placing kisses against your shoulders, your jaw, your temple, any part of you his mouth could reach. Whispering praises into your ear and against your mouth as he kisses you softly. 

After a few moments of his gentle kisses and featherlight caresses, you shift your hips against him. “You- you can move now…” 

Aemond sets a slow pace. Languidly thrusting into you as he continued to kiss the exposed skin of your neck and shoulder. Your hands roam over the expanse of his torso, feeling the muscles shift under your touch with each roll of his hips. You move a hand up to cup the side of Aemond’s face, pulling him to you. You lightly press your lips to his scar before kissing his lips. Pulling away from the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours. His forearms, placed on either side of your head, support him as the two of you enjoy the feel of being so closely entwined. You roll your hips to meet his with every thrust in, moaning as you feel him sink deeper into you. 

As Aemonds arms tire, he repositions the two of you. He now lays behind you with his arms wrapped around your torso as he rocks into you from behind. In this position Aemond can freely run his hands over your body. One hand coming down to work over your clit, matching the speed of his thrusts. You cant your hips back against him as best you can, growing closer to release and seeking out more pleasure. The sound of Aemond’s breathy groans next to your ear only spurring you on. 

Aemond finishes first, hips stuttering as he releases inside you. His breath is hot on the back of your neck as he groans before panting against you. You follow soon after, climaxing around his cock as his hand still works over your clit. As your body relaxes into his, Aemond pulls out. 

He untangles himself from you, standing from the bed with a hushed promise of returning as your whine. When he does return, it’s with a rag and sleepwear. Aemond gently cleans his spend from between your legs before cleaning himself off. He tosses the rag into a wicker basket, quickly dresses himself and then helps your sluggish body into the garments. Finally, he climbs back into the bed behind you, pulling a blanket up over your bodies. 

You turn to face Aemond, tucking yourself against him as he wraps his arms around you once again. He kisses your forehead, whispering promises of the future you two will have. “Rest for now, issa jorrāelagon (my love), We’ll leave soon.” He whispered to you, his own eye feeling heavy. It wasn’t long until you both had drifted off to a peaceful sleep.

You stir slightly at the sound of a door opening and armored footsteps rushing into the room. In your sleep dreary state, you think nothing of it. Snuggling back against Aemond. 

It isn’t until you are being forcefully pulled from the bed that you comprehend that something is wrong. You scream and thrash against the man that is holding you, kicking your feet wildly and twisting your body to try and loosen his grip. The man's grip remains secure throughout your flailing, and eventually you give up.

Aemond is on his feet in seconds, dagger in hand, as he watches the men that had entered his room. Kings Guards. He scowls, taking notice of the several fully armored guards now standing in around him. His gaze shoots to where you stand when he hears you whimper. Shackles had been placed tightly around your wrists. Aemond starts to walk towards you, but is stopped by two Kings Guards as they each grab an arm. He fights against them, trying to pull his arms free only to stop at the sound of heels entering the room. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Aemond snarls, fighting against the guards' hold. 

“She is a traitor to the crown.” Queen Alicent responds calmly, her hands clasped in front of her. “We have it in good faith that she is here to either spy or harm the king and his family. Neither are risks I am willing to take.” 

“She is of no concern to you.” He manages to free one arm, “She will not harm anyone here, you have my word, mother. Let her go. She will leave Kingslanding and not return. This need not go any farther.” Aemond bargains, pleading with his mother with more emotion than Queen Alicent had seen from him. 

Queen Alicent considers her son for a moment, watching as his gaze shifts to yours. His eye softening as he tries to reassure you silently. The hand he had pulled free twitching at his side as if fighting to not reach for you. She turns her gaze to you, shaking slightly in fear but trying not to show it. Your eyes, wide as a doe, never leaving Aemond’s as you take in rapid breaths. 

“Take her to the dungeons,” She spoke authoritatively. 

“No!” Aemond roars, fighting harder against the guards trying to restrain him. 

“Aemond!” You say, panicking as the guards force you out of the room. Aemond yells, just barely managing to free his second arm before a guard punches him in the stomach. He doubles over with a groan, coughing roughly. 

Queen Alicent calmly walks over to him and places her hand against his cheek. “This is for the better, my dear. This will pass with time.” She quietly says before turning and leaving the room. The guards release Aemond and he drops to the floor. 

When the door to his room shuts, he slowly stands. Grabbing the nearest object, a vase of black and gold, he throws it as hard as he can. It smashes against the far wall of his room, shattering to pieces before it can even touch the ground. Aemond continues his rampage until there is no part of his room left untouched by his rage. Until he sees something laying on the floor.

Stopping dead in his tracks as he goes to smash another object, there on the floor lays your dress. Discarded carelessly earlier in the night, when Aemond still held you in his arms. 

The object clatters to the floor as Aemond follows, his knees giving out beneath him. Gently and with more care than he has ever shown to anyone but you, he lifts the garment in his hands. Bringing it to his face, he inhales. He can still smell your perfume, the hints of rose intertwining with the scent of ash wood from Dragonstone. 

Silent tears soak the fabric as Aemond cries, still holding the garment to him. He never thought himself a religious man, but in that moment, Aemond prayed. He prayed, to any god that would listen or care, for your safety. And that you would return to him.

Aemond stood on shaky legs and walked to his bed, uncaring in shards of glass cut his feet. He lay on top of his sheets, curled around your dress protectively. Aemond remains there, on the bed, crying silently until he is unable to keep his eye open.

Part 1 Part 3

[duhshereadz]

A revision of Ekko and Jinx’s ending because I think we all know they deserved to be together:

Ekko stood amidst the ruins of what once was, the matchstick trembling in his fingers. He stared at the paper—a ghost of the girl he used to know, the girl he had lost. Jinx. Gone. He’d told himself he’d moved on, but it was a lie. He hadn’t. He couldn’t.

The flame consumed the edge of the paper, curling it inward. The drawing burned slowly, and for a moment, it felt like everything burned with it—his memories, his hope, his guilt.

As the embers died and he let the ashes drift from his palm, a voice, soft and unnervingly familiar, pierced the stillness.

"That’s not how you should say goodbye to someone."

Ekko froze, his breath catching. His blood turned to ice, then fire, as he whirled around. She stood there, bathed in the dim light of the city’s chaos, her hair wild and vivid, her expression caught somewhere between a smirk and sorrow.

“Jinx?” he breathed, disbelief cracking his voice.

Her eyes, that eerie, unnatural pink, softened for just a second. “The one and only.”

For a moment, he could only stare, his heart pounding against his ribs. Every emotion he’d buried clawed its way to the surface—grief, rage, joy, confusion. He stepped closer, his hands clenching and unclenching. “You’re alive?” His voice was barely above a whisper. “Vi said—she told me you were dead.”

“She needed to think that,” Jinx replied, her voice quiet, almost fragile. “It had to stay that way. For her. For everyone.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Ekko snapped, anger flashing in his eyes. “She thinks she failed you! She thinks you’re gone because of her. Hell, I—” He broke off, running a hand through his hair. “You let us believe you were dead? Why?”

Jinx’s gaze flickered, her smile fading. “Because I couldn’t stay. Not after everything. Not after Silco. Powder died a long time ago, Ekko. And Jinx... Jinx doesn’t fit in their world. She never did.”

“That’s bullshit!” Ekko shot back, his voice breaking. “You could’ve come back. We would’ve found a way.”

She shook her head, her laugh bitter and sharp. “No, you wouldn’t. You all deserve to be happy. Vi, Cait, you... You deserve a future without me screwing it up.” Her voice wavered as she added, “You’re better without me.”

Ekko stared at her, his chest tightening. “You think disappearing fixes anything? You think leaving makes it hurt less? You don’t get to decide that for us, Jinx!”

Her breath hitched, and for a second, the mask cracked. “I had to. Don’t you get it? I destroy everything I touch. Vi... Silco... even you, Ekko. The last thing I wanted was to ruin you too.”

