#although this has also happened with ghost eyes and skeptical

[retrospectislame]

me: hm, im really in the mood for a webcomic right now... wonder which one i should read

the hundred or so webcomics im subbed to but have yet to read: finally! hes gonna read one of u-

me: *starts to reread webcomic that ive read 10+ times*

[ckret2]

Here, have another post about my headcanoned human Bill Cipher!

I promised to answer the second half of @dykefnctl's question—

also, like, wtf does stan and ford think? i'm invested.

—but I just got a separate ask about Ford, so I'll talk about Ford in that one and focus on Stan here.

So: Stanley versus human Bill!

Of all the Pines, Stan had the least to do with Bill throughout the entire show; at best, he would have seen this triangle guy come up a few times in Ford's journals and once Ford came back maybe he would have personally warned Stan to watch out for a fast-talking magic triangle. (Although considering how long it took Ford to open up to Dipper, whom he was on much better terms with, the odds that he'd have said anything to Stan are still pretty low.) So to Stan, Bill's just some weird triangle freak who came outta nowhere to mess up Gravity Falls, personally threatened his whole family, and forced Stan to sacrifice his brain to get rid of him.

So when the freak comes back, Stan's ready to shoot first and figure out how to hide the body later.

"Maybe Bill's possessing a normal human and you'd be murdering an innocent" doesn't dissuade him; he'll kill a single stranger if he has to, he's not taking any chances when his family's safety is on the line. (Also the world's safety, but he's more concerned about his family.) What DOES dissuade him is "maybe being trapped in a human body is the only thing keeping Bill's reality-altering powers in check." Stan doesn't know much about how this stuff works, but he's already seen Bill shed one body to hop into someone else's head, and he doesn't wanna restart Weirdmageddon.

He's still somewhat skeptical—"if killing this body would make him a god again, how come he hasn't jumped off a cliff?"—but even if Bill wouldn't regain all his powers if he was "freed," there's still a chance he could just go possess someone new and come back, right? And Stan might be willing to kill ONE innocent to protect his family, but he doesn't relish the idea of killing a whole string of innocents being puppeted by Bill. Or risking that the next innocent is somebody he knows.

So he'd rather keep Bill right where he is: inside his current body, and somewhere close by where Stan can keep an eye on him. For now. Until they can find a way to kill him for good. If the memory gun couldn't do it, maybe Poindexter and Old Man McGucket can whip up something that can.

Bill, meanwhile, is perfectly willing to let Stan and everyone else keep believing that killing his body will unleash him again—when the truth is, he himself doesn't know what would happen, but he suspects that might just kill him for good. Or else shuffle his humanized ghost into humanity's afterlife system, which he doesn't much relish either. It's not too long before Stan starts to suspect that Bill's willingness to put up with makeshift imprisonment in the Mystery Shack, rather than smash his own head in and escape, means that he can't just hop over to a new body... or, at least, he doesn't know whether he can. So they're at a stalemate: neither Bill nor Stan knows whether killing his body would liberate him or destroy him, and as long as they don't know, neither is willing to risk the consequences if it doesn't go their way. But both of them really want to find out—while not wanting the other to find out.

So for now, they mostly just glare at each other, and sometimes Bill grumbles about Stan's cooking.

Once they've been around each other long enough that the white-hot rage Stan feels at the sound of his stupid whiny voice starts to cool down, Stan starts to suss out that Bill is, in fact, a lot like himself. That is, a fast-talking stone-hearted con artist who's probably served time in multiple jurisdictions and whose "friends" are more likely fairweather partners in crime. Stan can grudgingly respect that. Being in the Shack means Bill inevitably comes in contact with a few customers, and the guy can make up a whopper of a tall tale at the drop of a hat and sell anything you put in front of him—Stan respects that, too. All these little similarities also make Stan start to suspect that Bill's like him in other ways: that maybe his stone heart has a mushy center that gets very, very lonely without his family, whatever and wherever they are.

But Bill's still the creep who tried to murder Stan's whole family and planet. Who cares if under his weird alien trappings he has relatable problems! It's not gonna make Stan go soft on him or whatever.

(Stan's slowly going soft on him. It's hard to keep feeling threatened by a depressed clumsy loser who thinks depth perception is a curse and lets Mabel paint glitter on his face.)

[eievuimultimuse]

👻 and 🦵 for Baxter stockman?

MISCELLANEOUS SYMBOL HEADCANONS.

👻 - How does your muse handle feeling scared ? Do they enjoy horror ? Do they believe in the paranormal ? What calms your muse down ? Do they have any scary stories ?

i'll certainly preface by stating that i'm sure baxter fits the stereotypical 'scientist doesn't believe in the paranormal' image lol. i imagine he's always been the skeptic when it comes to ghost stories, always the first to be like 'that doesn't make sense,' etc. he just never personally understood them, that's all ! as for whether he enjoys horror...it's hard to say. i feel like he'd be pretty indifferent ? i mean, no offense to his kids, but like...let's be perfectly honest, is there anything that fictional horror could present that outweighs the sort of work he's doing gKJGHK LIKE....he'd be pretty unbothered by it i think. or slightly annoyed, depending on what it is ( i'm sure he'd have minor complaints about anything featuring a mad scientist, mostly pertaining to its accuracy ).

as for how he handles feeling scared...well, i do believe that when it comes to FIGHT, FLIGHT or FREEZE, he probably chooses FLIGHT everytime. that isn't to say he's cowardly — that'd be a complete discredit to his actions ( seriously, how brave do you need to be to steal from your own company ? so as to keep your creations from being turned into weapons ? ). it's just that the sorts of things that scare him — which are often very scary and legitimately dangerous — usually, the best, smartest response for a guy like him IS to run. i'm not sure if there is a whole lot that can calm him down in such situations; i think the anxiety of such situations leaves him with the resting heartrate of a hummingbird quite frankly ( /j ). i think the only thing that can calm him in such scnearios is the sheer belief that what he's doing will be worth it in the end.

🦵 - Does your muse have any physical ailments ? How do they live with them ?

well !! there is the fact that he appears to have some form of brachydactyly where his middle finger on his right hand is especially shortened ( i believe it might be type C ? pardon me, i'm definitely no expert so feel completely free to correct me ). i would think that this might make grabbing things a little awkward at times, but it otherwise doesn't impact his daily functioning ( as for how it impacts him socially...well, i'm sure he wasn't treated particularly kindly about it. i'd daresay other people have made him feel self-conscious about it before ). the only other things i could imagine that would be up with him physically are things that are probably typical for an aging man who undoubtedly works himself too hard and stands up for too long and hunches over too much, etc. sore back, poor knees, probably the occasional bit of wrist pain when he's writing for longer than he should. i doubt he's particularly great at taking care of these things while he's still actively working, although i think in the scenario where he raises his kids, he probably does take care of it a little better. makes it a point to wear braces, at least takes ibuprofen, that sorta thing.

OH ig while i'm here i might as well touch upon some verse specific stuff as well: living AU baxter does have a burn scar on the right side of his face. as a result, he's a little more sensitive on that spot and certainly needs to be careful with it. he takes care of it to the best of his abilities, especially when he first receives it, though living in hiding in a shipyard makes it difficult at times.

'07 baxter also has some scarring on his face but while visible, it's significantly less severe in comparison. he does, however, have the additional ailment of having poor eyesight in one eye ( well, extra poor; can't neglect the fact that he wears glasses for a reason ). he can still see out of...kind of, but he's partially blind in it. it takes a lot of getting used to when it first happens, but eventually, it affects him about as minimally as it could due to getting used to working around it. that being said, he does ask that people try not to sneak up on him from that side

[catastrophic-crow]

hoo, boy. buckle up; this one got away from me. also i hope you don't hate everlasting trio because that snuck in while i was writing it

ohhhh man vlad would think that the ring is messing with him—i didn't even think about that. there's some delightful potential for either angst or crack if he tries to get the doctors fenton on the same trail and they end up convinced that some ghostly artefact is messing with their baby boy! although... vlad might have a hard time convincing them anything is wrong, since—like johnny—they wouldn't have a specific reason to think something was wrong, and it's not really like danny's been acting any different lately... maddie, at least, i could see being very skeptical to vlad making any claims like that. jack—well, jack might just believe his ol' pal V-Man.

re: charging the black lantern ring with ectoplasm—what if danny knows he could charge it easily by wearing it as phantom, but honestly? he just doesn't want to give Nekron the satisfaction of a bona-fide ghost wearing the black lantern ring, so... how can danny fenton, black lantern, charge his ring without fighting someone to the death? well, as long as he's not using it excessively, the ecto in his human form is probably enough, or; there's always his parents' lab if it gets to that point, or—ugh, ghost sense just went off? i guess i'll get back to finding... ecto... later. hang on—this could work.

que danny fenton, in his black lantern uniform, corralling the box ghost with all manner of constructs both boxy and square. he might not have remembered to bring his thermos with him in this form, but it turns out that ghosts can be shipped back—hah!—to the ghost zone if he's willing to enclose them in a construct and walk—or fly—them back to the portal. and honestly, this ring's pretty handy; plus listening to Nekron's complaints about fights ending without killing my opponents is exactly the kind of satisfaction i wouldn't have gotten if i'd just taken the easy way out and charged the ring from my own ecto.

(also i read a bit on the wiki about the black lantern rings and. if danny ever did wear the ring in his phantom form—or otherwise fully charged it—it seems to be implied that the charge can be shared between the rings and once they're all fully charged, Nekron can use them to summon himself to the living plane? could be an interesting consequence of danny "commit to the bit" fenton finding out that, oh, uh, so there was a reason you were all so nervous about the ring, huh? well, guess i'll take care of this—get ready to be souped, Nekron! and just like that, the horrific end goal of the black lanterns is curb-stomped by a teenager, in front of the exasperated eyes of the other lanterns on the team. or is danny's ring disconnected from the others?)

amorpho has somewhat complicated feelings toward billy. when they first met, he thought he was just a boring goody-goody, glory-hound, but. after the whole mess with temporarily losing his powers he realized that billy just isn't trying to stand out the same way that amorpho always has, and maybe amorpho thinks that learning to be more comfortable in his own forms, whatever they are, and as the center of attention, can only be good for young billy, seeing as he's committed to the bit saving these humans even when he could leave well enough alone, and it clearly takes a toll on him. all work and no play makes billy a dull boy, and if billy needs an excuse to cut loose now and then, well, amorpho supposes it wouldn't be the worst thing in the realms to be the one to provide it.

billy "DRAMA" fathom absolutely is danny's way of blowing off steam in ways that neither fenton nor phantom can without suspicion; fenton has to live down to expectations and phantom needs to be an untouchable icon to the public (he's seen what happens when they get too close in either admiration or distain and neither is pretty,) but. fathom?

no one in elmerton cares about interrogating the punk teenager who shows up to kick back and relax outside of the crushing weight of everything people believe him to be. sure, maybe he wears weird contacts (they must be contacts, surely, no one has red eyes—although; albinism could explain the hair if it was dyed from white, and he is pretty pale...) but his money spends the same at the arcade, and the minimum wage workers have more immediate concerns than scrutinizing everyone who buys a pizza.

danny-as-billy doesn't always take sam-and-tucker with him when he goes, but they know about what's going on, and they understand how the pressure wears on him. they'd like to be able to be there for him enough that he doesn't feel the need to escape for a while, but at sam's place her parents are always around the corner with a snide comment and judging looks about acceptable partners for a young woman of her social status, samantha, even if you'd rather drag it through the mud after everything we've done for you, and while tucker's parents are kind, they've internalized the same view of Troubled Danny Fenton that the rest of amity seems to have after his disastrous first year with powers.

they get it. it makes it more special when he does bring them with, to know that of all the things in his life that danny feels the need to get away from, that won't ever be how he thinks of them.

you were absolutely supposed to think of "fathom" as being a mix of "fenton" and "phantom;" that's why i chose that word in particular—to fit the theme of "phantom" in sounding similar, but also being a pun and revealing something about the persona it describes. "fathom" is a mix of the most intrinsic parts of "fenton," and "phantom," when he doesn't need to worry about what people don't "understand or comprehend."

i love the idea that billy is danny's excuse to turn the drama up to 11 and fully not care in the slightest about what other people think about him although it would make hanging out at the arcade with his partners a bit more difficult if the local police were on lookout

billy fathom being danny's equivalent of matches malone is incredible. i adore the idea of amorpho and billy accidentally stumbling into the criminal underworld because people kept assuming they knew other people, and they kept, "yes, and"—ing. what were they gonna do? say no?

i'm obsessed with the idea of someone trying to hire billy "theater kid" fathom to kill a guy. that's hilarious. and, i mean. look. if you thought billy was any less likely to commit to the bit just because he has a different middle name, you are sorely mistaken so—who was it you were wanting menaced, again? why, exactly? uh-huh. oh, this is like an eco-terrorist–thing. yeah, okay; i gotta. sam's birthday is coming up, isn't it?

(look, it's canon that sam wanted danny to use his powers to sabotage environmentally-unfriendly vehicles at a dealership, this was never as far away as it seemed)

i think that when johnny finally got around to asking the kid; 'cause kitten was real squirrelly for a few days and then acted fine again—like i wouldn't notice something when we've been steady (well, mostly) so long—and ember was outta her groove, too, until she wasn't, ya' dig? anyway, when i asked the kid, he played it close to the chest, but he said it was just 'cause he was pulling one over on plasmius, and they got caught up in that. little dude didn't seem any different—still a buzzkill, and shadow's not fussed, so's probably nothin' to worry about.

i really like johnny as a character

(edit: okay; i double-checked because it was bugging me and i'm pretty sure i accidentally stole "fathom" as an alter-ego for danny from a fanfic i read ages ago. still clever, but not mine. in the fic it's just used as a name; the author doesn't explore the symbolism of the word choice, and the alter-ego is very different, but i'm still going to credit that as belonging to WildFireBurnsTheForest on ffn. if they're on tumblr anywhere, i can't find them.)

DP x DC prompt #78

There's a reason why the black lantern ring turns all who encounter it into mindless, crazed zombies. It's because the black lantern ring wasn't designed for living people, it was designed for ghosts. Enter Danny Fenton, the newest member of the Black Lantern Corps.

[statticscribbles]

Curse

Summary: Steve Harrington/Reader; A continuation of this Flash Challenge piece (Link Here)

“What about Henry momma!!!” You squeak from under the covers. Your mother smiles and laughs.

“Okay where is he then?”

“He’s right next to me!” You giggle and your mom leans down to kiss Henry goodnight as well; she seems startled; you’re not surprised; Henry said only sometimes was he able to make other people notice him.

“You’re special..” He mumbles braiding your hair while your mom is making lunch.

“Special how?”

“Special like me; look.” he grins. Showing you the trick he always does, moving the glass of water to the edge of the table; he always makes you push it back; you manage to do it this time without knocking it over. Your mom playfully teases you’ve gotten better with your control and asks if Henry is staying for dinner; if she needs to make extra. He surprises you by saying yes this time.

Your father eyes the second plate of roast skeptically.