“You didn’t ruin me,” he said, his voice dropping, softer now. “You’re not a bomb waiting to go off, Jinx. You’re—you’re just hurt. And maybe we all failed you, but that doesn’t mean you had to run.”

The words hung heavy between them, both of them locked in the weight of their shared history. She shifted uncomfortably, wrapping her arms around herself like she was bracing for impact. “I didn’t run. I left so you wouldn’t have to watch me fall apart.”

Ekko stepped closer, his voice a raw whisper. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve fought for you. I—I still would.”

Jinx’s eyes flickered up to meet his, something trembling and uncertain in her gaze. “You’re an idiot, Ekko.”

“Yeah,” he said, his lips quirking into a sad smile. “Guess I always was when it came to you.”

She looked down, her voice cracking. “You shouldn’t have to carry me anymore.”

“I’m not letting you go,” Ekko said firmly. “Not again.”

For a moment, she didn’t move, didn’t speak. And then, slowly, her arms dropped to her sides, and she stepped forward, closing the space between them. Ekko felt her hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. He wrapped his arms around her instinctively, holding her tight, like if he let go, she’d vanish all over again.

“I missed you,” she whispered into his shoulder. “More than anything.”

He swallowed hard, his voice shaking. “You don’t get to say that and walk away again, Jinx. You don’t.”

She pulled back, just enough to look at him, her fingers brushing his cheek. “I can’t stay here, Ekko. Not in Zaun. Not with everything I’ve done.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

Her eyes widened, panic flickering across her face. “Ekko—no. This is my mess.”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted, his voice steady. “I’m not losing you again. Wherever you’re going, I’m going too.”

Jinx hesitated, her breath hitching. For once, the chaos in her eyes seemed to still. “You’d really leave everything behind? The Firelights? Zaun?”

“You’re worth it,” he said simply.

For a moment, all she could do was stare at him. And then, slowly, her lips quirked into a fragile smile, and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his.

“You’re so stupid, Little Man,” she murmured.

“And you’re still impossible,” he replied, a faint chuckle breaking through the tension.

She kissed him then, fierce and messy and desperate, like it was both a promise and an apology. When they broke apart, her hand lingered on his cheek, her thumb brushing his skin.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s go.”

And together, they turned toward the shadows, leaving the ruins of their past behind.

[mattsobvimyfav]

roommates (matthew sturniolo)

the final.

It had been four years since that chaotic, heartbreaking day. Four years since Charlie and I had stormed out of the dorms, and left behind Matt, Chris, and Nick and that entire chapter of our lives.

In the years that followed, the little fame we had garnered from appearing in the triplets’ videos became a stepping stone for something much bigger. Charlie and I threw ourselves into creating content, documenting everything from our college experiences to our spontaneous adventures, and even sharing vulnerable moments about personal growth and moving on.

The hard work paid off. Our YouTube channel blew up, amassing millions of subscribers. On TikTok, we were even bigger, By the time we graduated college three months ago, we had become well-known influencers in our own right, working with major brands and having multiple other influencers collabing with us.

But through all of that, there had been one rule we both followed without question: we didn’t speak about the triplets. Ever.

At first, fans flooded our comments asking about them. There were edits of Matt and me, of Charlie and Chris. Some even romanticized our fallout. But over time, the questions faded as our own content overshadowed the past. For over a year, there hadn’t been a single mention of them on our platforms.

In those four years, I rebuilt myself. I learned to let go of the hurt, piece by piece. And now, I was happy. I even had a boyfriend, Leonard, who I’d been dating for eight months. He wasn’t flashy or overly romantic, but he was dependable, and kind. He grounded me in a way I didn’t think anyone could after Matt.

Today, Leonard had helped us load our bags into my car before kissing me goodbye. Charlie and I were heading to the airport, about to embark on a new chapter of our lives in Los Angeles. We’d been offered incredible opportunities to work with major brands, collaborate with influencers, and expand our content. We’d also decided to live together, finding comfort in the bond that had carried us through so much.

As The uber drove us to the airport, Charlie was buzzing with excitement, scrolling through Pinterest for decor ideas. “What do you think about a gallery wall in the living room?” she asked, turning the phone to show me.

I smiled, glancing at her briefly. “I love it. Just don’t let me handle the measurements this time. Remember the disaster with the string lights?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I still can’t believe you used duct tape.”

We pulled into the airport parking lot, and for a moment, the reality of what we were doing hit me. This wasn’t just a trip. This was the start of something huge, a completely new life.

As we grabbed our bags and made our way to the terminal, Charlie grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly. “Can you believe we’re doing this?”

I looked at her, my best friend who had been through everything with me, and nodded. “I can’t believe we made it here.”

Four years ago, I thought I’d lost everything. But now, as we boarded the plane to Los Angeles, I realized I hadn’t lost anything that truly mattered. Charlie and I had built something incredible out of the ashes, and this was just the beginning.

A week into our trip to LA, Charlie and I stood outside a beautiful two-story blue house on a quiet, tree-lined street. The kind of street where you could hear birds in the morning. It wasn’t overly fancy, but it had charm, and as soon as we saw it, we knew. This was the one.

The house had a wrap-around porch with white railing, The blue siding gleamed under the California sun, and there were flower boxes under the windows, some with blooming plants that added pops of color. It was perfect.

“I can already see it,” Charlie said, her eyes sparkling as she stood on the porch. “Us sitting out here, sipping coffee in the mornings. You editing videos, me thinking of video ideas… This is it.”

I smiled, looking up at the house, trying to picture what our lives would look like here. It was hard to believe how far we’d come. From two broken heart eighteen year old girls to traveling across the country to start fresh, this felt like the reward for every hard decision we’d made.

Inside, the house was just as inviting. Hardwood floors, big windows that let in so much light it felt like you were outside, and a kitchen with just enough character to feel homey without being outdated. There were two bedrooms upstairs—one for each of us—and a small extra room we immediately decided would be our “creative space.”

As the real estate agent handed us the paperwork to sign, Charlie nudged me with her elbow. “You sure about this?”

I nodded, a grin spreading across my face. “This is ours.”

By the time we walked out with the keys, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange. Charlie unlocked the door, pushing it open dramatically and yelling, “Welcome home, baby!”

We laughed, running inside like kids, already talking about where we’d put our furniture and how we’d decorate for Halloween.

That night, as we sat on the floor eating takeout in our empty living room, it hit me. This wasn’t just a house; it was a new beginning. A place for us to grow, dream, and finally let go of the pieces of the past we’d been holding onto.

“This is gonna be good,” Charlie said, raising her smirnoff bottle in a toast.

“To us,” I replied, clinking mine against hers.

As Charlie and I sat cross-legged on the living room floor, laughing over our plans for the house, a sudden knock at the door startled us. We both froze, exchanging wide-eyed glances.

“Who could it be?” Charlie whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Maybe the real estate agent forgot something?” I suggested, though my stomach churned with unease.

We stood up, the mood shifting instantly from lighthearted to tense. Slowly, I made my way to the door, Charlie right behind me. My hand hesitated on the knob for just a second before I turned it and pulled the door open.

My heart stopped.

Standing on the other side of the door, looking older but all too familiar, were Matt, Chris, and Nick.

Matt’s eyes met mine first, his expression dropped, Chris looked like he was trying to form words but couldn’t, and Nick mouth was hanging open.

“Y/N”-

ROOMATES SEQUEL OUT NOW CHECK MASTERLIST

a/n- THANK YOU ALL SOOO MUCH FOR THE SUPPORT ON THIS SERIES I LOVE YOU ALL🩷 ITS BEEN A FUN RIDE

tag-

@ch0llies @namelesssav @christmastreecake @mattsturnii @larnieboox88 @izzylovesmatt @tbfaptbfae @2muchofaslvt @sturnioloshottiekay @rockstarchr1s @simply-a-simper @realuvrrr @sophia-77n @christophersstar @mattscore

[pokeshippingweek]

POKESHIPPING WEEK 2024!

It's that time again, pokeshippers!

Last year, we announced that the format of Pokeshipping Week - one theme per day - was getting retired. We also said that we'd still put on a celebration of some kind going forward. Well, the time is here, and I'm happy to announce that we are planning a pokeshipping zine...next year!

If you'll forgive the bait-and-switch there, we have seriously talked about doing a zine, but time got away from us this summer. So, while we do hope to tackle that undertaking in 2025, for this year, we're planning what you might call an open Pokeshipping Week!

How does it work, you ask? Simple: over the years, you all have submitted a lot of potential themes for Pokeshipping Week. For every seven that got chosen each year, plenty were left behind. Well, now you can fill November 1 to 7 with art, fics, AMVs, GIFs, graphics, etc., all about our favorite Poke-couple, using any seven you'd like from the unused themes list.

Any and all contributions are welcome, and if they're tagged #pokeshipping week 2024, we'll reblog them here and on the main @pokeshipping blog. Besides Tumblr, we’ll keep our eyes out for the tag on Twitter and DeviantART for artwork, for fanfics on FF.Net and AO3, and for AMVs on YouTube (no NSFW, please).

The full list of unused themes (from years 2020 through 2023) is below the "Read More" break. Use, combine, and create as your heart desires, and we'll see you November 1!

A bad fight A day in the life  A never-ending road A ship full of shippers Alola sunset scene Amusement park Anime characters meet their game/manga counterparts Anniversary Art classes together/Drawing each other Ash and Misty in Sinnoh Ash’s hat Avatar: The Last Airbender AU Birthdays  Breakup Cameran Palace ball (as in Movie 8) Celebrating Celebrities Champions/Masters  Cheerleader Misty Childhood sweethearts Chocolate Comfort during a natural disaster Comforting each other Competition Confiding in one another Cooking disaster Costumes Criminal/Detective Crossover Crossover with game/manga-verse D&D Dealing with Team Rocket’s teasing in “A Scare in the Air” Dewpider/Araquanid Different hairstyle Disaster dates  Disney AU Double dating Elder years  Elders Ash and Misty Evolution Fairy tales/Fantasy AU Fankids Fireworks First day on the job Food Fortune-telling/foresight Game of Thrones AU Giving advice to a younger generation Grey hair Gym leader Ash/beginner Misty Halloween/horror/ghost story Hanahaki disease Handkerchief Happily Ever After/Fairy Tales Hiding Hogwarts AU Horizons Hot tub/Hot springs If Ash heard Misty’s Song If Ash or Misty weren’t from Kanto If Ash started his journey at 16 or older If Ash’s journey had ended after winning the Indigo League (in season 1) If Misty caught Lapras If one came from another region If their parents met If they didn’t meet on Ash’s first day In-universe Pokéshippers Intimacy Japanese-style confessional love letter JRPG AU (ie, Final Fantasy, Dragon Quest, Monster Hunter, etc.) Karaoke Ladybug and Chat Noir Last goodbyes Learning a different language Lost Pikachu Love Letter  Love triangle Lovers across the multiverse Lovestruck (if Ash acted like Brock) Meeting the parents/relatives Mewtwo Strikes Back alternate ending Misty and other Pokégirls discuss their loved ones together Misty meets Goh and Chloe Misty overcoming her fear of Bug-types Misty the coordinator Misty’s Bug-type phobia Mixtape/playlist  Mystery dungeon Nervous Ash  Never have I ever Other Pokemon games AU (Detective Pikachu/Pokemon Masters/etc) Out of their element  Overprotective Misty  Perspective of Oak Ranch Pokémon on their relationship Photo shoot Pirates Plot twist Pokemon daycare Pokémon Mystery Dungeon AU PokéNav communication/Video calling Possessed/evil Misty Pregnancy/Birth Pro-gamers Puberty Reappearance of Ash’s father and/or Misty’s parents Regency Era Romance  Return to Orange Islands Romeo and Juliet Sci-fi AU Scuba diving Secret identity/superhero AU Slow Slumber party Spies AU Stargazing Studio Ghibli AU Sunshine and Rain  Superhero AU Swimming lessons Sygna suits Tabletop RPG AU Taller (height differences)  Tauros ranchers Ash and Misty Time capsule Training together Umbrella Vacation Visiting Oak’s ranch  Water and electricity/water and fire What if Ash didn’t take Misty’s bike? Yoga together Z-ring/Mega Stone

[moosesarecute]

Chapter 5: The Shadow to my Flame

Masterlist

Series masterlist

Before she left, Ashe went to her room to pick up a few things.

Firstly, she needed to write a letter.

Ashe had always learned that correspondence should be written as beautifully as possible and with carefully thought through words. This was the opposite of that.

They are planning on moving soldiers to the town closet to the Forest House tomorrow to set the “correct example” for the rest of the High Lords on the ball.

They know the Night Court have been snooping around, be careful.

I NEED HELP.

I need to get someone out. Please, help me. I’ll send him over the border to Summer, please make sure he’ll be okay. His name is Thord.

The second thing she did was packing a bag. She put in all the money she owned, her blanket and some food. She didn’t own much more, so that would have to be enough.

After that, she almost stormed out to get through the ID-sone as quickly as possible.

“ID?”

She handed him her card.

“Leave approval?”

She handed him that too.

He spent about three minutes looking back and forth between her papers and Ashe.

“What are you doing that needed approval for a night away?”

“All the information is on my leave approval.”

She started to become angry. The worry and anxiety were so big that it made her other feelings unstable.

“I need you to tell me.”

She took a quick breath and spoke quickly.

“An elderly friend of mine needed me to help her feed her animals today. I forgot about it until this evening, but my leave got approved and I really don’t want to disappoint my friend.”

The guard looked at her for a while longer, but he eventually let her go and she winnowed.

“What are you doing here?” Samli was the one that opened the door. She immediately grabbed Ashe by the arm and pulled her inside.

“Where is Thord? Have you gotten him out?”

Samli’s eyes grew in both worry and gratitude. She then shook her head, and Thord came out of the living room.

“Hello, love. What are you doing here?”

His cheerful voice was now grave. It was obvious that the two mates were in the middle of saying goodbye. Both of their eyes were red and watery.

Thord gave her a small hug, but it didn’t have the smoothing effect his hugs usually had.

“We need to get you out of here. The soldiers are moving here tomorrow.”

Thord had now moved over and was embracing Samli. She held onto his arm and leaned her head to his chest. They were soaking up all the time they could.

“We have no way of getting him out of here without getting caught. And we have no money for him to live off if we got him out,” Samli said. “We are staying together until the end.”

In one way, it was beautiful. In another, Ashe found it awful the couple had to go through this. She was going to help them.

“I can winnow you. I have money, a blanket and food for you. A…a friend of mine is meeting you in Summer. We just need to get you over the border.”

Ashe only hoped Shadow had gotten her letter and that what she spoke was true.

The mates looked at her with gratitude. They were both in deep thought.

“We need to leave now then,” Samli said.

“I’m not going without you,” Thord immediately answered.

Ashe realized she was stupid to think a male would leave his mate in potential danger, but at the same time it was necessary. Getting one fae over the border without anyone noticing was hard enough. Getting two was almost impossible.

“I’m not letting you sacrifice yourself for potential danger, Thord. You are going whether you like it or not.”

It was like they had a small staring competition, but eventually Thord agreed.

Samli embraced her mate and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth and then his forehead. Thord did the same.

“Go now. I’ll find you when this is over.”

“You better,” Thord answered before he forced himself to let go of Samli and move to Ashe.

“Ready?” she asked him.

“Ready,” he answered.

Ashe took his hand and soon they were winnowing.

They landed at one of the least guarded places of the border. Or at least that’s what Eris said. Ashe could only hope he was right.