“You have to eat it.” Henry swings his legs at the table like you do; although he’s much much taller than you.

“Oh, um; Momma can I have Henry’s plate; he said I need to eat it for him.”

“Of course sweetie.” You can see your father frown.

They have an argument when they think you’ve gone to bed; which turns into your mother crying and your father creeping into your room to take his anger out.

Henry lets you retreat into his mind to escape; you like the rainbow room; you like playing with the other kids; even if they look at you strangely when you use Henry’s body; you trip a lot, you’re not used to being so tall.

You come back into your own body as your father is leaving; you can feel your nose bleeding; he’s never gone for your face before. He looks scared and as the years go by you realize that was the last time he ever went into your room. It was also the last time he questioned Henry.

Steve is screaming your name and your stomach sinks; you’d told him you were busy; you barely saw Henry these days; while you knew it was silly and childish to still have an imaginary friend; you couldn’t let go of him; he seemed inclined to hold onto you as well and part of you thinks maybe it’s because of what your father used to do.

“What’s wrong you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Sorry for spacing out on you.”

“Do you do that a lot`?”

“Space out? Mhm; my mom calls me an astronaut cause of it; always did it.”

“Always?”

“Mhm; when I was little I used to tell my mom I was visiting my imaginary friend. His name was Henry, silly right... Steve?” You watch and Steve steps back a little.

“Steve?”

“Vecna’s curse...” He mumbles and you tilt your head.

“Vecna?”

“It’s how he knows so much about us, why he’s one step ahead; it’s you. You’re letting him see what’s going on... What we’re...I have to go!”

“Steve wait!” You step forward but can feel yourself collapsing suddenly, you can see your own body; it jerks forward and you can hear your voice distorted; your hands reaching out to threaten Steve; to squeeze around his throat. You can dimly remember this has happened before, with your father. You can feel your nose start to bleed.

“Henry stop..” You feel childish calling out to him but then your body stops moving; and a figure reaches a hand out to you. You reach forward trying to let Henry know you’re not in danger; that Steve was worried about you spacing out; that he was like your mom.

“He’s like your father. He’ll hurt you; worse than what your father did; worse than what I remember for you.... He will Y/N; Steve will hurt you.” Henry repeats over and over and you find yourself nodding.

“Y/N!!!! Y/N!! Fuck; music, come on something in here has to…” You blink, confused at the song that’s playing; you remember Steve showing it to you last week; you’d been so excited; it was one of your favorite songs but he’d just discovered it. You were in love with how happy he’d looked showing you; and the blush on his face when you’d been able to recite every single word.

“He’ll hurt you Y/N…” Henry sounds stressed and you frown at him a little.

“You can’t protect me forever Henry; I have to get hurt on my own sometimes..”

“Y/N you can’t leave..”

“I’m not leaving you; just spending time with other people..”

“No; you’re mine; my vessel to..” Your head starts spinning as Henry’s hand squeezes your jaw.

“Y/N!!” You can hear someone screaming your name but Henry just shakes his head.

“He’ll hurt you Y/N.” Henry mumbles petting your hair as he slowly releases your jaw and pulls you into him; instead of keeping you against the wall. The music is louder and Henry nods towards where it's coming from.

“I’ll be back; of course.”

“Why wouldn’t you’ we’re still friends.” You smile a little, but you know something has changed with how Henry nods at you.

Support My Writing?

[somanyfuckedupiftruebooks]

JonMartin Week 2022

Day 3: Roommates/Road Trips

Read it on AO3 here!

Warning for canon-typical worm content (nothing too explicit).

It's amazing how people can surprise you. Martin thinks he read that somewhere, although for the life of him he couldn't have said where. For some reason it had popped into his head right after he had finished giving Jon his statement, and ever since it had been circling his mind like swirling drain water. People can surprise you. It's amazing how people can surprise you. Amazing.

Stifling a groan, Martin leaned forward in the uncomfortable wooden chair outside Elias's office and buried his head in his hands. He was exhausted. The past 13 days had been the worst, most horrifying ordeal of his life, and now that he had finally escaped from his apartment all he wanted to do was sleep.

Unfortunately, he had nowhere to sleep. And if Jon was unsuccessful in convincing Elias to let him stay in the Archives, Martin genuinely had no idea what he was going to do.

As if in response to the morbid turn of his thoughts, he heard muffled shouting coming through the wall behind him. He couldn't make out the words, but that was definitely Jon's voice and he was definitely unhappy with whatever Elias was saying to him. Not a good sign.

Martin raised his head out of his hands to see Rosie staring at him from the corner of her eye. No doubt she was dying to know what had possessed Jon to raise his voice at the Head of the Institute. Honestly, Martin wouldn't mind knowing that himself.

He thought he'd had Jon figured out. Ever since Martin had started working in the Archives Jon had been nothing but an arsehole. A condescending, intimidating and downright rude arsehole. The kind of arsehole who worked in a glorified ghost hunting office even though he was the most skeptical man on the face of the planet. The kind of arsehole who clearly hated Martin specifically and was not at all subtle about it. Who lectured all of them constantly about professionalism, only to turn around and shamelessly bad-mouth Martin on official Institute recordings.

Just an all-round fucking arsehole.

And that was fine, really. As much as he wished it were otherwise, Martin was very used to being hated. He was too big, too clumsy, too poor, too uneducated, too desperate, too gay, too trans, too… everything else about him. There was no shortage of reasons why someone might take an instant disliking to Martin. So he could deal with it. He could work with Jon in spite of it. He could even cheerfully hate Jon back, as a matter of fact.

Martin had been so certain that this perception of his boss was accurate that he hadn't thought twice about delaying his escape from his apartment to gather up a Tupperware container full of dead worms. He'd been sure that if he showed up at the Institute without tangible evidence to substantiate his story, Jon would do nothing but sneer and dismiss him outright.

Even with the dead worms as proof, Martin had been ready for Jon to immediately announce that he was lying, or insane, or on drugs, or something else along those lines. As he had come to the end of his statement he had been bracing himself for it. But Jon had only looked at him gravely, clicked off the recorder and asked if Martin would mind waiting while he emailed Tim and Sasha.

'I'll need to inform them of what has happened,' he had said, 'and warn them to be wary of anyone following them home from the Institute tonight. We can't discount the possibility that Jane Prentiss only let you go so that you would lead her to softer targets. I'm also going to insist that from now on all members of the team make sure that any travel between their homes and the Institute takes place entirely during daylight. That seems a reasonable precaution, even if we have to adjust hours to accommodate. And of course, I will update our leave policy to indicate that anyone calling in sick must do so via phonecall, to make sure that nothing like this happens again.'

Jon was already facing his laptop and typing as he was speaking, so luckily he didn't notice Martin staring at him with his mouth hanging open like an idiot.

After a few seconds, Martin abruptly realised he should say something. 'Uhh. Yeah. That does all sound very… reasonable.'

Jon nodded sharply, not looking up from his typing.

'After that we will go see Elias. I'll strongly suggest he push these same policy changes out Institute-wide, and inform him that you will be staying in Document Storage for the foreseeable future.'

Martim blinked at him. '...in Document Storage? Why…?'

Jon stopped typing for a moment to meet Martin's gaze.

'I'm afraid I must insist that you do not return to your apartment until Jane Prentiss is no longer a threat. It's simply too dangerous. Document Storage is the only airtight room in the Archives, so I imagine it is where you will feel safest for the time being.'

'I, uh… thank you, Jon,' said Martin. 'I… I don't know what to say…'

'Then don't say anything,' Jon continued in the same controlled, even tone he had been using the entire conversation. 'I'll just be another moment.'

Martin could do nothing but sit in stunned silence. The simple fact that Jon was both taking him seriously and also taking immediate measures to protect Martin and his other assistants was somehow more of a shock than the living worm hive he'd been tormented by for almost two weeks straight.

It's amazing how people can surprise you.

Jon was radiating tension and fury by the time he stormed out of Elias's office. He only made it a few steps before Elias's voice was calling after him.

'Do close the door behind you, Jon.'

Martin watched as Jon froze in place for a few seconds, visibly getting himself under control before turning on his heel to obey. He didn't slam the door, but he did close it far more forcefully than Martin would call professional, and afterwards he looked like he was contemplating giving it a kick.

Good sense obviously won out, because Jon merely beckoned Martin to follow him before marching back down to the Archives.

'So, um, that didn't sound like it went very well?' Martin ventured.

'The Magnus Institute is a place of research and study, not a boarding house,' Jon said, in an eerily accurate impression of Elias's arrogant voice. Switching back to his own voice, Jon added, '...what a fucking arsehole.'

Martin couldn't help the startled snort of laughter that burst out of him following that remark.

Jon halted abruptly and turned to look at Martin. He was frowning, and seemed to be struggling with something.

'I think you should…' he began, then stopped and started over. 'In lieu of staying here, I wonder if you would be open to staying with me. For the time being.'

'With you?' Martin repeated, feeling very slow.

'Yes. It might not be the most… comfortable arrangement,' Jon said, which is possibly the greatest understatement of the century. Jon already looked more uncomfortable than Martin had ever seen him, avoiding eye contact and fidgeting with the sleeves of his button down. 'I'm sure you would prefer to stay with friends or family instead, but I really think it would be for the best if you were somewhere I could keep an eye on you.'

'Why would you want to keep an eye on me?' Martin asked, neatly sidestepping the comment about friends and family. He would prefer to avoid admitting that he had none (or, at least, none who would be willing to take him in).

'You are my assistant, and therefore your wellbeing is my responsibility,' Jon said, 'at least as far as it pertains to your work. And it was… distressing to realise that I have spent the past several weeks communicating with someone other than yourself regarding your wellbeing. I would prefer to avoid anything like that ever happening again.'

He feels guilty. The realisation came to Martin suddenly, and with it he felt like he finally had a handle on why John was treating him so differently to how he had been before.

Okay. He could work with this. And, realistically, he wasn't likely to receive any better offers.

'I guess it does make sense for me to stay with you,' Martin said, watching the tension bleed out of Jon as he spoke. 'I'm honestly not sure I'd be able to explain to anyone else why I can't just go back to my flat.'

'Excellent,' Jon nodded briskly. 'That's settled then. I'll just fetch my things from downstairs and we can head home immediately.'

'You're leaving work in the middle of the day?'

'I can bring a few statements with me to work on this afternoon. I'm sure that for now you would like to get settled.'

*

The journey from the Institute to Jon's apartment was conducted almost entirely in silence. Jon seemed to be filled with a weird, nervous energy that Martin didn't understand or, frankly, care to address right now. It may have been a side effect of the prolonged sleep deprivation and stress, but Martin was really struggling to believe that all of this wasn't a dream. Everything that had happened since he had first encountered Prentiss in that basement had a surreal quality to it, and he couldn't shake the feeling that at any moment he might wake up to the sound of her still knocking on his door.

The feeling persisted even as Jon was unlocking his front door and ushering Martin into a spotlessly clean apartment. Jon obviously took the same pedantic approach to his living space as he did to his work. Everything was meticulously tidy and organised, and as Martin looked around he couldn't really see any signs that someone was actually living here. The only piece of decoration was a signed and framed poster from some kind of space-themed band that Martin had never heard of. Aside from that there was no clutter, no dishes in the sink, no large houseplant that a person could conceivably jump out from behind to announce that this was all an elaborate prank (because there was no way Martin was actually going to be living here with his boss – it would just be too weird).

Thankfully, Martin wasn't tired enough to accidentally say any of that out loud.

'You have a very nice home,' was what he actually said.

'Thank you. It's just a one bedroom, but I like it because of the study nook here,' Jon said, directing Martin's attention to a large alcove off the side of the living room. 'I think if we move the desk out, there might be room to put in a cot or a camp bed of some kind. Then, if we can figure out how to hang a curtain here, you'll at least have a semblance of privacy.'

Jon was looking at Martin expectantly as he said this, as though waiting for his approval.

'That sounds great Jon,' Martin said honestly.

Jon nodded once, as though convincing himself that this was indeed the case, then clapped his hands together brusquely. 'Right, well that's a job for tomorrow then. For now, you can take my bed and I will sleep on the couch.'

'What? No! I'll sleep on the couch, that's fine.'

'I'm afraid I have to insist,' Jon said stubbornly. He had opened a closet and was pulling out fresh sheets.

'I don't care if you insist, I can't sleep in your bed Jon, that's absurd,' Martin argued.

'What is absurd is that you're arguing with me after giving a statement where you described not being able to sleep for more than a few hours at a time without fear of being eaten alive. I would think you would be too exhausted to waste your energy like this.'

Martin sighed, pushing his glasses up so that he could rub his eyes underneath them. Jon had a point. Why was he fighting this? What would it achieve?

'Fine. It's fine. Thank you, for letting me sleep here at all.'

'Of course,' Jon said, his arms now piled high with clean linen. 'Just make yourself comfortable while I sort this out. I'm afraid I don't have much in the way of groceries, but there are clean towels in the bathroom if you want to shower.'

'I'll take you up on that,' Martin said. One of the worst things about being trapped by Jane Prentiss was the sick, rotten smell that had seeped its way throughout his entire apartment. It made Martin feel perpetually filthy and, combined with the crawling paranoia inspired by the worms, it left him wanting nothing more than to scrub his entire body clean under a hot shower. Unfortunately, with no power in his apartment he'd had to make do with cold water. Even worse, the mental image of worms squirming their way towards him through the dark wet pipes had made standing under the showerhead for more than a minute or so at a time intolerable.

Martin had included these details in his statement, and from the look Jon gave him as he pointed Martin towards the bathroom, he could tell Jon remembered what he had said all too well.

*

Despite how it was still extremely weird that he was in Jon's bed, Martin collapsed into sleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow. Jon hadn't been wrong about how truly exhausted Martin had been. He had spent almost all of the past two weeks within sight of the front door of his apartment, and what little sleep he had gotten had mostly consisted of twitchy, painful naps on the floor.

The simple fact that he felt safe here was enough to send him into several hours of deep sleep filled with itching, slithering dreams. He probably would have slept straight through to the next morning if he hadn't been ripped into consciousness by the one sound he had learned to fear above all others.

There was a knock at the door, and a scream, and Marin was awake and sitting bolt upright in the bed before realising that the scream had been his. The next instant the door had opened and Jon was there, looking deeply alarmed.

'Martin! What's wrong?' Jon said. Jon, not Prentiss, because this was Jon's apartment, not Martin's, and it was Jon at the door, not Prentiss. Prentiss was not here.

Martin took a deep breath, already feeling shaky from the misplaced adrenaline.

'It's nothing,' he said. 'I'm fine. Everything is fine.'

'Are you sure?' Jon sounded skeptical.

'Yes, I'm sure,' Martin said defensively. He moved to press a hand over his pounding heart… and only then did he remember that he was not wearing his binder. And Jon was here, seeing him, not wearing his binder.

Great. Just great.

'I, ah, just thought you might–'

'Did you need something?' Martin interrupted, fighting the urge to cross his arms over his chest.

Jon blinked at him. 'Yes. Dinner. I thought you might be hungry.'