“Here.” She took off her backpack and gave it to Thord. “This should last you at least a few weeks. My friend hasn’t responded yet, but I’m sure someone will meet you and bring you to a safe place. I only told them your name, nothing else.”

Thord nodded and took the backpack. He looked heartbroken.

“You’ll look after her, won’t you? We haven’t been apart for more than a few hours since we mated. After we finally got together, we swore to stay together for all our lives.”

It was Ashe’s turn to feel heartbroken. Imagine seeing someone every day for centuries and then having to leave them.

“I promise,” Ashe answered. “And I promise I’ll do all in my power to make sure you’ll get back to each other.”

Thord nodded at her words, but he didn’t look convinced.

He gave her a short hug and started to move over the border.

He walked quickly and it didn’t take long before Ashe didn’t see him anymore. However, she stayed at the border. Both to make sure no one came for Thord, but also hoping to get a glimpse of Shadow. She didn’t.

Ashe winnowed back to Samli with mixed emotions. She was happy Thord was out of the court where he had a better chance of being safe. And at the same time, she was angry. She was fuming at the thought of Samli having to live her without her mate. She was fuming because Thord was now wandering alone without any protection.

“He’s in Summer.”

Samli then let out all her feelings as she collapsed to the floor. Ashe held her until she had to go back to the Forst House.

Ashe had finished breakfast-duty and gone to her room when she got the letter she had been waiting for.

Thord is safe in the Night Court. He thanks you for helping him and hopes that you will let his mate know that he’s okay.

What you did was dangerous, but brave. I hope you don’t put your life in danger again for quite some time. You’re supposed to live your usual life and send me the information you hear. Do not seek out dangerous situations.

Thank you for the information, we’ll be extra careful going forward. The High Lords of Night, Day and Summer has come to an agreement to try to stop Beron. They’ll come with their suggestion’s during breakfast on Sunday.

It might become violent, stay safe.

Shadow

Ashe felt such relief from the letter that she cried. He was safe. The Night Court would be more careful. And the High Lords were trying to stop this. She felt like she could breathe for the first time in the three weeks since the slaughter began.

She picked up a new piece of paper and answered Shadow immediately.

Thank you. It means more than you know.

Flame

She used her magic to send the letter, and it only took minutes for the answer to come.

Of course. I’m sorry for not asking before, but you are high fae? Or do you need help out of the court as well?

Shadow

I’m high fae, so I don’t need any help. I’m safe.

Flame

Good. Thord told me you’re a servant at the Forest House. Does that mean you’ll be at the ball this weekend?

He also told me you gave him all your money. I’ll make sure you’ll get extra with your next payment.

Shadow

Yes, I’ll be at the ball. I usually have weekends off, but because of the small number of servants we have left, I’ll work.

That’s not necessary, I get paid for my work here as a servant

Flame

Wear this on your uniform. Make sure it’s not too obvious, but a place I’ll be able to see it. I don’t have any tasks for you, it’s just a precaution if anything goes badly.

Don’t argue with me, or I’ll give you even more money.

Shadow

Ashe picked up a black rose pin that was fastened to the paper. It was small, but a little shiny.

Even though being a secret spy definitely wasn’t the safest job, she had started to understand that it gave you a lot of protection if something were to go wrong.

For some reason, being a traitor gave Ashe the biggest feeling of safety she had ever had.

Taglist: @tele86 @demon-master-zero @kbear8863 @atluky

Let me know if you want to be tagged!

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

[flowersforthosewhoneeds]

The Mortal the Cosmos Stole

Part 8 of "I wish i was her"

<3

Ash still lingered in the air, curling like ghosts over the scorched ground. The remnants of the battle glowed faintly fragments of broken spells and scorched runes fading into the wind.

Thor stood nearby, silent, watching his brother.

Doctor Strange had retreated a few feet back, exhausted, fingers twitching with residual power. His cloak wrapped around him protectively, its folds curling like it was nervous.

But Loki hadn’t moved.

He stood where the Celestials disappeared, eyes locked on the spot where the vision of you had flickered, for the briefest, cruelest moment. His shoulders rose and fell in slow, ragged breaths.

His fists bled from clenching so tightly.

You were gone.

And not just missing hidden. Cloaked beyond all detection. Not even his seiðr, with all its cunning and chaos, could reach you now.

"Brother," Thor said softly, approaching like one might a wild animal. "We will find her. You have my word."

Loki’s jaw clenched. “Your word is nothing.”

Thor flinched.

"You saw what they did," Loki went on, his voice a low, haunted whisper. "They didn’t take her to kill her. They took her to erase her."

Strange stepped forward. "Then we don’t give them the chance. I’ll search the Sanctum’s deepest archives—dimensional folds, forbidden magic, cosmic threads. Something must have left a trace."

Loki didn’t respond. He turned slowly, looking toward the horizon empty, dull, and gray.

“She’s not just gone,” he said. “She’s nowhere.”

..

The world you were in pulsed like a heartbeat slow, ancient, and distant.

You floated in a realm of shimmering gold, threads of starlight tangled around you, holding you in place.

You couldn’t speak.

You couldn’t cry.

You could only feel.

Loki’s magic, like a breeze on your skin. His anger. His fear. His grief.

You reached for it, but the threads pulled tighter.

And in your chest, you whispered the last thing you remembered: “Goodbye…”

....

Loki returned to his chambers but did not sleep. He stood in front of a mirror that refused to show his reflection.

Instead, it showed the last memory F.R.I.D.A.Y. managed to save the image of you, bleeding, weak, voice trembling as you whispered into the comms:

"Mission accomplished, sir… Goodbye."

Then the final footage: you in the dark, broken but singing softly to yourself.

"I'm in a getaway car… I left you in a motel bar… Put the money in a bag and I stole the keys… That was the last time you ever saw me..."

Loki struck the mirror. It shattered. Magic splintered across the room.

...

He stopped attending missions.

He stopped speaking.

Not to Thor. Not to anyone.

He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep.

He sat in the corner of the palace library, pouring through ancient books, forbidden scrolls, rituals not meant to be touched even by gods.

Thor found him once, surrounded by pages of forgotten magic, eyes sunken and hands ink-stained.

"Brother… this isn't you."

Loki looked up, and for a moment, Thor wasn’t sure it was him.

"This is me," Loki said. “Without her.”

<3

Somewhere far from time and space, the Celestials gathered again.

"She resists," one said. "The mortal should have broken by now."

“She is still connected to the Trickster,” another murmured. “Even apart, their fates thread together.”

“Then sever the thread.”

But something someone stopped them.

Another Celestial, cloaked in a dying star’s glow, stepped forward.

“No,” it said. “Let it play out. The God of Mischief will either burn the realms… or reveal the truth of her soul.”

And with a flick of its hand, the realm around you shifted againharsher. Colder.

More testing.

That night, the wind howled across Asgard.

And in a hidden corner of the palace, Loki stood alone, hands trembling over a spell he had never dared attempt before one that would cost him everything, if it meant finding you.

One final whisper escaped his lips:

“Wherever you are… don’t let go.”

And he cast it.

Reality shuddered.

A pulse surged through the realms.

And far away, in the golden void, you felt your fingers twitch..

and you knew he was looking for you.

you knew he was never going to let you go.

................................

Taglist:

@tinytroublemaker !! ( i hope you guys like this chapter!)

[thebookofcarol]

Carol and Daryl have the most beautiful, pure and selfless type of love. they would do anything for each other, but most of all, they would sacrifice themselves, their own happiness for the other... just like that!

Daryl telling Laurent he ain't going with him, Carol telling Ash how she ain't going with him back to the CW. and then both Laurent and Ash telling Carol and Daryl about the other's plan to be the one left behind. that was beautifully written!!

it's the total opposite of what Daryl found with Isa. Carol isn't asking Daryl for anything in return, she doesn't even ask him to stay with her. she wants Daryl to stay with Laurent and go back home, even if it means her staying behind in a foreign country, even if it means losing that one person who makes her feel like home again. it's just soo tragically beautiful.

and Daryl feels the same. there's nothing he wants more than to go home (that was his whole story in s1 and s2!), but not if it means Carol ain't safe. he would be fine if she took Laurent and went back home, but not if she gets left behind.

their quiet "i know" goodbye, and the looks they exchange, so much is said with absolutely no words. and I know people wanted another "i love you" scene, but i don't feel like it would be appropriate to do it again and again and again. when they say those words it has to mean something... something more than the last time they said it.

NO. i don't want pointless i love you's every time they get separated for some reason. the next time they say those words, they better mean i'm in love with you, and you're an idiot if you didn't get it the first time.

another scene i'm gonna be watching on repeat waiting for season 3 is the "it'll be different, we'll stay together." if that's not another profession of pure devotion and love from Daryl to Carol once again, i don't know what is.

anyways, so much stuff to unpack... since i didn't even mention Carol dealing with her trauma (Sophia! hallucination!) and Daryl dealing with his guilt (holy!Nun!Isa/Granddaddy hallucination!). in a way they were both absolved of their "sins," like a weight has been lifted from both of them... that can only mean good things!

for some reason, the show kinda dropped the "to find home is to find each other" tagline, however, it's still the most appropriate for this season.

neither of them gets to go home, but they both get what they need to fight another day - each other! poetic cinema!!

[vendetta-if]

What if Ash, from the alternate universe (where MC died), had met them in the same way as the alternate Victor did? And if MC and original Ash are a couple?

I very much hope that I have written this clearly, for it is not my language🙃

Unfortunately, it would just make the Ash from the AU where MC died become more depressed. Similar to the Viktor scenario, they would see what could have been.

Seeing MC and the Vendetta AU Ash getting together… It made them realize that they could’ve had a chance to be with the person they love and care the most, they could’ve been happy, they could’ve had everything they could’ve wished for.

But no… That killer took all of that away that night ten years ago.

I like to picture the AU Ash pops up and meets MC, and MC just thought that they’re their Ash. Imagine AU Ash’s surprise upon meeting a grown-up MC and not only that, MC greeting them with a peck on the lips and a hug. It feels like a dream, but this grown-up MC in front of them looks different from the one they conjure up in their head, but yet, undeniably MC. They know MC like the back of their own hand.

They barely understand what MC is talking to them about; most of the names they spoke of are not familiar to them, but still, they keep up the pretence, nodding and smiling. And then, MC hugs them again before walking off to do something.

They have half the heart to reach out and stop them… and what? What would they even say to this version of MC? So, they stay back, sticking to the shadows and make themself as inconspicuous as possible so other people who might know them won’t talk to them.

They can’t help but tail MC the whole day. And then, of course, they see their alternate self meet with MC. They look so happy, with a wide grin on their face, cheeks ruddy, probably because of MC.

Is it even possible to be envious of your own self? Because that’s what they’re feeling right now. But also, they are happy for them. At least their alternate self seems to be capable enough to protect MC and they look to be so in love with each other.

Their heart twinges in their chest as they look at the couple from afar. It’s painful, of course, but they redirect that pain into anger at the person who took this from them.

A couple of hours after their alternate self once again left MC to do something, you finally gather enough courage to approach them again. MC looks surprised.

“Ash! What’s wrong?” MC asks, confused.

“N—Nothing,” Ash answers, glancing up to meet MC’s eyes. “I… I just want to tell you something.”

“You could’ve told me over the phone, you know? No need to come all the way here,” they smile, and your heart skips a beat. It’s still the same smile it was a decade ago.

“I guess this is important enough to say in person,” Ash mumbles shyly.

“Okay, what is it?”

Ash steps closer and leans in. “MC… I love you… I always have and I always will,” they whisper, mere inches from MC’s face.

Before MC can answer, they lean in and press a kiss on their lips. It feels like you’re floating right now. But then, what comes up must come down, and pulling away, you’re once again reminded of what you can’t have.

“And… I also want to say I’m sorry…” Ash says quietly.

“For what?” MC asks in confusion, eyes filled with concern.

“Everything, I guess,” they sigh. They’ve always thought that if only they were there that night, maybe they could’ve helped protect MC—or at least die in their place.

“Ash…? Are you okay? You’re kind of scaring me right now,” they frown, bringing their hand to your forehead as if to check your temperature.

It makes you smile sadly. “I’m not and I don’t know if I will ever be,” you answer honestly before shaking your head. “You know what? Forget everything I said, I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” You rub the back of your neck. “Goodbye, MC… I’ll see you again in my dreams.”

Ash turns around and quickly runs away, not looking back no matter how much their heart wants to stay. They hear MC calling out to them, but they don’t stop. This is not where they belong and they have no right to be ruining whatever their alternate self and MC are having here.

They don’t know where they’re going, but they keep running. They just want to get away from here as far as possible.

Please, God or whoever’s listening… Just throw them back to the shitty universe they know before they do something they’ll regret.

[ornii]

RWBYBORNE: Part 1

1: “Good Hunter..”

Remnant, The Long Hunt

Beasts are not born—they are made. The scourge of the blood twists men into monsters, their minds consumed by madness, their bodies reshaped by hunger. They are not so different from the Grimm, those shadowed creatures of Remnant. Both are the spawn of darkness, bred to hunt, to kill, to destroy.

Grimm and Beasts are mindless tools, drawn by fear and despair, They are the reflection of man’s sins, the corruption that festers within the heart. The blood does not lie—it reveals. And when it reveals too much, man is undone, leaving behind only the beast.

Yharnam thought it could control the blood, harness it for power, for healing. But blood is a cruel master, and the price was paid in fire and ash. The city burned, the beasts contained—for a time. But darkness does not die; it spreads.

All of Yharnam was sealed away, its gates locked to humanity and all through remnant and stuck deep within the West of Vale. Only two had escaped Yharnam, Gehrman, the First Hunter and a single babe whose blood was of pure Yharnam. They left the burning city to a cottage in vale. And Gehrman trained the boy, as there are still beasts to slay.

Remnant is not a sanctuary. It is a battlefield, a place where the darkness takes many forms. And the blood… the blood ties it all together. For in the end, man’s greatest enemy is not the beast outside but the beast within.”

The Hunter’s Workshop lay silent under the pale glow of a moon that never waned. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestone floor, cast by the flickering fire of a dying lantern. Tools of the trade—saws, blades, and bloodstained cloth—were scattered across the room, remnants of countless hunts. Past the workshop was a small cottage, old and in need of repair, a boy stepped out of it. His eyes trailed along his clothing, the Garb of a hunters. He dusts himself off and tightens his gloves and stepped calmly towards the Workshop, and entered, walking past graveyards, etched with names of hunters lost to the war of beasts.

The Hunter stood at the center of the Workshop, his cloak hanging heavy with the weight of old blood. His hands rested on the hilt of his saw cleaver, the weapon worn but sharp.

A chair creaked as Gehrman leaned forward. The old man’s gaze bore into the boy he had raised. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of years.

“Your time here is over, boy,” Gherman said. “The hunt calls elsewhere.”

“You believe this school will test me? Test the strength I have gained?” He asks. “Yharnam is where I should return to—“

Gehrman shook his head, a weary smile crossing his face. “Yharnam is dead, lad. Its flames died long ago, yet the scourge lives on. The beasts are not bound to that place. They’ve spread, and the hunt must follow. It’s for your own good, killing beasts..”

The Hunter was silent, his head bowed. Gherman’s words hung heavy in the air, and though he wanted to argue, he could not. The Hunter shook his head and left to the front of the workshop, and as if they were waiting, one more figure stood before him, a.. Doll. But she looked, human, familiar.

The Doll stepped forward, her porcelain face expressionless yet kind. Her voice, soft and melodic, broke the silence.