'Oh. Yes,' Martin said, surprised. 'I am. Starving, actually.'

'Right, well I'm afraid I only have canned peaches, so– kidding!' Jon said, seeing the no doubt horrified look on Martin's face. 'I'm kidding! I ordered pizza. It's ready whenever you are.'

With that, Jon left Martin alone to bury his face in his hands and quietly die of embarrassment.

Still, it wasn't long before hunger overpowered mortification and Martin got dressed and left the bedroom.

As promised, there was pizza waiting for him. Jon was already eating, sitting on the couch with his feet tucked up beside him. At some point, he had gotten changed into a soft black turtleneck and an ankle-length skirt. It looked much better on him than his usual crisp work attire, Martin noted as he helped himself to several slices of pizza. He seemed softer, more relaxed, even–

NO! For God's sake NO. Martin needed to grab his brain and shake all of the stupid, bad ideas out of it. He was NOT – repeat NOT – about to start thinking of his boss as handsome. Especially not now that Jon had the power to render him both unemployed and homeless if Martin wasn't careful.

And uh-oh, now Jon was looking at him. Please don't let his thoughts be showing on his face.

Quickly swallowing a mouthful of pizza, Martin blurted, 'I, um, don't think I've said thank you, properly, for all of this? I'm sorry if I didn't seem grateful earlier, but I really do appreciate, uh... everything you're doing.'

Jon shook his head. 'You don't have to say thank you. I meant what I said about feeling responsible for your wellbeing.' He hesitated. 'But, ah, while we are on the topic of saying and not saying things, there is a matter I would like to discuss with you.'

'Okay…' Martin said. Now, it seemed, it was Jon's turn to be self-conscious. He was once again avoiding eye contact, and had started fiddling with the black ring he wore on his hand.

'I have been told by my ex– uh, that is to say, by a former acquaintance, that I am not very good with boundaries,' Jon said awkwardly.

Unable to think of a completely neutral response to that statement, Martin opted to remain silent.

'Therefore, I believe it would be prudent to set a firm line,' Jon continued.

'A line between what?' Martin asked, unable to fathom where Jon could possibly be going with this.

'Between work and home,' Jon said. 'For the duration of our… current living arrangements, I believe it would be prudent for us to clearly delineate between our work – where I am your boss and you are my assistant – and our home – where we are… uh…'

'Friends?' Martin ventured.

'...I was going to say roommates, actually.'

'Oh! Yes, of course!'

'Because we haven't really–

'–Yeah, I realise, we're not–'

'–roommates just seems like a more accurate term–'

'–I agree,' Martin said firmly, trying to sound calm despite the fact that his face felt like it was on fire.

At least Jon wasn't faring much better. Martin hadn't seen him look so flustered since the last time someone had offered him an apple full of human teeth.

'Right, well I am glad we were able to get that sorted,' Jon said.

On that note, the two lapsed into awkward silence until Martin couldn't stand it anymore.

'Would you like a cup of tea?' he asked.

'Oh, yes, that would be wonderful,' Jon said, with obvious relief. He got to his feet, smoothing his skirt out straight as he stood. 'Let me show you where everything is.'

Martin took a deep breath before following Jon into the kitchen, willing himself to believe that eventually things would get better between himself and his new… roommate.

@jonmartinweek

[ghostbustermelanieking]

📓!!

i've posted about this idea before a million times, but: archivist melanie fic. i've had this idea for such a long time, and i would love to riff on it if i ever get the motivation.

so the basic premise of this ends up being a semi melanie-jon role swap, but: essentially jon does not work at the institute, and melanie comes in to give her statement sooner. (her statement takes place in january of 2015, so this actually sort of works?? but i'd probably mess with the timeline so melanie has her encounter with the slaughter, and ghost hunt uk breaks up, sooner.) elias doesn't see a clear candidate for the archivist after murdering gertrude -- he's considering tim, he's considering rosie, but no one feels like a clear fit... but then he meets melanie, who isn't exactly a perfect fit, but... she's doubly marked, by the slaughter and the stranger. and with the drive she has for investigation, it seems like it would be easy to orchestrate twelve more.

so melanie takes the archivist job, with sasha, tim, and martin as her assistants (just because), and her approach ends up even more focused on investigation than jon's. (she refuses to look into the most outlandish ones -- she's still as skeptical of the institute as she is in canon -- but there's plenty grounded in evidence that she's ready to investigate.) tim and sasha fall into this easily, of course, with their experience in research, and they all end up more or less bonding, because why not (melanie canonically liked sasha, and was friends with martin, and i think she would've gotten along better with tim under better circumstances...). georgie, of course, is still close with melanie, and ends up being much more involved with things, and while the institute initially seems like a good thing for melanie -- a new opportunity and a chance to find closure -- it also ends up being a little frightening as time goes on, as melanie's eye powers start to develop, and the slaughter starts to take a greater hold on her...

so in this au, jon comes into the story when he's convinced (either by coincidence, by georgie, or by the web) to give a statement about mr. spider. there's little to no evidence, and melanie would probably dismiss it if it wasn't for the fact that a) jon is friends with georgie, or used to be friends with georgie, and b) the fact that martin and jon immediately hit it off, and martin pushes to investigate more. they can't find anything about jon's statement, but they do decide to look into more spider statements to see if there's a connection. specifically, first, the carlos vittery case. which martin and melanie go to investigate together. and this time, instead of martin, jane prentiss follows the archivist home.

melanie is trapped for a few days with her phone gone. but this time, people get clued in faster -- partially because georgie, who texts with melanie all the time, knows that prentiss's texts are nothing like melanie, and partially because martin was there at the basement with her. they manage to break her out after a few days. melanie ends up staying with georgie instead of in the institute because georgie insists ("you're not staying in the office, melanie; i'll be fine"). jon finds out about this through georgie and, despite the tension he and melanie had when he gave his statement, he calls to apologize. (and is more or less adopted into this strange little circle because of his connection with georgie, and his new tentative friendship with martin.)

the prentiss attack goes very similarly, except for one thing: when the dust has settled, and melanie is getting patched up in an ambulance outside, and tim and martin start hugging a strange woman and calling her sasha... melanie sees through it. she sees through it, and can't say anything, because the others won't believe her, and the not!sasha knows it, keeps smirking at melanie over their shoulders. that isn't sasha, and something has happened to her.

melanie tells georgie, convinces georgie to believe her. they go back into the archives while it is empty (everyone on leave) and tear it apart, looking for references to what this is. (melanie remembers the amy patel statement, but wants more information...) eventually they find the statement from mag 78, the one with adelard dekker. they put together the pieces about the table. melanie goes to tim and martin, and they don't believe her, but she convinces them to come with her, to just see the table, and that's when they destroy it, releasing sasha and letting the not!them loose all at once.

(yes, sasha lives in this au; not because melanie is the archivist, but just because i don't wanna kill sasha, shhh)

there is the canon-typical not-sasha chase, with a sasha that only melanie recognizes along for the ride. jurgen leitner still shows up and traps it, but melanie refuses his offers to talk. none of them want answers, at this point, after prentiss and the not!them; they just want out. they go to elias to try and quit, and are unable to, of course. (even after melanie threatens him with a letter opener.) they are trapped, for now.

everyone takes their time off, although none of them really stay away; tim and martin and georgie are all waiting for their memories of sasha to go right, and after tim and melanie's wounds heal a little, they're meeting almost daily to try and figure out how to leave the institute. but in all the confusion and exhaustion and trauma, one thing all of them forget to do is fill in jon. (how can they? strange spiders and worms are one thing, but this... it all seems a little much.) this ends up being a mistake when, on everyone's first day back to the archives, elias announces a new coworker. he shows jon down, who looks confused and maybe even a little hurt when everyone loudly protests. elias smiles at melanie and tells her it's a shame they can't bring that host of what the ghost on -- that she would surely be a valuable resource to the archives as well.

so i'm not sure where the fic goes from here; in my mind, it's always cut off with elias essentially hiring jon as a hostage to keep the others under control. with the 197 reveal that the web hand picked jon as the archivist, though... i did have a new idea for a continuation. one where, in a sped up timeline with the revelations of s2 and early s3 having come in about a week -- and with the web's chosen archivist finally in the institute -- the web starts to orchestrate situations where jon gets marked alongside melanie. and it catches things before they progress too far. it shows melanie eric delano's tape instead of steering her away -- like it did jon -- in the hopes that melanie will blind herself to get free of the institute. so that the archivist position will be open for jon.

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

Dead Man’s Cell Phone--Chapter 2

Summary: When Emma Swan starts getting phone calls and texts from an unfamiliar number, she decides to check it out–only to discover the number belongs to a Killian Jones, who was killed in a robbery gone wrong six months ago.  With some help from a medium, Merlin Emrys, Emma hopes to find out why a dead guy is contacting her–and why she feels such a strong pull to someone she has never met before.

Rating: K+

Tagging a few people who may be interested (Let me know if you want to be added or taken off the list): @sailormew4 @annaamell @flslp87 @emmateo26 @bethacaciakay @ultraluckycatnd @effulgent-mind @ilovemesomekillianjones@kat2609 @brooke-to-broch @missgymgirl @galadriel26 @the-lady-of-misthaven @charmingturkeysandwich @jennjenn615 @laschatzi @kimmy46 @snowbellewells @iamanneenigma @daxx04 @nickillian @a-rose-for-a-savior@in-spirational @gillie  @britishguyslover @ginnyjinxedandhanshotritafirst@kmomof4  @linda8084 @golfgirld @captain-swan-coffee @searchingwardrobes @hollyethecurious @laughswaytoomuch@allyourdarlingswans @winterbaby89 @facesiousbutton82 @cssns @therooksshiningknight, @lfh1226-linda @tiganasummertree @eastwesthomeisbest @dreamingdreamsalways @xsajx @justren21 @laughterandbooks @cocohook38​ @therealstartraveller776​

Welcome to my entry for the Captain Swan Supernatural Summer! A big thank you to @cssns​, the ladies on the Discord!  Thank you also to @eastwesthomeisbest​, my artist and my beta @veryverynotgood​!

Other Chapters: Prologue 1 3 4 Epilogue 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"So after the phone calls, the text messages started coming," Emma said, settling into her best friend's plush sofa.

"Texts?" Mary Margaret asked curiously before taking a sip of her tea. "What kind of texts?"

It felt like Emma had known Mary Margaret forever. Both girls were placed in the system at young ages-Emma, because her parents abandoned her on the side of a road as an infant, and Mary Margaret, because her parents both died of illness. They ended up in the same group home, and quickly became the best of friends. They were closer than sisters until the day Mary Margaret was adopted by Cora Mills, and then eventually, Emma was fostered by Ruth Nolan.

Even after being placed with other families, Emma and Mary Margaret kept in touch-letters, phone calls, even the occasional visit. On one such visit, Emma's foster brother, David, was home from college, and as soon as he and Mary Margaret met, it was love at first sight.

They were so in love it was honestly a bit nauseating.

When they got married fresh out of college, Emma couldn't be happier. She'd always considered Mary Margaret her sister in all the ways that counted, and now they truly were.

There was no doubt about it - Mary Margaret Nolan was the person Emma was closest to in the entire world, and so it was only natural that when the weird stuff with the cell phone started happening, Emma decided to discuss it with her.

"Weird ones," Emma answered, taking a sip of her own hot cocoa with cinnamon. "Stuff like Help! or You're the only one who can save me!. And then some of them were even stranger. Just...random letters and symbols, almost like someone was randomly pressing buttons on a keyboard."

"So what did you do?" Mary Margaret asked, sitting on the other side of the sofa and turning toward Emma.

Emma shrugged. "I tried answering at first. You know, you hear about people who are abducted and, like, stuck in a basement for years and stuff like that. I kept thinking, what if someone really needed help and I just...ignored them?"

"And what happened when you answered?" Mary Margaret asked.

"Nothing," Emma answered before taking another sip. "No answer, just another cryptic text several hours later. Finally, I decided I'd had enough. Either someone needed help, or someone was messing with me. I decided I'd call the number, decide whether I needed to help them or tell them to go f-" She stopped, glancing over at Mary Margaret's toddler playing with blocks nearby. "Well, go do something not at all child-friendly to themselves."

"Let me guess, your call didn't get through."

"Nope," Emma confirmed, "but it was even weirder than that. I dialed the number just after receiving a text, but it went directly to voicemail."

"But that's not possible!" Mary Margaret exclaimed.

"Right?" Emma said. "So I tried to ignore the whole thing. Maybe the phone was just...I don't know..glitching or something, although I don't know how a technological glitch could make phone calls and text someone. Anyway, for some reason, I just can't let go. Even though I don't know him, somehow I feel a...connection...to this Killian Jones. I just-I don't know what to do about it."

Mary Margaret was silent for a moment, taking several sips of her steaming beverage, before turning back to Emma with a cautious look in her eyes. "There is...there is another possibility, if you have an open mind."

"Just how open are we talking?"

"Pretty open," Mary Margaret said. "What if-and just hear me out, I know this is crazy-what if Killian Jones is contacting you from beyond the grave."

"What, like a ghost?"

Mary Margaret shrugged. "I mean, I know it sounds crazy, but why not? One of the other teachers I work with was talking about this medium. His name is Merlin Emrys. Supposedly he can contact the dead and see ghosts and stuff like that."

"A medium? Seriously?" Emma asked, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. "Mary Margaret, you know those people are frauds. It's all about researching their marks ahead of time and then cold reading them. They're only in it to bleed as much cash out of vulnerable people as possible."

"I know it sounds crazy," Mary Margaret conceded, "but what if it's not? I've thought about going to him myself. If I could just talk to my parents one more time-make sure they're okay, make sure they've moved on, or whatever happens after someone dies. Well, it would provide a lot of comfort."

Emma's heart turned over, and she took her friend's hand. She knew how much Mary Margaret missed her parents. It was different for Emma. She'd never known her parents, only knew they'd tossed her out like garbage. She wasn't sure she even wanted to find them.

"I know you miss them," Emma said.

"I do," Mary Margaret said, "but that's not the point. The point is...what do you have to lose? Maybe this Merlin is just a quack like you said, but maybe not. Maybe he could be the key to unravelling the whole mystery."

Emma was silent for a moment. It was crazy; she knew it was. A medium wasn't going to give her the answers she needed if all her bail bonds tricks had failed her, but what the hell?

"Fine. I'll go see Merlin," Emma caved.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Emma's eyebrows rose as she took in the small, ranch-style house Mary Margaret had directed her to. She was skeptical before seeing the place, but now-now red flags were going up everywhere.

There was a huge, gaudy sign out front that read "Merlin, the great and powerful. Wizard of the unknown and medium of the great beyond." The sign-indeed the entire front of the house-was decorated with all kinds of astrological signs and symbols.

Was this guy even for real?

Emma seriously considered turning around and getting back in her car, but she'd promised Mary Margaret she'd at least check this Merlin out and give him a chance, and Emma was a woman of her word. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

A moment later, an older man with longish, thinning gray hair and a rather unkempt gray beard opened the door. He was wearing long robes. Really playing the part, apparently.