“Good Hunter,” she said, her hands folding over her heart. “You have endured so much. You have given yourself to the hunt, to protect and to destroy. But this… this is a chance to find what was taken from you. Trust in yourself. Trust in others. You are not alone.”

The Hunter lowered himself to one knee, he removed his hat, and extended his hand, she placed her gently on his. Though her touch was cold, it comforted him. He felt a surge of power, his final surge. He rose and bowed, and she did in kind.

“I shall not forget our adage.” He said firmly.

“Farewell, Good Hunter. May you find your worth in the waking world.” The Doll gave her goodbye and the hunter turned and left.

The Hunter stood, his saw cleaver strapped to his back, his bag slung over one shoulder. Outside, a steed awaited—a creature of pale mist and moonlight, its body translucent yet solid enough to bear him.

He did not look back as he mounted the steed. The Workshop grew smaller in the distance, swallowed by the forest’s shadows and the encroaching mist. The moon lingered high above, watching him as he rode toward the unknown.

For the first time in his life, the Hunter felt something unfamiliar—a flicker of uncertainty, a world beyond the blood and the hunt.

And so, the Hunter’s journey began, not with the roar of a beast or the strike of a blade, but with the quiet resolve of a boy stepping out of the past and into the future.

The Hunter, after a long Journey reached beacon though the side forest and approached horseback to the main station, where these oddly flying machines descended with people exiting them. Such inventions were acts of powers beyond his comprehension.

His feet leapt off the ghostly mare as onlookers watched, he checked his saddlebags and saw everything was of collection. A lantern, clothing, his saw cleaver, hunters pistol with an array of silver bullets, even a notebook to log his thoughts, dreams, and progress of the scourge. He ruffled though them, and found something he did not put there. An old claw shaped badge, meant to wrap around the neck. An old hunters badge, The badge was a special privilege for the hunters of the past, and should not be dishonored. It should be left in peace, unless one is truly prepared to assume the will of those gone before. The Hunter removed his mask and hood, letting his slight neck length silver blonde hair aloof in the wind. He placed the badge around his neck, and put his hat back on. He gripped his saddlebags but a voice rang out nearby.

“What are you doing?!”

“Uh, sorry!”

“Sorry?! Do you have any idea of the damage you could have caused? What are you, brain-dead? This is Dust! Dust! Fire, water, lightning, energy!” The Hunter turned to see a Pale, Regal looking girl in all white, not very happy with another girl in Red and Black.

“Are you even listening to me? Is any of this sinking in? What do you have to say for yourself?!” The Snow White woman said, the girl in red, sneezed, and the dust collided into an explosion, causing soot all over her white dress, and she freaks out.

“This is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about!” She screamed.,

“I'm really, really sorry!” The girl in red relented.

“Ugh, you complete dolt! What are you even doing here? Aren't you a little young to be attending Beacon?” She scoffed, dusting herself off. And leaving in fumes, the girl sat a bit sad. She fidgeted with Crescent Rose, Her mind wandered, and she sighed deeply.

“That went well…” she muttered to herself.

Suddenly, a voice cut through her thoughts,

“That was, uncomfortable” he says. Ruby looked up, surprised by the sound. There, standing with an almost eerie calm, was a tall figure. His dark coat swayed lightly with the breeze, and his wide-brimmed hat cast a shadow over his pale face, leaving his eyes as the only visible feature—cold, calculating, yet somehow distant.

“Uh… excuse me?” Ruby asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

The man’s lips barely moved as he spoke again. “She wronged you. But she cannot see it.”

Ruby blinked, not sure whether this person was speaking in riddles or just observing what happened. “You mean Weiss? Yeah… I broke her Dust vial and things kinda blew up after that. My bad…”

“No,” he said, his voice even. “Her reaction was unwarranted.”

“Yeah, well, I guess she’s… kinda like that sometimes…” Ruby muttered, looking down at the broken vial, still processing it all. He offered his hand, and the girl took it and helped her up.

“I’m Ruby, by the way! Ruby Rose, what’s your name?” she said, extending her hand.

He looked at her outstretched hand for a moment, as if unsure of the gesture’s meaning. Eventually, he took it with an almost deliberate coldness, shaking it briefly before releasing it.

“I.. i…I don’t have a name,” he said a bit conflicted, “or.. perhaps it’s forgotten it.”, his gaze drifting towards the nearby trees, as though lost in thought.

Ruby blinked in a bit of shock. “No name? Well… that’s kinda weird, but alright.” She smiled warmly at him. “You can be… (Y/n). You look like a (Y/n).”

He didn’t respond immediately, merely nodding once in acknowledgment, as if Ruby’s suggestion held some form of understanding.

“(Y/n), huh?” Ruby said, giggling a little. “I mean, I think it fits you. Kinda mysterious, cool… a little weird, though.”

(Y/n) looked at her, his face unsure. “Weird, is it?” Ruby shrugged, the smile never leaving her face. “Yeah, but in a good way! You’re definitely not like anyone else I’ve met. But you’re… pretty cool, too.”

“Cool? As in the cold?” He asked, Ruby tilts her head, “You’re.. not from around here, are you?” She smiled, the hunters clothing could tell. “I.. suppose one could make that inference.” He replied, the duo walk to Beacon Academy's giant auditorium, filled with people. Ruby looks over when she hears a voice.

“Ruby! Over here! I saved you a spot!” She yelled, Ruby turned turned to (Y/n).

“Oh! Hey, I-I gotta go! I'll see you after the ceremony!” Ruby ran off, leaving the hunter by himself. He was fine with this, as he’s had long hunts alone. Unfortunately, the worst person decided to speak to him.

“Hey, man! You’re new here, right? I’m Jaune Arc, rookie Hunter! But you can call me Jaune, no need for formalities.” He gave an awkward salute, trying to appear confident.

The Hunter didn’t respond right away, he folded his arms, and slowly turned to Jaune. After a long, heavy pause, he raised an eyebrow. “You… are the one they call a Hunter?” His tone was neutral, but there was an underlying question that made Jaune second-guess himself.

“Uh… yeah? I mean, I’m still learning a lot, but I’m totally up for anything!” Jaune puffed out his chest, trying his best to exude some form of bravado, to impress the oddly imposing (Y/n), who didn’t say anything. The tension could be cut with a knife as jaune awkwardly rubbed the back of his head.

Their “conversation” was ended when Professor Ozpin approaches the microphone upon the stage. readying the microphone, with Glynda beside him. He slowly leaned into the Mic.

“I'll... keep this brief. You have traveled here today in search of knowledge, to hone your craft and acquire new skills, and when you have finished, you plan to dedicate your life to the protection of the people. But I look amongst you, and all I see is wasted energy, in need of purpose, direction. You assume knowledge will free you of this, but your time at this school will prove that knowledge can only carry you so far. It is up to you to take the first step.” Ozpin left very, interesting advice, before departing. Letting Glynda take the microphone

“You will gather in the ballroom tonight; tomorrow, your initiation begins. Be ready. You are dismissed.” Glynda gave the order and the teenagers begin to shuffle out of the building.

The hunter sat in the corner, in sleepwear, mostly an open Pajama coat. He writes into his journal, his first of many entries, using a journal to press his thoughts into reality, keeping some, sanity.

“Today, I witnessed innocence in its purest form—students with unblemished dreams and hopes untainted by despair. I envy them. I no longer possess such luxury.

The girl named Ruby… idealistic, bright-eyed, I believe she is too eager for the dangers of the hunt. Her optimism is disarming, though perhaps I needed that. When she offered me a name, I accepted without hesitation. I wonder why? Human connection seems, offputting.

This Weiss Schnee is another matter. She is cold and sharp, her sense of pride is obvious but overwhelming, perhaps we cross paths, or blades in the future.

The blond fool, Jaune, tried to befriend me. His bravery borders on idiocy. Still, there’s something admirable in his persistence.

This place, Beacon, is nothing like the Workshop. No dim lanterns, no stench of blood, no haunts in the night. And yet, I feel as if this shall not last.