"Merlin Emrys, I presume?" Emma asked as the man welcomed her inside with a sweep of his hand.

The man chuckled. "I'm afraid not. I'm merely his apprentice. Who might I tell Merlin is calling?"

Emma cocked an eyebrow. "You mean your all powerful boss didn't see me coming with his second sight or whatever?"

Emma stepped inside and the apprentice shut the door after her. "My master isn't clairvoyant. He merely has the ability to speak with the dead."

"Right," Emma said, not even trying to tamp down the skepticism in her voice. "I'm Emma Swan, and I'm here to-"

He stopped her with a raised hand. "Don't say too much. Merlin does not wish to be influenced by his clients. He wishes to sense the energy around you for himself."

Emma shrugged. "Sorry."

"It's quite alright," the apprentice said, moving toward large drapes at the far end of the room. "I'll be just a moment. Please, make yourself comfortable."

Emma looked around the room while she waited, and it took everything in her to keep from rolling her eyes. This guy was really playing up the whole "psychic" thing. It felt like she was in some sort of fortune teller carnival tent. All the signs and symbols. This guy even had a crystal ball. An actual crystal ball.

This trip was a massive waste of her time, but maybe it would at least prove to be entertaining.

"Emma Swan, welcome!"

Emma looked up at the handsome black man who made his way through the curtains. He was dressed in much the same way as his apprentice, only he wore a sorcerer's pointy hat on his head.

"Uh, thanks," Emma said, stepping forward and offering her hand. "Full disclosure. I'm more than a little bit of a skeptic, so if this is one of those 'it can only work if you truly believe' deals, we might have a problem."

"My gift can withstand the doubts of the skeptic," he chuckled before reaching out and taking her hand.

No sooner had his hand touched hers than he gasped, taking a step back, eyes going wide. "Would you-would you care to follow me back to my private sitting room, Miss Swan? It's far more comfortable back there."

Emma cocked a brow again, wondering what this odd man was on about. Still, she didn't sense any overt deception in him, and he didn't seem to be any threat to her, so she shrugged before following him through the curtains.

This backroom was far more ordinary than the room they'd just inhabited. Emma took a plush armchair, and Merlin sat on a sofa across from her.

Merlin pulled off his hat and sat it beside him. "I apologize for all the theatrics, Miss Swan," he said, reaching for a pot of tea and then raising an eyebrow in question. Emma declined the beverage with a small shake of her head, and Merlin proceeded to pour himself a cup. "I attempt to play up to what most clients expect from a psychic. Unfortunately, most poor souls who come to see me are out of luck. The loved one they wish to contact has passed on. For most, all I can do amounts to smoke and mirrors. I could tell the moment I shook your hand that you were different."

Emma inwardly scoffed. She knew enough about cons not to be fooled by a clever con man. Made sense he'd use a different tactic with a skeptic than he would with some poor, grief-stricken sap who was a true believer.

"No offense, but I still think you're full of crap," she said.

Merlin smiled. "It seems those with the most energy surrounding them always do."

"So, what?" Emma asked. "Are there ghosts all around me or something?"

"There are a few spirits here with us today," Merlin confirmed. "There's one who's quite insistent. It's a man; looks as though he died rather young. I don't sense he's family, but you were close. Maybe coworkers? Perhaps friends?"

Emma took a deep breath, a face coming to mind. Surely he couldn't mean-

"I'm getting a G in the name," Merlin said slowly. "Greg or Gray….no. Graham."

Emma's heart turned over. Graham. Sweet, slightly dorky Graham Humbert. They'd worked together on more than a few cases, and they'd become good friends.

In fact, they'd been teetering on the precipice of possibly becoming more than friends when he died suddenly.

"How did you know to mention Graham? How did you know that name would get the biggest rise out of me?" Emma demanded, voice hard.

"I don't choose the spirits who come to me," Merlin explained calmly, "I merely give them a voice. Graham is pleased to see you again. He's glad you're doing well."

The anger came then, spurred on by the pain the memory of Graham's death brought back. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"He died quite suddenly, didn't he?" Merlin asked, ignoring her question. "I'm feeling a tightness in my chest. Something with his heart?"

"Heart attack," Emma confirmed tightly. "He had a heart attack right in front of me and died in my arms."

"He's sorry, so very sorry you had to go through that," Merlin said, putting a comforting hand on her arm. "He never wanted to be a source of pain for you."

Emma felt the tears at the back of her eyes and had to take a deep breath to keep them from falling. "Yeah, well, he didn't exactly have a say in the matter. Look, I don't know how you knew to bring up Graham, but I'm still not buying it."

"He apologizes he couldn't bring you a bear claw today," Merlin continued with a smile. "Oh, and he asks if you remember the day he thought he saw a wolf. He wants you to know he wasn't drunk. It really was there-in spirit at least."

Emma gasped, remembering the night she and Graham had gone to the Rabbit Hole for a drink after a long shift and Graham swore he spotted a big, gray wolf right there on the main street of town. Emma had made fun of him for that, telling him he'd clearly imbibed a bit too much that night. There's no way Merlin could have known about that incident. He couldn't have found it in any newspaper or online article about Graham's death.

Was it...was it possible this guy was the real deal?

"Okay, I admit, it's weird you'd bring that up," Emma said. "Let's say I believe you, can you ask Graham if he's okay? If he, like, moved on or whatever?"

"You just asked him," Merlin said. "He's here with us and can hear you. He wants to tell you that he is okay. He's more than okay; he's happy. He's moved on, and he's at peace, more than he could have ever thought possible."

Emma smiled, feeling comfort at the thought.

"There's someone else here with us as well," Merlin said. "Another male presence, but I don't believe you know this one. This one seems angry, desperate."

"Um...should we be scared?" Emma asked.

Merlin shook his head. "He doesn't mean us harm, only wants his story told. He's too indistinguishable to speak now, but I sense he'll be accompanying us on our journey today as well."

Wonderful. An angry, desperate ghost guide. Just fantastic.

"So, Emma," Merlin said, after a moment, "what brings you to me tonight?"

Emma pulled out her phone and laid out the entire story for Merlin. She told him about the calls, the texts, everything. Merlin took her phone in hand and gasped as soon as it touched his hand.

"There is a huge amount of energy here," he said. "There's no doubt a spirit has attached itself to you-or at least your phone."

Emma felt a chill. "My phone is haunted?"

"Not precisely," Merlin murmured, turning the device over in his hand. "Someone wishes to get your attention; wishes for you to help him, but there's something odd here, something I can't quite place."

"What do you mean?"

"The spirit is...indistinct," Merlin said, "hazy and just beyond my reach. I've never experienced anything like this."

Emma waited, her curiosity more than piqued at Merlin's odd reaction to her cell phone.

After a moment, Merlin's eyes widened. "Your friend Graham cleared up the mystery for me."

"What?" Emma asked. "What does Graham say is going on?"

"The reason I can't get a clear read on the spirit attached to your phone-this Killian Jones-is, well, because he's not dead."

Notes:

-So there you have it. For those of you who have wondered how this story could possibly have a happy ending since Killian is dead-this is how. He's not actually dead!

-Up next: With Merlin's help, Emma finds out how this is all possible-and she finds the not-dead Killian Jones.

                                                                            Next Chapter-->

[thepartyresponsible]

this soundtrack fill is for kittenlzlz, who i cannot tag because it’s all sabotage all the time over here. also, i'm sorry, i didn’t realize you’d changed your prompt until after i wrote this one, so this is for the first thing you sent in.

anyway, here’s some dystopian sci-fi angst for sam and bucky with a hopeful ending. the song for this one is “achilles come down” by gang of youth.

                                                         —

When he was young, Sam spent thirty-seven weeks in New Mexico, learning how to keep people alive until evac. That others may live was a motto they preferred to operationalize rather than idealize, and, without the EMT training, pararescue tended to turn into high-risk body retrieval. So he spent the better part of a year learning how to keep a body breathing, and he learned, also, how to recognize when any effort was likely to be wasted.

Which is how he knows that what he’s looking at isn’t fully human. Because a human would already be dead.

It’s the blood that tells him, more than anything else. The Chitauri bleed a thick, dark blue substance that goes black if their cybernetics are leaking. And there’s plenty of blue and black puddled on the asphalt, but that red is a hemoglobin gift, and that means it’s all human.

“Shit, man,” Sam says, crouching next to the only human at this massacre. “You could keep a blood bank in business all by yourself.”

The man lifts his head and blinks at him, slow and a little dazed. Not dazed enough, though. He can almost focus on Sam’s face. “Not anymore,” he says, after a beat.

More blood bubbles up at the corners of his mouth. Sam can see it between his teeth.

“Yeah,” Sam says. And he laughs, because he might as well. Because he came out here with a team of ten to clean out the aliens, and it looks like one guy did their work for them. “Guess not.”

He’s a pathetic sight, really. Ragged body armor, hair clumped together, skin sticky with blood and ichor. He’s belly down on the cracked parking lot, and there’s a smear of blood behind him, showing exactly how far he’s managed to drag himself.

Sam’s not excited about what he’s going to see, when he rolls this guy over on his back.

“You gonna fight me if I help you?” he asks.

Most of them, these Enhanced, the surviving Super Soldiers, they can’t help it. Sam’s had to put a few down himself, although not for a while now. It’s been almost a year since he had to kill anything with a human face.

The man sighs. He rests his forehead against the asphalt, closes his eyes. His fingers flex and then go still. “I don’t know,” he says.

That others may live, Sam thinks. But the problem has always been that lives are balanced on both sides of the scales, and, sometimes, saving one means sacrificing another.

This man killed fifteen Chitauri, and he did it alone. There are kids back at the base. Vulnerable people.

The safest choice would be to leave him here. Let him save himself, if he can. But Sam’s never really been the safe choice type.

“Okay,” he says, hands curling around his shoulders, carefully rolling the man over on his back, “let’s see the damage.”

It’s enough to kill a human. But that’s not really what he’s dealing with.

                                                           —    

The Super Soldiers were a desperation play. Sam was supposed to be one of them. The best of Earth’s fighters, dosed with serum, patched up with cybernetics based on Chitauri tech, sent out to face the enemies that had invaded the planet.

Sam’s still not sure exactly how it happened, what level of their defenses failed. He only knows failure by its consequences.

The neural implants were hacked. The soldiers turned against their people. Sam, who’d been four days out from his own procedure, was shifted to a team tasked with hunting them down and eliminating them.

These days, there aren’t many left. There’s not much of anyone left. The Chitauri fundamentally misunderstood their target. Sam could’ve warned them. The species of mutually assured destruction was never going to die quiet.

He thinks about that while the Soldier sleeps, chained to a bed in a locked basement in an abandoned building two miles from the base. Sam keeps watch. He has a radio in case anything goes wrong, but he doesn’t intend to use it for anything other than warning them what’s coming.

“I could’ve been you,” Sam tells him. And then, smiling at nothing, shaking his head, “Hell, you could’ve been me.”

He wonders where he’s from. He wonders what his name is.

He wonders, when he can’t help it, what he did. If he ever killed anyone Sam used to know.

                                                           —    

The Soldier sleeps for forty hours and then sits straight up in bed, rips the chains off his wrists like they’re pipe cleaners, and then turns to face Sam. “What the hell,” he says.

“Oh, well,” Sam says, too startled to be afraid. “Didn’t want anyone stealing you.”

The Soldiers makes a face at him, an incredulous sneer that twists up his mouth and pulls his dark eyebrows together, and he looks so human, so perfectly skeptical, that Sam starts laughing.

“Well,” he says, with a shrug, “you killed fifteen aliens with a tire iron. You’re a treasure.”

“And I want it back.” he says, immediately. “Where’s my tire iron?”

“Confiscated,” Sam says.

He glares, and Sam‘s probably meant to be intimidated, but he knows – they both know – that, if this guy wanted to scare Sam, he could just start breaking bones. Or walls. “I want it back when I leave.”

“Leave,” Sam repeats. He kicks back in his chair, balances on the back legs as he swings his feet up onto the Soldier’s bed. “Why’re you leaving?”

The Soldier stares at Sam’s booted feet near his knees. “Usually it’s the fact that I’m a timebomb that chases me off,” he says, “but it looks like your manners are the real horrorshow around here.”

Sam grins at him. He’s merciless about it, uses the most charming smile in his arsenal. He expects the guy to soften a bit, but he’s not expecting the doubletake he gets, the there-and-away bounce of his stare, like Sam’s suddenly something he wants to look at but doesn’t want to get caught looking at.

Huh, he thinks.

“When’s the last time you hurt someone?” Sam asks.

The Soldier’s face crumples up and then flattens out. “What is this? Some kinda trial? An interrogation?”

“If this were an interrogation, I wouldn’t’ve given you the soft pillows,” Sam tells him.

The Soldier doesn’t look like he buys it. But, after a moment, he tips his head to the side. “Probably wouldn’t want to get blood on these white sheets,” he acknowledges.

“Christ,” Sam says, because that more or less seems to be the only thing he could possibly say to something like that.

The Soldier shrugs. He brushes his hair away from his face, blinks, and gives Sam a skeptical sideways stare. “Did you wash my hair?”

“With a firehose,” Sam confirms. “Damn near shaved the whole thing off. You were a mess, man.”

He shrugs. “It’s messy work.”

And, sure, it is. Sam knows. His base is the first resettlement outpost in this region. They’ve been clearing Chitauri out of the area for months.

But he still takes a damn shower whenever possible.

“Who were you?” Sam asks. “Before the program?”

The Soldier looks away. Looks at nothing. After a long pause, he recites, careful and rote, “Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 107th.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “James. When’s the last time you hurt a human being?”

He worries at his lower lip, teeth pressing into the skin. He’s quiet for a very long time. “Thirteen months, ten days,” he says, finally.

Sam considers the timeline. “You think it’s over?”

“I think the implant’s in my fucking brain,” he says. “It’ll be over at brain death.”

“It’s just a chip,” Sam says. “It’s not sentient. Someone’s gotta send the message, right?”

The Soldier’s jaw works. “Even if the aliens stay out, there’s gonna be plenty of people who want to use someone like me, as soon as they rebuild enough to manage.”

It’s a hell of thing, and it could’ve been Sam.

He nudges the Soldier’s knee with his boot, and the Soldier stares at the point of contact. He doesn’t look angry anymore. If Sam had to use a word to describe the expression on the Soldier’s face, he thinks he’d use something bittersweet and barbed, something like lonely or longing.

“Gonna be a long damn time before anyone’s rebuilt,” he says.

“Aliens could have reinforcements here at any time,” the Soldier says.

“Maybe,” Sam says, although he thinks they might’ve learned some kind of lesson. At the very least, they’ve probably learned that it’s just not worth the effort.

“Look,” Sam says. “I think you should come back to the base.”

“No,” he says. Immediate and definite, louder then he’s been so far.

Sam expected it. Maybe part of him hoped for it. “Okay,” he says. “Then we’ll stay here. And, when you’re better, I want you to take a radio. And I want you to check in with us. All right? Every day.”

The Soldier stares at him. “Why the hell would you want that?”

Sam smiles, studies the hollows of the Soldier’s face, the scars, the freckles he must’ve earned when he was young, used to play too long in the sun. He has, Sam thinks, beautiful eyes. “There’s not a lot of us left,” he says.

“‘Us,’” the Soldier repeats, scoffing audibly.

“Us,” Sam repeats. He nudges the Soldier’s knee again, and the Soldier cuts his eyes away, glares at the wall. But, a moment later, he shifts, leans his knee into Sam.

                                                         —      

His name is Bucky Barnes. He’s fussy as hell, stubborn beyond belief, helpful every chance he can get, and fond of cats and songbirds. He doesn’t cheat at cards, and he doesn’t accuse Sam of it either, even when Sam beats him damn near every hand.

He’s a good man. Even now.

“I’m gonna miss you,” Sam says. Because it’s been two weeks, and Bucky’s decided he’s well enough to go.

Bucky ducks his head. “Shut up,” he says.

Sam wonders if he was always this head shy about affection.

“C’mere,” he says. “I’ll give you a goodbye kiss.”

“Shut up,” Bucky says, practically scuttling away, head still ducked. When he raises it, he’s grinning one of his ghost grins, the ones that almost show who he used to be, like a faint echo of a louder, happier man.

“Okay,” Sam says. “But if I don’t get a goodbye kiss, I’m definitely not gonna talk dirty to you on that radio. You gotta put in the work, Bucky.”

“I hate you,” Bucky tells him, and his crush couldn’t be more obvious. Sam would be embarrassed for him, if he weren’t busy being charmed.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says. “Check in every day, or I’m gonna track you down.”

“Hm,” Bucky says. He adjusts his pack on his shoulders. He’s got that tire iron, an alarming number of knives, and two guns. He’s setting off to kill more aliens. He’s going alone. “That supposed to be a threat?”

He was a Barnes in the Army and Sam was a Wilson in the Air Force, and so Bucky is a Super Soldier and Sam is not. It’s unpredictable, sometimes, the way mercy falls.

“Be careful out there,” Sam says, and he knocks his elbow against Bucky’s.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He rolls his eyes and then catches Sam watching, and he blinks, falters. “Yeah,” he says, again. Softer, steadier. A promise, not a joke.

Sam considers him, lets the moment hang. Waits. Sometimes, all Bucky needs is the space and time to make up his own mind.

“I’m gonna miss you, too,” Bucky says.

“There it is,” Sam says, grinning, almost crowing in triumphant. “There--”

“Oh, Jesus,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes again, getting theatrical about it. “I already regret saying it.”

“Can’t take it back,” Sam taunts, grinning wide and smug.

“I’m going,” Bucky says, and he starts off, doesn’t look back.

“Hey, Buck,” Sam calls, when Bucky’s just about to break through the treeline, disappear into the woods. “I hate to see you go, but I love----”

“Fuck off, Sam!” Bucky says, but he’s laughing, and Sam can still hear it – surprised and happy, fully human – even after Bucky disappears.

[like-rain-or-confetti]

Ghosts are Guilt? (Alec Volturi x Reader)

WARNING: Dark Themes!

Alec stared you down. You were sitting on the floor, your back to him. What immediately caught his eyes were the matching hand prints around your upper arms. They were a deep purple, and perfect imprints of hands. However they weren't from him. Despite that, you hadn't said a word since the incident and no one talked about what happened, seemingly carrying on as normal- or at least trying to. Everyone but you. 

This was how you spent your days, sitting around never making eye contact and never saying a word. It had been a situation that very quickly became out of hand. You had tried to escape just as you had many times before and Alec as well at the Volturi had enough. Suddenly, Demetri grabbed you tightly, and much like he had done many times before to receptionists. He tossed you into a near by wall. It wasn't too far of a distance but you had hit your head pretty hard. Seemingly the point was made because you never tried to escape again. Although you also never said another word. 

Alec did everything he could possibly think of to provoke you to speak to him. At first he let you sulk. He was determined to beat you at your own game...but you never let up. Alec tried to talk to you. No response. He got angry. Nothing. No matter how gentle or aggressive he was, you offered no response and continued to look dazed, as though not very present. 

It was difficult to determine if you were more injured than thought and that's what provoked your behavior but as time passed, it seemed more likely that you were trying to punish everyone.  Regardless, it had been weeks and Alec had about enough. 

"You know, I've tried to be nice." Alec began. "Even felt sympathy for you. I was concerned when you got hurt. Yet this is the exact reason why you got hurt. This stubbornness, the sheer inability to do as your told got you in that situation. I told you not to try this, that you were lucky you were getting all these chances. Now here you sit, like a spoiled child in silence until you get your own way. What do you want!?" Alec began to raise his voice. You kept your back to him, in the same place on the floor you had been. "If you want to continue spending your days sulking like a child, you do that. The rest of us will be moving on without you!" He snapped. 

After his outburst, Alec felt the anger wash away. He caught sight of the book you had left on his desk. He couldn't help but note that the book still lay open where you had last left it before the incident. You hadn't touched it since.

Alec caught on that something was wrong when four days passed and you hadn't moved. Even he had to leave the room to feed yet you hardly moved an inch from where you had sat previously. Furthermore, no one acknowledged you, no one wondered why you hadn't left the room in days. Soon enough, that day began to linger in his mind more than he'd have liked to admit. 

“You know I wasn't just a space in your head. I am the flesh and bone and I bleed like the rest.” Something was off in your tone, but Alec couldn't place it. You had turned to look at him and were standing, despite not making any movement to do so previously. "What?" Alec asked quietly. You simply tilted your head, jaw clenched and staring at him. Your expression was almost expectant? However Alec had no idea what you expected from him. He ignored your words. "So you do know how to speak." Alec said icily.  You looked at Alec, almost expectantly, with cold eyes. A stare that made it clear you'd hold no prisoners, show no mercy. "How long are we going to do this?" You asked. "How long are you going to pretend that I'm in this room, when we both know where i actually am?" Alec was taken aback, processing your words when his memory interrupted his confusion.  The grate being opened that day. "They...they're not breathing." Alec said in disbelief. Demetri looked down at your body. Aro was summoned. "Get Chelsea." Aro said lightly. Alec shook away the thoughts.

“Erasing all your memories? Darling, they won't go so easily.” You chuckled darkly before scoffing. Alec would have to do better than that. As if you'd allow him to forget.  Alec remembered Demetri dragging your body to the open grate. Just himself, Aro and Demetri present. His memory was interrupted with a scoff.  "Oh come on Alec. See all those little lies, chase them away. Like you did the butterflies when you were human. The butterfly lies- chase them away. Be honest. You were never a liar, don't start now." You were right. Jane and Marcus were there too. Alec did nothing to stop Demetri. He watched it happen, like everyone else. Suddenly a whimper rang out in his ears. "I'm sorry!" He recognised your voice immediately. 

Horror rushed though him and you seemed to sense it just as quickly. "Don't stop now." You smirked at him. "The Volturi don't give second chances. Remember?" There was a heavy silence between you. "What? Don't tell me you're remorseful now. I deserved it! Wasn't it satisfying hearing my skull cave in?" "Stop it!" Alec said quickly, your words reminding him of the crunch. "So you do feel guilt?" You laughed at Alec before taking a breath. "You know, I told you something once. Something I had heard. 'Ghosts are guilt.' Perhaps you took it more to heart than you thought." You tilted your head. "Are you trying to tell me you're a ghost?" Alec asked quietly and you snorted. "Of course not! You don't believe in them."  “Does that matter?” Alec whispered.  “Right now it does.” You responded. “So do you?”  “No.” Alec said quietly.  “Then think, why could i be here?” You leaned forward slightly.  “I don’t know.”  “You do.” You said flatly. “We both do. I know that you know. You just don’t want to think about it.”  

 There was a steady silence. “Where am I?” You asked. “In our room.” Alec responded with a frown. “Really? It’s colder than I remember.” You said casually. Somehow that last part didn't sit well with Alec. As though tugging on his mind but whatever it was, he didn't want to think about it. Not even a little. "I wouldn't know. I don't feel the cold...but there hasn't been a shift in temperature." Alec wanted to press you on the 'remember' part but before he could entertain the idea. You spoke up. "Oh, another symptom of your bad luck I suppose." Alec spared you a glance, thinking for a moment. "Immortality? That isn't bad luck." You wore a skeptical expression before challenging him. “Isn’t it bad luck? Isn’t it a curse? You’re forced to sit here, watch the rest of us come and go as the world changes for better or worse- the only consistent thing being that it’s never the same as it was in your time. You’re the permanent outsider, by choice, living to hide at that. So perhaps you’re not content with immortality. Instead, you’re sitting there, forcing yourself to believe it will be fine. The next century might be your lucky moment.” "Of course you wouldn't have a single idea what it is like to be immortal." Alec scoffed coldly. "I know what it is to be stuck. You made sure of that. Even then, I left you in the end. You let him rob me of tomorrow and the days after that." "What are you talking about?" Alec asked, getting increasingly annoyed by the guilt bubbling inside him, slowly rising. “Maybe for you there are countless tomorrows, but you stole mine. This day, has been endless to me. Days have passed for you but that’s how time works when you’re alive right? I am trapped in a very long day.” You sighed before narrowing your eyes on Alec, leaning forward again. "You know I never made it back to this room. So why don’t you say where (Y/N) really is?” As his mind flashbacks to the throne room, he couldn't help but notice you had spoken in the third person. 

As though hearing his thoughts, you laughed with a condescending shake of your head. "Seriously? Catch up, Alec. You have all the pieces. So put them together." Alec hit a mental wall, unwilling to think back to the day just so that you could torture him. Your next words shook him to his core.  “I’m you. Everything I say, isn’t (Y/N). You said it yourself, you said you don’t believe in ghosts. Everything we talk about, comes from your head and yours alone. These are your thoughts Alec. Although it seems that day never ended for us, so until you face this. I am (Y/n). Be honest with yourself and you’ll be rid of me...of (Y/N).” You smiled at him, a menacing smile. “So why don’t you say where (Y/N) really is?”  Alec remembered it clearly. 

The sound your body made, the thud as you hit the bottom...the bottom of the drain. "You left them down there. They are there right now. In the dark, in the cold. They're down there decaying away until those very strong chemicals eat away at them. Until there is nothing left of course. Just like the rest of them. If there is one thing we can say, at least it's consistent. All the humans end up down there in the end." You looked at him, or rather, he looked at himself. The one before him, retained your image despite the revelation. He wanted to pretend it was you. He wanted to pretend that he wasn't alone with the guilt. "There it is." You sighed. "The painful guilt. Once you realise what you've done, the consequences roll in. Here it is, our regret and guilt. The constant reminder of our (Y/N) and what we did. We let it happen. We're just as terrible." You rose to a stand. "Although we deserve this at the very least. We left (Y/N) in the dark and the cold down there...can't help but wonder if the chemicals got to them yet." You whispered the last part with a pained look. A reflection to the pain Alec was feeling. "This is the difficult part but it'll pass. They'll just be a memory soon. A memory we cant forget...everyone else can though. The others already have moved on." Alec winced slightly, recalling how no one, not even once, even mentioned you.  “So it’s just you and me then.” You wore a small but tired smile. “Or...just you.” Marcus sat on his throne, silent as always. His brothers were talking away about matters he simply didn’t care about. His stare didn’t falter, but a small ghost of a grimace grew upon his face as though it pained him to look at the darkened, empty corner of the throne room. Although, for Marcus, it wasn’t so empty. 

You and Didyme stood side by side, slightly tilted towards each other as though in conversation, all the while staring at him and unblinking. Both of you had wide grins on your faces. You had dark bruising around your upper arms and were very pale. Your eyes and cheeks sunken in slightly. Didyme had cracks along her neck that were so long they met her face and chest. Other than that, Didyme didn’t have a single hair out of place. You, on the other hand, looked disheveled. It was disturbing and how he wished you both would stop grinning at him. Didyme’s smile used to be a pleasant, as was yours upon occasion but this time, he wanted nothing more than for you both to stop smiling. It was as though you both were mocking him. Enjoying his guilt. He felt guilt that he couldn’t save Didyme and then he felt guilt that he didn’t save you. He allowed Alec to lose a mate and feel the suffering he had for all those years. How could he ever begin to forgive himself?

[lokis-army-77]

If you please

Chapter Seventeen

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2800

This is technically a reader insert but without the (y/n) and all that. She also has no name mentioned so feel free to imagine as you please.

Follow the reader through the events of the Captain America movies and experience her love for Bucky Barnes.

Warnings: Bucky being sad

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Masterlist

Early one morning I woke up and got ready for the day. Bucky wasn’t awake yet so I walked to the kitchen table, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, then wrote him a note that said I was going out for a while and that I would be back later. After picking up some of the money we had stored in a giant jar on the floor, I headed to the door and down the stairs, out into the busy Romanian morning.

Cars and people bustled down the streets every which way. I walked a few blocks away before arriving at an old book store. I had been thinking for a while that maybe if Bucky read something that he used to love, then maybe that would help some memories resurface.

Stepping through the threshold, I was hit with the comforting smell of old books and what seemed to be a vanilla candle. In the corner, right next to the door, is the cashier, a small, hunched old woman who, every time I come in here, is sleeping. She jostles a bit at the sound of the bell when the door shuts but doesn't wake.

I continue on into the shelves of books, looking for anything Bucky might like. Even though it was a Romanian book store, there were many English selections of classic books. I scoured the shelves for a while before coming to a stop at one of his favorites, ‘The Hobbit’. I gently took it off the top shelf and fingered through the old, yellowing pages. Dust from the top of the book fell to the floor as I did so. Closing it, I started to scan for something else for me to read, this time making sure it was one of the very long ones, considering I had read the short four hundred page one about three times already. There was a small paperback copy of Victor Hugo’s ‘Les Miserables’ sitting on the second shelf from the floor. I grabbed it and sat it on top of the other book in my arms and headed for the front.

The old woman was still napping away when I placed my small stack onto the counter. I forwent ringing the service bell and just reached over to give a strong tap on her shoulder. Having been here before, I knew she wouldn’t wake up to the sound of it. She swatted my hand away and I tapped her a second time a little more harshly, she woke up that time, muttering in Romanian that she was awake. I greeted her with a soft hello before placing the coins for the books into her boney, outstretched hand. She thanked me then I was on my way back to the apartment.

I took a small detour through the open market stalls a block or two away from the apartment. I take my time looking through the small amount of fresh fruit that was offered so early in the year. I move along, not finding anything of interest. I make my way through the crowd of people to continue my original journey back home.

It was close to eleven by now and when I opened the door and stepped into the apartment, my nose was filled with the smell of something burning. Quickly I shut the door and run down the tiny hallway and into the main room. Bucky was standing over a smoking pan on the stove, while right next to it was a pot, almost boiling over.

“Buck what in the world are you doing?” I ask as I move towards him to turn the eyes off.