Tonight, I wonder if I made the right choice in coming here. Still, I cannot deny the flicker of something unfamiliar in my chest—hope. Strange. I thought I had long since abandoned such notions that this scourge should perish..

But for now, I remain vigilant. The old blood runs through my veins, and the hunt must go on.”

— (Y/n).

Note: Let me know if you want to read more, I have maybe 14 more chapters of this on my Wattpad I can bring here, thanks!

[verdemoun]

Out of the timewarp couples we know that...

Sean dies before Lenny

And

Bessie dies before Hosea

This leaves The Morgans, The Duffys (Sorry Kieran it's you), and The Jones's... at least to my memory.

So in my lust for angst... who dies first, and how tragic was it?

Okay timewarp endgame let's go

Bessie and Hosea die together, so who died first is unknown. Bessie was sick first* and the one the gang most expected to die. Hosea's heart just went 'fuck not losing my wife again'.

Generally, the first shall be the last. Most of the 1911 gang actually die before the 1899 gang (minus tragedies and age related illness) simply because living rough as outlaws do for an extra 9-15 years in canon era was a physical strain they never really recovered from.

Charles dies before Arthur - he went 9 years mourning Arthur before timewarping, and I'm not putting him through that again. Only in his early 70s, Arthur noticed the tiny change of Charles sleeping more than usual and insisted he go see a doctor. Metastatic lung cancer: with only two or three weeks left to live. Instead of suffering through treatment for at most an extra 6 months, Charles decided just enjoy what time he had left - helping Arthur plan for how he would cope without him, seeing family and saying goodbyes, going to the few sights they hadn't seen and some of their favorite places for the last time. 3 weeks after the diagnosis, and only the second time he actually complained about pain, Charles simply took a nap and never woke up.

Similarly, in the once-Matthews-now-Duffscuella household, Javier dies first. Javier did not age well, and got a lot of age-related illnesses younger than most people. Arthritis in his 40s, heart disease in his 50s. Still, his death was very abrupt (only a year or so after Charles, so early 70s again). He was sitting on the couch, watching TV with Kieran. Sat his cigarette down on the edge of the ash tray, said he didn't feel like it, and laughed when Kieran asked if he could have it. But then - didn't pass it to him. Massive, sudden cardiac arrest. No response to attempted resuscitation: so quick it was painless. Didn't mean Kieran was any less distraught.

Kieran ends up living with Arthur because, as well as his self-neglecting brand of autism, Kieran was diagnosed with early stage dementia shortly before Javier died. As it progressed, Kieran's confusion manifested as basically thinking it was canon era. He'd huff he had to take care of the horses, or have moments where he still thought he was an O'Driscoll and start stealing things (from himself) because if he went back to the gang empty handed 'Colm'll have my head'. Arthur was always the best at calming him down, second to Javier, and generally knew how to keep Kieran happy in terms of things he would eat and what situations would be too overstimulating for him. Also, Arthur actually had horses so Kieran could look after them in his stableboy moments and be content. Kieran also passed away before Arthur.

The Jones's might have to be another ask oop.

[marsphobic11]

Distorted Daydreams.

Chapter 2: Reunions and New Rhythms.

•Summary: After Y/N reconnects with childhood friends Larry, Sal, Neil, and Todd. What starts as a casual night of Guitar Hero quickly turns into an unexpected reunion with their past as the former drummer of Dirtspine. When Larry and Sal reveal that their band is looking for a new drummer, Y/N hesitates—only to realize later that a fan they met at the grocery store is part of that band. Now, caught between nostalgia and new opportunities, Y/N must decide whether to embrace the past again or run away from it.

•Warnings: None, no established relationship

•Word count: 898

•A/N: I just wanted to say that these chapters are short but they will eventually become longer as the story goes on. I have a lot planned for this story so be ready!

Almost as soon as I entered the shared house, Larry and Sal brought me to the living room couch to play Guitar Hero while Neil and Todd prepared the casserole together, following a recipe from a book Larry’s mom had put together for him. I sat on the couch, watching them battle to the death over the game. It felt surreal—watching the guy I used to play tag with now play video games with his college buddy. Larry suddenly looked at me, pulling me out of my thoughts. He sat down beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulder, making me smile with comfort before he spoke.

“So, Y/N, how have you been all these years?”

I averted my gaze to the floor and spoke softly. “Well, my family and I are good,” I lied. “And I’ve been making it by as much as I can.” Another lie. I had been loaded from that band before I left.

Sal then sat down on the opposite side of Larry and asked, “What do you do for a living?” Well, Shit. That was genuinely the last question I wanted to answer, but there wasn’t a point in lying anymore, right?

“I was part of a small band named Dirtspine. I was the drum—”

Sal and Larry exchanged shocked looks before turning back to me. Larry spoke first. “Holy fuck knuckles, bro, Ash is gonna fucking FLIP.” I felt my cheeks heat up at their reactions.

I never thought I was popular in my hometown for some band I started in high school. By the grace of whatever exists above in the sky, Todd walked in with plates and added some context to Larry’s words. “Ashley is one of our longtime friends. She’s a huge fan of the drummer.”

Sal grabbed a plate of casserole and continued, “What a small world. She’s always wanted a new drummer for our band since our old friend moved away.” Larry smirked as Sal walked off to the kitchen to eat alone for some reason.

Then Larry gripped my shoulders and got on his knees. “My beautiful, amazing childhood friend, whom I love so much even though I didn’t text you for a bit—please help our band out. We have bass, guitar, and vocals. Now, we just need drums.”

Todd quickly scolded Larry by smacking the back of his head. “Quit being so touchy. You just met her again!” Neil's orotund laugh brings me a small relief before adding his advice to the mix. “You should try it, though. I think you and Ashley would get along great.” I smiled a little and thought about the pros and cons before murmuring, “Maybe.”

Larry beamed like this was the greatest news he’d gotten in years—or maybe even centuries—making me laugh. After dinner, I said my goodbyes, but Larry insisted on walking me home since it was dark. As we crossed the street, we talked about his weed collection, his love for bass, and how underrated it is (which is true). I always admired how Larry could make the longest conversations out of the smallest things since I hated coming up with topics to start conversations.

When we finally reached my door, he gave me a big hug. Once I closed the door behind me, I realized the hole I had just dug myself into.

Now, it was a new day with plenty of things to get done. I had too many things to check off my list of things to do and very little time to get ready since my morning shower took longer than usual.

I chose to wear a lace tank top layered with an off-the-shoulder Pantera band tee, flare jeans, black high-top Converse, my hair in a messy bun, and headphones around my neck.

The weather in Nockfell was average in the Twilight franchise. There was something comforting about that small-town, depressing feeling that nobody seemed to appreciate—until they had to move houses every other year. Stability brought me more comfort than anything. I grabbed my keys to my cozy fifth-gen Civic and made my way to the grocery store, which wasn’t far from my house.

The store wasn’t packed, which was perfect. Obviously, I spoke too soon as a girl with short brown hair, the most beautiful green eyes, and plump pink lips approached me with a nervous smile.

“Via? I’m a huge fan! I don’t want to bother you, but can I get a photo?”

My dreaded stage name—the one I had hoped not to hear—brought a fluttering feeling to my heart. I nodded immediately. She sounded so sweet and bubbly. As I wrapped an arm around her, I caught the scent of warm vanilla and cashmere, making me feel cozy and warm inside. She lifted her iPhone 14, focused the lens, and snapped a picture. Then, she quickly turned back to me and grinned eagerly.

“I also started a band because of you years ago! Maybe you should come see us play sometime. I-If you aren't busy with anything, of course!” Her words sounded familiar, but not enough to ring any bells—until I got home.

That’s when it hit me.

I would be auditioning for the band Larry and Sal had been talking about.

Now, I had to make an impression.

For a fan.