“I was trying to make breakfast for lunch. It was supposed to be an ‘I’m sorry I scared you and brought back bad memories’ meal since I never told you I was sorry, but I burnt the eggs and bacon.” He tells me before he leans over to the trash can and dumps the charred food in.

I moved around to stand next to him and placed my right hand on his firm metal bicep. “Thank you, I really appreciate the sentiment.” I smiled up at him then looked down at what was in the now slowly bubbling pot with chopped potatoes. “Look,” I pointed out, “the potatoes are fine.” Bucky followed my outstretched finger and gave a small nod.

“Go sit down, I'll make something with these.” He directed. I looked at him skeptically as I slowly backed away.

“Are you sure you don’t want my help?”

“Yes, sit.”

And so I did. I went directly to my bed where I had thrown the books, took up mine, and then started to read. It was hard to concentrate though since I looked up from the pages every two seconds to make sure Bucky wasn’t going to burn the whole building down again, but he seemed to be doing fine. He had ended up frying the chopped potatoes in butter with a bunch of random seasonings.

Several minutes later he had finished and was scooping the food onto two separate plates. He picked the plates up and made his way around the island and to the loveseat in front of it. Sitting down he placed his plate on the arm of the furniture and then called me over. I picked myself up off the mattress and plopped myself down beside him and took my plate from his hands.

“Thank you,” I mumbled as I took the fork into my hand and started eating. Surprisingly the food was actually good. I turned my eyes to him, he was staring at me, probably waiting for my thoughts on the food. I nodded my head as I chewed as a sign that it was good. He smiled softly and proceeded to eat his.

“That was really good, Buck. Next time when you cook though, stick to one thing at a time, don’t try to cook it all at once.” I said once I had finished.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Um,” he paused a second. “Where did you go this morning?”

“Oh, I actually went to get you something that might help with your memory.” I stood up after placing the dirty plate on the counter behind me and shuffled over to the bag that held Bucky’s book. I gently took it out and held it close. Making my way back to where he was sitting, I held the book out to him. “Here you go.”

He reached out and took it from me, a small smile ghosted his lips. “The Hobbit, I love this book, thank you.”

“See you’re already remembering.”

“Yeah, I think I remember wanting you to read it and you made me read something else.” He shut his eyes tight, trying to remember. “It was Pride and Prejudice wasn’t it?”

I gave him a giant toothy grin at that. “It was,” I almost shouted. I leaned down to give him a hug, excited he remembered something that was so long ago. “We started reading them the week we got engaged.” I backed away a bit.

“Oh yeah-” He looked to his hands and then to my hand. “Do you- do you still have the ring?”

“Of course I do.” I lifted my hands to the chain that always stayed hidden beneath my shirt. There was a small delicate clank as the ring and locket tapped against each other. I brought the chain over my head and then grabbed one of Bucky’s hands, placing the necklace down gently. I watched as he brought the small treasures closer to his face. He studied them quietly.

“Why don’t you ever wear the ring around your finger?” he asked, I heard a little bit of concern come through.

“I didn’t want to lose it. I kept it hidden for a long time, then when everything happened in January I had a feeling that I should keep it on at all times. With all the fighting that took place, I thought it best to wear it around my neck so I wouldn't fall off.” I explained. I eyed him as he fiddled with the clasp, he was taking the ring off.

He rose to his feet silently before grabbing my left hand to place the ring securely where it was meant to be. “Can you wear it like this from now on?” I looked into his eyes, they were soft. I nodded in response as he stepped a little closer to me.

I could feel my heart start to quicken when he started to lean down, coming to eye level with me. I could feel his cool hand snake up to the back of my neck and pull me forward slightly. I closed my eyes, I could feel the warmth of his breath, we were so close. I leaned myself in more and before I knew it I felt his rough but soft lips graze the corner of my mouth. They were warm and just like I remembered, familiar. I moved my hands to the sides of his face to keep him from moving away. His hands came softly atop mine and pulled them away and down between, but he never let go of them. I felt him move back a tiny bit before I opened my eyes with a small huff. I hadn’t realized how much I missed him, how much I missed the feeling of him. I wanted to feel him kiss me, really kiss me.

He whispered my name softly as one of his hands came up to move a strand of my hair away from my face and then brought the hand back to cradle mine. “I want to take this slow.”

“But-” I started but he cut me off.

“Let me find myself before I come back to you,” The broken sound of his voice hit my ears so softly I probably wouldn’t have been able to hear it if my hearing were normal.

“Okay, Bucky I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you, no matter how long it takes.” He pulled me into a tight hug at that.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

It is now mid-July and Bucky has been steadily remembering more and more. The process has gone faster than I thought it would, but that’s probably because he isn’t alone and trying to figure things out. I’ve noticed that the longer we are here in Romania, the less paranoid he is about being found, although it still eats at the back of both our minds constantly.

Bucky has started to smile more, he’s started to get closer to me, mentality and physically. Something changed after that afternoon he slipped the ring back onto my finger. Sometimes, while we are sitting at home he will slip his hand into mine and leave it there for a while, or he’ll somehow just gravitate to my side like a magnet. I never push him further than he is comfortable with, knowing he is still trying to find his missing pieces.

He works hard, exhaustingly so, to be able to remember. To be the Bucky he once was. Sometimes when he gets frustrated, I have to remind him that he will never be one hundred percent how he was in 1943, but I love him all the same, I’ll stay beside him.

And that's how we came to this precise moment. Bucky was laid out on the floor staring at the ceiling when I walked out of the bathroom from taking my nightly shower.

“What’s the matter?” I questioned as I rang my hair out with the towel. He didn’t say anything, just turned his head to face away from me. “Hey, come on, you can tell me.” I encouraged as I sat down on the edge of my mattress.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“Oh it isn’t nothing, I can see it all over your face. Something is bothering you so tell me what’s up.”

“I don’t know. I’m just so tired. My head is hurting from all the things I’m trying to remember.” He huffed out gruffly. I gave him a sympathetic look before poking him in the side. He turned his body to the side to look at me.

“You do know it’s okay to take a break? You shouldn’t expect yourself to remember every little thing.”

“I know, it's just. There are these glimpses from the past but I can never place them. It’s frustrating.” He says as his hand comes up to softly play with my fingers near his head.

“Well, you can’t try to remember things clearly if you are exhausted. Get some rest and relax, let the memories clear themselves up instead of trying to force them.” I stilled his hand and rubbed the back of it with the one he wasn’t currently grasping. “How about I make us some tea and then we can get some rest?”

“I’d like that a lot.”

“Okay then.” I stood up and his hand slowly let go of mine.

In the kitchen, I grabbed the kettle and filled it with water, and placed it on the eye of the stove. While waiting for the water to boil I washed the dirty mugs in the sink so that way we could use them. The box of teabags was sitting off to the side of the sink, I slipped two from the box and placed them in the now clean, empty mugs. When the water was done I poured it into our cups along with a few scoops of sugar and a tiny bit of milk and then walked back over to where I was sitting earlier.

“Here you go. Be careful, it’s hot and still needs to steep for a bit.” I warned as he sat up to take the mug from my hand. I sat back down and after a minute, started to take small sips of my tea.

“Thank you. Not just for the tea, but for everything you do. I don’t know how I’d get through this if you weren't with me.” He confessed as he took a long sip.

“You don’t have to thank me, Buck-” I started but he cut me off.

“Yes, I do. I wouldn’t have gotten near as far as I have if it weren't for your help. You’re always so loving and patient with me. I don’t deserve it, especially with the things I’ve done.” His head hung low as he drew his knees up closer to him.

I frowned as I sat my mug on the floor and crawled my way across the floor to sit directly in front of him. Carefully I placed both my hands on his. “Nothing you did is your fault.”

“Yes, it is. I did awful things. They are the only thing I can remember vividly. Can’t you see that I'm a bad guy now?”

“Sweetheart you are not a bad guy, you are a victim.” I moved my hand to his face so I could have him look at me. “And yes, you did those things but none of that was under your control. Nothing you did with HYDRA was in your control.” He looked at me with tears welled up in his eyes, he grabbed my hand and pulled it down away from his face but he never let it go. “I want to help you get through this but I can’t do that if you push me away because you think you are a danger to me. I told you before that you could never hurt me, I’m tougher than I look.”

“I don’t doubt that,” He chuckled. “It’s just hard when at any second I could turn back into that thing. It scares me, it scares me so much that I could be the reason I lose you just after I got you back.” His voice sounded like he was trying hard to hold back tears.

I moved from in front of him to his left side. I wrapped my arms around him, making him lean into me. I squeezed him tight. “It’s okay to cry, don’t hold it back,” I whispered into his ear. I felt him shudder and then all of a sudden it was like the flood gates had been opened.

We sat there on the floor for what felt like hours. We had changed into a more comfortable position, where Bucky had his arms wrapped around my middle and he just wept into my shirt. I softly played with his long hair and scratched his scalp. It seemed to calm him, but he still cried. He cried until no more tears would come until all he could do was jolt with hiccups.

We fell asleep like that, huddled together on the hard floor, next to the couch.

Authors note: Hi everybody, I know this chapter is a little shorter than I have been writing but I started my third year at college and I have like three 15 page essays and a crap tone of homework. So please be patient with me with writing for a while.

Tag List: @ginger-swag-rapunzel @underc0vercryptid-reads @geek-and-proud @intothesoul @leyannrae @starkleila @andy-is-gay

[lovelylou]

since 2020 is almost over, i thought i’d share (some of) my favorite fics that made my 2020 a lot better.

[note: not all of these fics were written/published in 2020, although most of them are, there are some that are older, but that i’ve read or re-read this year]

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tastes like summer, smiles like may by outropeace

“Is this true?” Harry grabbed the beta by the shoulders. “Bryce, where did you hear that?”

“There’s rumors going around the castle,” he smirked. “stories about his beauty and his cold attitude. They know he is an omega only because of his scent, but he has never had a heat.”

“Do you know what this means?”

Bryce smirk grew into a big smile. “He can’t give you an heir.”

A cold prince, an alpha with nothing left to lose and a kingdom with a secret.

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But It's Useless by thinlines

“Hey.”

Louis was even hallucinating now. He closed his eyes.

“Hey, you.”

He chuckled wetly, head still leaning against the door.

“Can you get out of the way? You're blocking the door.”

He exhaled sharply before slowly turning around. His eyes fixed onto muddy Nike trainers before it traveled up to impossibly short jogging shorts. The yellow color was atrocious, simply ghastly.

“What happened to being polite, Harold?”

OR Omega Louis would never guess that he would be trying to hack into Alpha Harry's Wifi. That is until everything changes when he tries to get to know his enemy.

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haunted by the ghost of you by missandrogyny

He’s tall—that’s the first thing that registers in Louis’ head when he spots him, standing with his hands behind his back. Tall, with curly hair, staring at them with the widest, greenest eyes Louis has ever seen. And wait, are those dimples? Louis didn’t know ghosts could have dimples.

Because he’s definitely a ghost, this boy. At first glance he looks normal, standing there pigeon-toed in a band shirt (The Ramones, Louis can’t help but note incredulously), dark jeans, and some boots, with rings on both hands, and tattoos littering his left arm—a sleeve made of anchors and names and roses and other completely unrelated things. But he’s also a little bit translucent; if Louis focuses, he can see the outline of the furniture, the design of the wallpaper through him.

“Hi,” the boy—the ghost—says to Louis. His face shifts; somehow his dimples dig deeper into his cheeks. His eyes flit from Louis, to Niall, to Liam, and finally to Zayn, and his face goes from shocked to elated. “I’m Harry.”

At in that exact moment, standing between three of his best friends and staring at a (quite handsome) ghost, Louis can only think one thing.

Nick Grimshaw was right.

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On the Edge by zanni_scaramouche

Figure skating is as vital to Louis’ identity as his DNA, so when his skates go missing right before the last Olympics of his career there may be a meltdown only vanilla bath salts can fix. Well, that and the stupidly charming hockey player he met on the plane.

Harry’s too old to be the wonder kid and too young to be taken seriously in the NHL. As an alternate thrown in at the last second, he fights to prove himself on the national team at the largest sporting event known to man. Or he will, once he gets off this flight and can focus on something other than the fussy figure skater and his stunningly blue eyes.

A baggage mix-up skews both of their perfectly laid plans for gold, forcing the two to work together as the clock clicks towards the minute they’re expected to shine on centre ice.

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even the best laid plans by falsegoodnight

“Anyways,” Louis stresses, narrowing his eyes, “just let me say it and then rate how terrible of an idea it is on a scale from one to ten.”

“Alright,” Zayn agrees, sitting up expectantly.

“I want to ask Harry Styles to take my virginity,” Louis blurts, holding his hands out for emphasis.

The way Zayn’s eyes bulge is almost comical. “Negative infinity,” he says, voice choked. “Negative infinity times negative infinity.”

“Technically, a negative times a negative is -”

“Really negative infinity,” Zayn corrects himself, shaking his head wildly. “Louis, what the fuck?”

-

Or, Louis wants to have sex with someone and decides Harry is the perfect alpha for the job.

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The Compulsion to Find Love by Toomanytears

The most prestigious English third-level institution, Candling University, accepts omega students for the first time and Louis Tomlinson applies with bright eyes and brighter ambitions. There he encounters personal obstacles, traditional mindsets and a beautiful boy who inverts every prejudice Louis has ever known.

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Mine Would Be You by crinkle-eyed-boo (KimmieRocks)

Louis blinks his eyes open, his eyelids fluttering as the room swims around him. He takes several gulps of beer once he confirms that he’s definitely not hallucinating, that the very first portrait Harry Styles ever painted of him is hanging on that wall.

Louis stares at the wall, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest as he realizes that there’s not just one painting of him, there’s five, the portraits lined up like they’re some sort of storyboard depicting the rise and fall of his deepest love. His greatest heartache. A pain that cut him so deep that he left the fucking country, severing all ties with his life in New York, now suddenly surrounding him as if he’d never left.

Fucking shit motherfucker fuck.

Louis returns to New York City five years after he left it – and the love of his life – behind. He didn't intend to see Harry again, but fate has a funny way of pulling them together, whether they like it or not. After making a begrudging truce, they both start to wonder: Would it be so bad if history repeated itself?

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UN(RE)SO LVED. by daddyharrie

The ghoul boys are back, but this time around there are some unresolved feelings involved. Harry is a skeptic, Louis is not. Watch them go on their ongoing investigation into the question: are ghosts real?

Or, BuzzFeed Unsolved AU.

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Hate to Smoke (Without Me) by louhazpride

“For fuck’s sake,” he huffs, grabbing the pillow and pulling it on top of his head in an attempt to block out the banging coming from the other side of the wall.

It’s the third time this week that his neighbour has woken him up in the middle of the night with his little ‘rendezvous.’ Honestly, he's quite sick of it. There’s only so much sex he can bear to hear in one week and he has already hit his limit. If he wanted to listen to someone having sex, he’d turn to porn.

As if the noises weren’t enough, Harry immediately becomes aware of the faint aroma of weed filling his flat.

“I’m going to murder him.”

Sleep. Harry just wants one good night of sleep. However, his neighbour has a thing for headboard-banging-against-the-wall-sex every night. After a secret set-up and a bet, Harry may finally get the sleep he so much desires.

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Three Days in February by writing_practice

“We have to get out of here, outside,” Harry whispered, turning his hand in Louis’s grip to hold on and pull them both to their feet.

“And how do we fucking do that?” Louis hissed, carefully rising and pulling Harry to his feet before Harry could do it. His gaze darted to the front then back of the arena. “None of the doors are where they’re supposed to be.”

“What?” Harry looked around again too, couldn’t see any doors, only knew that they must be there, somewhere. “How do you know?”

Confusion slid over Louis's features.

“Because we’ve been here before, Haz. It’s the O2.”

The show. It must be the first night of their tour. They were too late; they were out of time.

Louis is cursed after a night out with the lads and the five have just three days to figure out what happened and how to break it before Harry and Louis both lose their sanity and maybe something more. Louis can hear everything Harry thinks and Harry isn’t sure he can keep his feelings for Louis a secret from his own mind.

Ridiculous amounts of banter and angst, a lot of Harry and Louis alone together, a healthy dose of OT5 friendship, and one very magical weekend.

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Coming Up For Air by stylinsoncity

It's a long plane ride to LA but sitting beside Harry makes time fly.

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I'd Give Up Everything Just Ask Me To by Rearviewdreamer

They don't usually exchange Christmas gifts, but this year is different. This year, Louis knows exactly what he wants to put under the tree to make his boyfriend smile. He just doesn't know how he's going to get it.

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bruise you like a peach by falsegoodnight

There’s two reasons Harry despises Econ.

The first is that it’s boring as fuck. The second reason is a bit more personal, a bit more focused in a way. As in it’s focused on one specific thing, or in his case, person.

His name is Louis Tomlinson.

-

Alternatively titled 'the peach fic.'

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Sometimes You Just Know by 2tiedships2

“Dear diary. Today is going to be a good day, and here’s why...”

“What are you doing?” Louis mumbled as he bit into a piece of toast.

“It’s been almost two years and today Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson reunite. Louis is very excited about…”

Louis’ chair screeched along the kitchen floor as he flew up out of his seat, quickly grabbing the paper from Niall’s grasp. As he scanned the page he found it amounted to lines of nothing.

“What is this?” Louis asked again. “We’ve discussed how Harry Styles will never be spoken of in this flat. I don’t care how long it’s been.”

Niall snatched the paper from Louis and proceeded to draw a line across the page before writing.

“Today is the day that he-who-shall-not-be-named is coming to dinner.”

Or the one where Harry and Louis don’t believe in soulmates… until they do.

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eyes off you by soldouthaz

“Just promise me you’ll do whatever it takes to keep us all safe while we’re in there,” Liam says.

Through the crack in the door, Louis can just barely make out the broad curve of Harry’s back, the slope of his curls as they tumble down all sleep-soft and lazy, and the sharp twist of his arm - all leading down to where he’s got his pointer and middle finger crossed over each other behind his back.

“I promise,” he tells Liam firmly, “I promise.”

--

or; a charlie’s angels inspired fic where louis is the brains, harry is the charm, liam is the muscle, and niall drives the getaway car - and zayn is there, too. sometimes.

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Welcome to The Rivalry by 2tiedships2

“Welcome home!” Niall yelled, clapping his hands in excitement. “Isn’t it great?”

Louis looked between Niall and the house, unsure how to respond.

“I don’t understand,” Louis finally managed to say. “Aren’t we a little old to be living so close to campus?”

Niall scoffed. “You’re only twenty-four for fuck’s sake. There is still plenty of partying left for us to do. What better place than one street over from where a car was set on fire after the Michigan game last year?”

“Is there proof of that? Did the car have Michigan plates or something? Is there a photo I can send in a DM to Wolfie?”

As if on cue, a Twitter notification popped up on Louis’ Apple watch. He had tweeted again.

Or a reverse You’ve Got Mail au inspired by the Ohio State/Michigan rivalry. Featuring duplex neighbors, (kind of) enemies to lovers, and an anonymous Twitter feud between omega Louis and alpha Harry.

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Cold Little Heart by seducedbycurls

Louis is a soft omega with an abusive past and an alpha child

A few months after getting a divorce, Louis meets Harry, an ex-military alpha wolf that offers him something -odd.

In exchange for teaching him how to cook, Harry will babysit his son, Abraham

Louis really could use the help.

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[lilbabycee]

georgia // steve rogers ✈️

↳ summary: after a mission, the reader comes back with some serious injuries and steve doesn't know how to handle it.

↳ relationship: steve rogers x reader

↳ word count: 2.9k

↳ warnings: near death experiences, fluff and angst, hurt/comfort, another overused trope

↳ author’s note: more steve for you because i love this man - enjoy! <3

You’re curled on one of the sectionals in the common room, watching the sun peek out from a blanket of clouds not unlike the ones that you’re lying under right now. The sky is swathed in purples and yellows and oranges and you take the time to enjoy the unobstructed view from the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Avengers Compound. You can feel yourself sinking into the grey ocean that is the obnoxiously large sofa beneath you and you think that if you drown then this would be a hell of a way to die.

He isn’t speaking to you. He hasn’t even seen you in weeks, harboring a grudge so strong that you think the weight of it could crush even his super soldier body. Leaning the side of your head on the couch, you find yourself momentarily distracted by the picturesque scene in front of you, but then your eyelids droop and you are snapped back to the reality of your situation. You can’t sleep without him and he knows that. After all of these years you still don’t know exactly what it is - maybe a product of the Red Room, maybe years of murdering innocents coming back to haunt you, but you can’t sleep alone. You were used to it for years, not getting more than two hours of sleep - if you were lucky - most nights. But long gone are the days of sneaking into bed with Natasha, because once Steve came along, you didn’t need it any longer.

Steve. You sigh in frustration, one hand wiggling out from underneath the fluffy white blanket to rub at your eyes and run over your face. Maybe you’re being dramatic. After all, waxing poetic about your boyfriend wasn’t going to bring him back from wherever the fuck he was in France right now. Prior to a few years ago, you only had yourself to look out for and nobody else. You had become accustomed to it, doing whatever was best for you and not having to take anybody else into consideration because, ultimately, you worked alone. But then you joined the Avengers, became a part of a team, and then you realized that you were surrounded by people who valued your life more than you did.

It was jarring to say the least, but on top of that, you met Steve. It was instant, the connection that you two shared. There was always a sense of admiration that went both ways, and you brought each other a sense of normalcy in a world that was otherwise chaotic and often unbelievable. You love him more than you love yourself on most days, you find. But his Captain persona has a tendency to spark arguments with the intensity of a forest fire, igniting the fire within his belly but in contrast, you become cold and withdrawn and defensive.

It doesn’t happen often, but when you do fight, the entire compound knows about it and the team is forced to witness the tension between you two for days, weeks. This was especially painful for both Sam and Natasha, as they are both so close to the both of you and they always feel as if they had to pick sides.

You miss him, you realize, when rare tears prick at your eyelids and you close your eyes to try and ward them off. This time of the year is especially hard for you, having to watch families and children and happiness and beauty all around you. You can’t stand it. It just reminds you of all of the things that you decided that you couldn’t have, things that can’t fit into the lifestyle that you have so carefully perfected over the years. You’d been spiraling over the last couple of days, truly spiraling and the only person who had noticed was Natasha. There was so much of herself that she saw in you, having grown up the same way without love and affection and comfort.

Steve would comfort you. He’d tell you that your feelings are valid and that you have every right to feel sad and that you’re not alone in your emotions. He’d come cuddle you and call you baby or honey or doll and kiss you so hard that the whirring freight train of despair on a circular loop in your head would come to an abrupt stop and you’d forget about all of that, at least for some time. But he isn’t here so you’re stuck the way you are: sad and cold and tired and alone.

Your ears perk up and you can sense somebody standing behind you. It’s not Steve - you would know - and you peel your eyes open slowly, turning around regardless, curious as to who else could be up at 7:20 a.m on a Sunday and not training. Your eyes meet green ones and you exhale a laugh. Those verdant eyes are flooded with concern and what looks like a hint of… guilt?

“‘Tasha,” you greet slowly, raising an eyebrow skeptically. “You’re not training. Everything okay?”

“I feel like that’s what I should be asking you,” her voice is soft and filled with that same concern, unnoticeable to somebody who does not know her as well. “How’re you feeling?”

You bark out a laugh again, wincing when you feel the soreness of your throat and idly rub at the smattering of bruises that mar the skin on your neck. You become acutely aware of the deep cuts on your legs and your bandaged wrist, sighing when you remember how long you’ll have to spend in medbay with Dr. Cho to change all of them.

“I’ve been worse,” you shrug, slowly becoming increasingly aware of how every small movement comes with a sharp sting of pain. You were no super soldier: you still healed like a regular human being, although people often seemed to treat you like you weren’t one as a result of your extensive spy training. It’d been weeks now and you still aren’t fully healed, something that frustrates you to no end as you were just about tired of sitting on your ass. “I’ll get over it eventually, but it’ll just take a couple more weeks. At least, that’s what Dr. Cho said.”

“You know that’s not what I was referring to,” Natasha gives you a deadpan look and you hold her gaze because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

You know who else is stubborn? St-

“-and Steve,” she continues. You snap out of your slight daze and focus on maintaining eye contact with her. “I spoke to him and told him to come speak to you - he doesn’t know how bad you’re doing.”

“You know that after Georgia he doesn’t wanna speak to me,” you’re surprised at how soft and resigned your tone is.

“He doesn’t wanna speak to you or you’re not giving him the chance to?”

“You know perfectly well that that’s not the case, Nat,” you shoot her a murderous glare and she smirks, walking around the sectional to sit next to you, lifting a corner of the blanket to sidle up next to you. You drop your head on her shoulder and close your eyes again, feeling a strong pounding sensation at the front of your head. A groan leaves your lips and you bury your face into the redhead’s shoulder.

“Steve is absolutely one of the most stubborn people I have ever met,” Natasha starts slowly. “But he also has one of the biggest hearts of anyone I’ve ever met. You and I both know that for a fact. You have to put yourself in his shoes. Imagine how he felt when he saw you like that, blood pouring out of your head and laying on a table on the quinjet, helpless. If that was him, you know how panicked you would have been.”

---

three weeks ago...

You’d thought that you’d taken all of them out, running next to Sam and turning the street corner back towards the quinjet. This part of the country had been virtually abandoned, a true ghost town. It had taken several hours to fly from New York just to do some recon, even in the quinjet.

Steve and Natasha were running several feet ahead of you, and they had disappeared out of sight, turning another corner, when it happened. It was supposed to be a quick and simple in-and-out, not meant to take any longer than a few hours, so the relief that it had all gone to plan was almost palpable in the air.

That was until a massive man rushed you with a dagger, obviously desperate and probably out of ammunition. He went for Sam first, a swift and split-second stab to the side - a wound which ended up being non-fatal, thank God - and continued to attack him when you jumped on him from behind. You knew that you were out-muscled - the man stood at over 6’5 and was built like a tree - but you managed to get him away from Sam. You were sure that you could overpower him with purely your agility and skill, but he fought dirty. After tackling you to the ground, he grabbed you by your neck in an attempt to asphyxiate you and damn he was strong. You struggled to pry his hand off of your neck, the intense pain making your vision cloudy and your head spin. Taking advantage of your temporarily incapacitated state, he stabbed you in the shoulder and then repeatedly in the legs, crushing your wrist by putting all of his weight on it. You came to the realization that he was trying to get you to lose as much blood as he possibly could, wanting to drag out the experience. You faintly heard Sam struggling to speak into the comms and hoped that Steve and Natasha were coming back.

The man, with a wicked grin on his face, proceeded to smash your head repeatedly against the concrete sidewalk. The last thing that you distinctly remember was hearing Steve’s heavy boots sprint over to where you were.

You were told that after that, Natasha took care of your attacker while Steve carried you back to the quinjet in a panic. Nat was able to help Sam limp there, surprisingly it really was more of a flesh wound and hit no vital organs. You had been in a medically induced coma for four days after your heart had stopped because of the gallons of blood that you had lost. They tried to restart your heart several times and when they finally succeeded, they wanted to make sure that you were healing in the way that you were supposed to be. When you woke up to Steve sleeping, slouched in a hospital chair beside your bed with your hand gripped tightly in his, you gave him a weak squeeze to wake up. He jumped up and immediately started crying while calling for the medical staff.

After you were left alone, Steve walks back in with a far sterner expression on his face than when he first came in. You try for a weak smile, but you are severely concussed and struggle to form coherent sentences so you are not in the mood to fight with your boyfriend. But it looks like he is in the mood to fight with you.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he begins, standing at the head of your hospital bed with his arms crossed over his chest.

You roll your eyes and heave a sigh. “Steve, can we do this another time? I’m really not feeling up to-”

“No, Y/N,” he barks, effectively silencing you. His Captain voice has made an appearance and your frustrations start to arise. You know that this won’t be a quick scolding. “We’re a team. And you have to make decisions that are best for the team. What you did was unnecessarily put yourself at risk when Natasha and I were readily available to help you. Instead of communicating with us, you took on the task by yourself and look where that’s gotten you. I know that it’ll take a while for you to recover from these injuries but I don’t want you coming on missions for another month after your recovery. It’s-”

“Captain Rogers,” you interrupt him, your defensive walls up and your tone frosty. “With all due respect, sir, I did what I thought was best at that moment. I was protecting Sam. I don’t know what taking me off more missions will do for the team, or me, for that matter. I was trying to protect Sam from death-”

“You died, Y/N!” he shouts at you, voice cracking slightly, and your mouth snaps shut. “You died and I saw you die. Forgive me if I don’t want that to happen again.”

He clenches his jaw and his eyes dart around, a sign that he’s trying to avoid tearing up. Your expression has softened considerably and as you open your mouth to speak, he pins you with a glare so fierce that only air comes out.

“You’re off the missions. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

That’s all he says before swiftly turning on his heel and slamming the door behind his retreating figure.

---

Starting to speak, you look at Natasha’s side profile as she stares directly ahead of her: “I know. But he’s acting like Sam wouldn’t have died if I hadn’t helped him. It’s just that I’ve gotten over this. And I’m in pain, Nat. I’m tired. I’m exhausted and my throat hurts and I feel so weak but he’s not here.”

At the end of the sentence, your voice cracks and Natasha’s hand comes up to rub comfortingly at your back. Your body is too busy shaking with sobs for you to realize that Steve just walked in. He sees Nat and smiles at her before his eyes hone in on your fragile - a word that he’s never used to describe you before - body. His smile drops abruptly and he rushes to your side, his stubbornness be damned. Steve had no idea just how badly this had been affecting you, because he was too concerned with waiting for you to come and apologize to him.