[fancyfeathers]

William’s and Sherlock’s darlings

The Games We Play of Dust and Ash (Yandere Moriarty the Patriot Masterlist)

(A/N- this one was painful to write, I cried while writing this)

Spoilers for the Moriarty the Patriot timeskip

When Sherlock and William disappear, their darlings are left alone, because Mycroft’s darling is married off to him and she was the reporter’s best friend, and Albert is arrested and his darling has left to go see the world with her dead parent’s fortune, meanwhile Louis’ darling is still stuck with him as his life changes, which leaves William’s darling alone again…

William told her that he would never abandon her…

And now he was gone…

He kidnapped her, manipulated her, gaslit her, but he cared for her, she thinks.

Honestly she doesn’t know what to think as she now stands in an empty house, all alone, abandoned like she had been all her life. But then there is a knock at the front door and her steps echo through the empty halls as she goes to get it, and all she feels is emptiness from this empty nest. She opens the door to see an all too familiar face and a welcome one at that, the reporter, Sherlock’s darling. Both of them look at the other and they just look like they have seen hell. William’s darling has always seen this woman as a strong and independent woman but…

“…Miss Hudson said that Sherlock left me some stuff in case he… I…I can’t do this alone.”

“…Neither can I.”

Now it feels like William’s darling is looking at a mirror when looking at her friend. The two go to Baker Street together to pick of the box of the things Sherlock left his darling, it’s mostly letters he wrote to her but never sent, all the things he couldn’t make himself say, a few of her newspapers articles, some money, and a ring. The two go back to the old Moriarty estate together and just sit down together in silence which is broken by Sherlock’s darling…

“I don’t have a job anymore since I worked for Milverton’s paper and I doubt any news companies here would want to hire me since my main source is dead, I have some family in the states I was going to stay with until I am ready to start writing again-“

“Can I please come with you?”

A smile comes across the reporter’s face at her question.

“I was hoping you would.”

The two say goodbyes to whoever they can and have left and a week later they are on a boat across the ocean. It is on the voyage over when Sherlock’s darling is walking through the halls of the ship when she hears music, she follows it to one of the ship’s lounges to see William’s darling playing and singing. Her friend sits down on the bench next to her and listens…

“Where did you learn?”

“Albert’s wife taught me how to play and then at the opera house I used to listen in on the singers’ vocal lessons.”

“Well you certainly have a gift, good enough to play at the St. Regis in New York.”

“Thank you… I read some of your articles as well, you also have quite the hand.”

“Thank you.”

Starting a new life can be scary but at least they have each other.

Life in New York is not so bad, the two women stay with the grandparents of Sherlock’s darling in their home in upper Manhattan, a kind retired couple who takes care of the two women after such a terrifying and life changing incident. Her grandfather clears out his old and unused study for his grandchild to use so she can begin writing her new column. And then her grandmother begins to teach William’s darling about the types of music here in New York that is far different than the music she heard be played at the opera house, the two play piano that can be heard from where her grandfather works in his garden and down the hall where the reporter clicks away at her typewriter.

Soon two years had passed, the two managed to get their own apartment in lower manhattan, Sherlock’s darling had been taking small writing jobs here and there but had recently secured a job as a journalist for the New York Times, a crime journalist like she was before. Meanwhile William’s darling after years of hiding herself away and now works as a singer at a high end hotel like the reporter told her to do. The two had found themselves grow into a routine, make and have breakfast together, William’s darling will clean up the apartment and work and write some of her music while Sherlock’s darling heads out to work, then the reporter will come back in the afternoon for a late lunch, then William’s darling will leave to the hotel while the reporter finishes her work at home for the day, and then she will join her friend at the hotel after her performance and the two will have dinner there due to her friend’s role as staff at the hotel. Life was peaceful and now neither of them were alone, they had each other.

Some days were harder than others, one of them knowing they left people behind in London, the darlings of Louis and Mycroft, not telling Albert’s darling where they were so she would not feel the need to find them ever since they would take care of themselves. Sometimes the two would sit on top of the roof of their apartment building after hanging up the laundry and just wonder if they made the right choice and if they miss the mastermind and detective, William’s darling is far more prone to this and will just take her notebook up and write, doesn’t matter what, music, poetry, letters to him for her to keep, just something to get it all off her chest.

Meanwhile working for the Pinkerton agency in Brooklyn, Sherlock gets a job, there is going to be a large transaction with one of the heads of the biggest crime family in New York at a high end hotel in Manhattan, so he brings along William since has more insight how unground organizations function. They deal with the threat at the hotel silently as the owner requested as to not scare the guests and staff…

Meanwhile William’s darling and Sherlock’s darling are having a glass of wine in one of the empty event rooms at the hotel after her shift, sitting on the piano bench of the grand piano in the mostly empty room. Sherlock’s darling mentions that she left her journal open on the couch at home and told her she read one of the songs and asks her.

“Do you miss William?”

“…sometimes… I-I know he was a devil on earth… but I can’t help but think that even devils were once angels- sorry I probably sound crazy-“

“I would never tell you that you are crazy… would you mind playing one of your songs for me?”

“Sure but only if you sing with me, and don’t say you don’t know the lyrics when you snooped.”

Sherlock and William are walking down a hall in the hotel, about to leave when they both hear a piano playing from one of the rooms ahead. They shrug it off as some staff or a guest playing for fun, then William hears a voice, her voice…

“Balancing the scales

All my job entails

Making sure that they're prepared to see the world.”

He thinks he is just hearing something for a second and tries to tell himself it is nothing, but her voice… it has to be…

Sherlock definitely picks up on this and silently nods and William approaches the closed door where he hears the music and the voice…

“And all I feel is emptiness

From this emptying nest

William are you there

I was unaware

How difficult it'd be without you there

I was unprepared”

It is her, it has to be.

Then there is another voice joining in…

“Balancing the scales, balancing the scales

I did the best I could but still I have failed

Still I have failed

Balancing the scales

Want them to see the world but I'll always care”

Now William looks at the detective so see the same expression William wore on his own face.

As the piano fades away the door handle turns and the ladies turn their heads expecting it to be another of the hotel staff but instead…

William expected something when his darling saw him after years of thinking he was dead, but not the look of fear in her eyes after saying his name so sweetly in a song. She looks terrified, like she just saw a ghost and in some ways she did.

Sherlock on the other hand expected his darling’s reaction, like the look of pure rage in her eyes when she saw him alive. Their last few meeting before he disappeared were not on the greatest term as their friendship had a falling out due to Sherlock’s feels towards her and his overprotectiveness. Then not to mention by killing Milverton, she lost her job in London

In a blink of an eye and without a second thought, Sherlock’s darling grabbed her friend’s wrist and walked right out of the other doors to the room into another hallway.

It takes a second for William to process that he is crying. He abandoned her when he told her that he would never do such a thing. God what had he done?

The next day, neither woman goes to work, not even bothering to notify anyone that they would not be showing up today, they would find an excuse later. William’s darling sits on the rooftop, looking over the city as Sherlock’s darling hangs their laundry up on the line…

“Do you think you’ll go back to him now that you have the option?”

The question from her friend catches William’s darling off guard…

“I… I don’t know…”

“You do not have to, dear.”

That voice catches both women off guard, and they both look behind them at the rooftop entrance to see William standing there with his darling’s journal in hand, she must have left it at the piano.

“I only came to return this… and tell you I am sorry for abandoning you, I hurt you and I can never repair your trust in me, but I will… I will always be here if you need me.”

He sets the journal down on the bench she is sitting down and before William can turn to leave, she grabs his sleeve and he looks down at her with confusion but before he can say anything else she leaps up and wraps her arms around him, tucking her chin over his shoulder as she always had done…

“I forgive you.”

Meanwhile Sherlock’s darling is overcome with emotions that she cannot place as she looks at the two. She squeezes her eyes shut and a hand comes to rest on her shoulder. She does not have to look up to know who it was.

“I do not forgive you.”

“I wasn’t asking you to and I wasn’t apologizing, love.”