“Baby,” he coos softly, gently caressing your cheek. Your head lifts and his heart sinks when he sees your bloodshot eyes and dark bags, coupled with your shaky hands and severe bruising. He hasn’t even seen you in the weeks since the hospital - he took a mission in France with Bucky almost immediately after - and he feels like crying himself when he sees how much the lack of communication has broken you. He’s always considered you the strongest person he knows, untouchable and tenacious. But this, this. It breaks his heart. “Hi, baby.”

You only sob harder as Natasha shoots him a look and stands up, presumably heading towards the kitchen to make herself some breakfast. Steve takes her place after mouthing a thank you - to which she responds with an eye roll - and takes care to wrap his strong arms around you without pressing on any of the more severe bruises.

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “I was bein’ hard-headed and selfish and I didn’t even think about how hard my best girl has it. But you shoulda seen yourself, babydoll. I thought I had died right along with you on that table…”

Fuck it, you think as you throw your arms around his neck. Sharp pain shoots through both of your arms but you don’t give a fuck because your Stevie’s here and he’s apologizing (?!!) and he’s so warm.

“Stevie,” you sniff, almost childlike in your need for affection. “I’m sorry. I wanted to help Sam and I thought I could take him.”

He chuckles, pressing a long kiss to your forehead. You close your eyes serenely as his lips linger and he starts caressing the side of your bruised neck with his thumb.

“That’s okay, doll,” he smiles. “You probably coulda taken him and I know it was a tough situation. I just want my baby to feel better. I’m sorry I haven’t been here; I needed to clear my head because I was just so damn scared. My worst fear is losin’ you and having that realized, living through that… I couldn’t bear it. But I’m here now and we can make sure that you rest up. You been sleepin’, sweetheart?”

You shake your head - too fast because the pounding in your head intensifies and you groan - and lean up to press a kiss on his cheek. His cheeks warm and you smile fondly at him, pleased that even after all this time you have an effect on your man.

“Well, we’ll have to fix that, won’t we honey?” he smirks as he easily lifts you up with your arms wound around his neck. He starts striding towards your shared quarters and lays you in the bed. “Cold, baby?”

You nod and make grabby hands at him, feeling especially needy - a side that you could never show to the rest of the Avengers because they would bully you for the rest of your life. He only laughs, whipping off his shirt and joining you in bed.

“Comfortable?” he asks, looking down at you. You snuggle up to his chest - fuck your broken wrist and crushed windpipe - and feel yourself drifting already. You come to realize that this is where you belong - wherever your super soldier is, whatever he does, you know that you’ll love him to the ends of the earth…

...or at least all the way to Georgia.

tagged: @literaturefeen​

[fanartfunart]

ghost hunting!!

(for the prompt thing)

Anonymous said: for the prompt thing, maybe some sleepy cuddles for intruality?

@fightmedragonwitch​ said: Logan hesitantly asking for group cuddles from everyone?

I do love when combining suggestions/prompts when they fit so nicely all together. Thanks for the prompts!

Here’s that Kid Ghost AU again.

AO3 link

Relationships: Platonic Intruality & Creativitwins, background platonic DLAMPR

Summery: Roman is a child ghost and Remus’s best friend. Logan doesn’t believe in ghosts and it turns into a challenge to prove it.

Warnings: Brief gross statements from Remus, but overall fairly tame and fluffy. One mention of animal abuse (that didn’t actually happen.)

-

Remus marched into school confident, and even slightly excited. He marched out of the school grounds, glaring at the ground and grumbling to himself.

“Ghosts aren’t real.” Logan had said, his round, rosy face full of confidence, chin poised like a stuck-up prince or something. Which really was supposed to be a Roman thing.

Remus, who had been showcasing the art Roman had drawn for him, pouted. “Yes they are!”

“Well then prove it.” Logan demanded, crossing his arms behind his back. He thought it made him look smart. Really it just made him jut his chest out more. “If you can show me tangible evidence of ghosts, I’ll con-confe-confer-uh ....I’ll believe you.”

“Well- well fine!”

“Oooo, are you guys going ghost hunting?” Janus had asked, smiling in a way that made Remus want to think he was just saying that to get someone riled up. So obviously, it did.

Patton gasped, eyes big and wide, “You’re not going to hurt the ghosts, right? They have feelings too!”

Logan, to his credit, did not immediately tell Patton ghosts did not exist. “Of course we wouldn’t hurt them. If we did find evidence of ghost activity we would study them in their natural habitat and record our findings. That’s what scientists do.” He adjusted his glasses and his shirt’s collar. “Also they don’t exist.”

“Yes, they do!” Remus shrieked and did immediately go to pull Logan’s hair.

Virgil, who had been watching the interaction from a small distance sighed. Because this meant it was going to be a long day. Roman, who was busy being a ghost back home, had no clue what havoc Remus was bringing home to him. Which also meant a long day was approaching.

Remus was a little lost as to when this “ghost hunting” plan became a slumber party. Logan had arrived first. Yet, despite the fact that Roman literally opened the door for him, it was not proof apparently. Roman just shrugged when Remus tried to glare him into being visible to the other boy.

Logan set up a collection of toys in the living room, explaining as he did so. Logan called it a spirit box and an emp reader. Roman was pretty sure it was just an old radio and a thermostat. Remus was absolutely certain they were from a playset like the mini kitchen his cousin had.

Patton and Janus showed up together. Janus had a stuffed snake curled around his neck and on top of his head, covering half of his face, and Patton had a stuffed cat with its arms tied around his neck turning the toy into a cape. Patton was holding two sleeping bags and Janus had one.

Remus tilted his head. “What’s the second cocoon for Patterpillar?”

“The ghost! I don’t want him to be left out!”

Roman cooed and looked at Remus “That’s so cute! He got me a sleeping bag! Which one’s mine?”

“Can you even use it?” Remus asked.

Roman shrugged.

Patton meanwhile, yelled into the air. “The blue one is mine! It has Stitch on it. You can have the red one, Mr. Ghost! It’s got Minnie and Micky Mouse on it!”

“You don’t have to yell, he’s right there,” Remus said, gesturing at Roman.

Janus just laughed, dumping his stuff on Patton, and wandered off to give himself a tour of the house.

Virgil arrived last, hands in his pockets as he stood in the threshold. “Can I come in?”

“Of course Grump-a Vamps!” Remus announced loudly.

Both Logan and Virgil protested he was “not a vampire.” Although Logan yelled it, Virgil sighed it.

“You’re next on my ‘convince Logan’ list,” Remus said, grinning.

Virgil spared a glance at Roman, who was glaring at him from next to where Patton and Logan were setting up a blanket fort, and then at Remus. “Good luck.”

After a dinner of pizza, Logan, adjusting his pajama’s hoodie, announced, “I think we can begin our ‘Ghost hunt’ now.”

“I found one! Right behind you!” Remus announced, pointing at Roman.

Logan shrieked and turned to look next to him where Remus was pointing, clutching his emp reader/ thermostat/ toy. “OH, don’t do that!” Logan cried, turning his glare towards Remus. Roman went wide-eyed and glared at Remus as well.

“Damn, he almost believed me.”

“I think his screeching scared me more than I scared him,” Roman whined “Are we sure we want him to be able to see me?”

Logan scoffed. “Let’s get started, hopefully, we’ll find something before bedtime."

Logan collected his other toy/ radio/ spirit box and turned to Remus. "So, where is your ghost's favorite spot?"

"Right next to the TV and the window in the living room." Remus said, drowning out Roman's answer of not having a favorite spot. Not that anyone but Remus heard it anyway.

Remus grinned at Roman and motioned for the group to follow him.

"If we get killed by an angry ghost do you think we would become ghosts too?" Janus asked with a hum. Patton smacked him in the arm.

Logan rolled his eyes. "Remus lives here. If the hyp-hypothe- If the ghost was dangerous we would know."

Virgil made a skeptical hum. Smirking, he muttered, "Says the kid who screamed over him being next to him."

Roman laughed and floated above Remus's head. "Honestly if anyone here is dangerous I think it’s you, Remus.”

"Actually the ghost is super dangerous." Remus said, grinning directly at Roman. "He turned my cat into a hat. Guts and all!"

Patton gasped in horror. Janus laughed. Which earned Janus another shove.

Roman shook his head "I hate you. You're terrible."

"Thank you!"

When they reached the living room, Remus gestured to Roman's favorite spot to stand around in. Roman rolled his eyes. "Still not my favorite spot."

Logan checked it over with the emp reader, seemingly satisfied with the answer. Then set up his spirit box right next to the spot, and turned it on. "Ok… If you are here, please use this to try and communicate with us."

"Yeah! I'm gonna loose if you don't use the dumb box" Remus yelled to the air, pretending he didn't see Roman glaring at him.

"Did this turn into a bet when I wasn’t looking?” Roman grumbled.

Remus shrugged “I have no idea. But I already owe him an ice cream sandwich.”

“Ugh, fine." Roman wandered over to the spirit box and crouched in front of it. "What do I do?" 

Remus shrugged. 

"Ask him." Roman sighed, waving an intangible hand through Logan’s head. Logan shivered when he did so. 

"Ugh fine. What's Roman supposed to do to make it work? Sing Bloody Mary and summon his mom?"

"Hey!" Roman gasped, placing a hand on his chest.

"Uh…." Logan glanced at the box. "I always guessed it was sorta like possessing it or something."

"Ew." Roman grumbled and placed a hand through the box, earning them a crackle over the static of the box. 

"Did you hear that?" Patton asked, hugging Virgil's arm. 

"It was just a crackle." Logan said, shaking his head.

"Oh this should be funny." Roman grinned and for a moment, disappeared. Instead, the box spoke between crackles of static. "Logan…"

Logan shrieked at the mention of his name through the box.

"Don't… tell the group...to split up… Horror movie tips… 101."

Remus cackled as Roman reappeared from the box. Virgil snorted. Looking at the box with wide eyes, Logan seemed frozen for a moment. He looked up and glanced around at everyone else.

Patton gave the box a disapproving look, which made Roman shrink, grumbling to himself that at least Remus found it funny.

"You...guys heard that, right?" Logan asked.

Janus hummed, grinning lightly. "Good advice. We don't have Scooby-Doo. It wouldn't work right without him."

Logan turned to the box, bouncing in place, "Can you do it again?" 

Roman shook his head. "Made me dizzy, I get why ghosts don't do that often."

"He said it made him dizzy." Remus parroted, shrugging.

He adjusted his glasses with a frown. "Ok…" Logan fumbled to get out a notebook from his bag and scribbled a note inside. "Scientifically recorded. I do want another test though.” Logan glanced around the building. “Uh..... Can he move something?"

A plastic cup fell in the kitchen with a clatter. Logan and Janus both jumped, clinging to Virgil. Logan laughed awkwardly and pushed himself away.

"Sorry! I wanted some juice." Patton called, tilting his head out from the kitchen.

Roman laughed and shook his head. "Your friends are jumpy. You sure you want to prove ghosts are real?"

"Yesss" Remus pleaded "Please show them something undeniable. Please!"

Roman made a face, brows furrowed, "I don't know if I can. I haven't been able to prove anything to your parents."

"Just try. And if not then we have at least scared Logan out of his pants!"

"Hey! ….I'm not even wearing pants. It's a onesie."

Roman sighed and floated over to the table and Remus directed the group to follow him. Roman hummed softly for a moment, and picked up a crayon. His form flickered and the crayon fell to the ground.

Logan however, was transfixed on the fallen crayon. "Okay proof enough for me. Congra-congre-congrata- er, you win, Remus."

Remus punched a fist in the air with a whoop. "Win for team Ghost! Ha!"

"I never doubted you for a moment," Janus drawled, earning himself a glare from Virgil. 

Logan folded his arms behind his back and rolled his eyes. 

"Did you hear that Ro- uh…. Where'd Roman go?" Remus frowned at the spot Roman had last hovered in, and then looked around the room. "Roman?" 

His friends, to their credit, looked around as well, despite not being able to see the ghost either way. 

Remus frowned at the lack of response and glanced at the group of his more alive friends (and Virgil).

"Maybe he went to get something?" Patton suggested, juice in hand. 

Remus frowned and shook his head. "I… He probably used too much energy with the box." Remus ran to the stairwell and called again "Roman?!"

"Do you want to try and find him?" Virgil asked, voice surprisingly soft.

Remus nodded. The group of them searched the house, Remus, Janus and Patton searching one half of the house and Virgil and Logan in the other.

They had to give up after Remus's mom told them it was bedtime. The sky well past dark, wind howling outside the window. They settled in a small group on Remus's bedroom floor. The trees swaying and creaking outside.

Dispite the room being filled with the hushed whispers of children, Patton begin to snore almost immediately. Soon, it seemed everyone was soon asleep except Remus. The door creaked slowly open. Logan sat up abruptly, staring wide-eyed at the door. Remus wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep it seemed. Remus sat up as well, finding a very small looking Roman. He barely even glowed. Remus smiled anyway.

Logan looked at Remus. "Was that him?"

"Yeah." 

Roman floated over next to Remus and gave him a misty feeling hug. Like a bubble of heavy fog sitting on your shoulder. 

"Is he okay?" Logan whispered, getting out of his sleeping bag and crawling over to Remus.

Roman nodded and Remus copied the motion. 

Logan leaned back. "That's good. Sorry if I pressured you into doing something you didn't want to…"

Roman tilted his head and smiled. "Don't worry about it, Science Lo-g." Remus parroted him.

A wood creaked ominously overhead, making Logan yelp. Virgil shot right up, hitting Janus in the face. Janus gasped and sat up as well, glaring at Virgil.

"What was that for?"

"Why are you all uppppp," Patton groggily whined.

Remus giggled. "Roman's back and Logan’s a big scaredy-cat."

Logan hugged himself, frowning. "No I'm not."

"Boo!" Janus exclaimed, abruptly leaning forward towards Logan. Logan shrieked and shoved Janus away. Janus cackled.

"Jan that was rude," Patton said, shoving his brother's arm. Janus just rolled his eyes with a giggle.

"You Ok L?" Virgil asked, tilting his head. 

Logan nodded. "Uh….yeah…"

Remus shook his head "You're all dorks. I remember why Ghosts are better than People now. Ghosts are cool."

Roman brightened, giggling. Remus's alive (really, does Virgil count?) friends giggled too.

“We’re cool... and dorky.” Janus said, sticking his tongue out at Remus. “About half and half.”

Remus giggled, “Eh, the ghost is dorky too, so I think it’s even.”

The group dissolved into further giggles, the following quiet eased with a gentle air of happiness.

The winds outsides still billowed ominously. The wood groaning.

Logan glanced around the old house, and took in a big breath. "Can I… sleep in the middle?"

"Of course!" Patton said, despite being closer to the outside of the group.

Janus shrugged and Virgil nodded. Logan crawled in between Virgil and Janus's spots, right in the middle and let out a heavy sigh.

A quiet that fell over the group. "You were really scared, huh?" Remus whispered, leaning over Virgil. Virgil grunted at being squished.

Logan looked somewhat sheepish and rubbed his eyes. "...Uh… A little. But not of Roman…. Mostly." Logan shrugged.

Virgil shifted, opening one eye. "Wanna hug? Hugs usually help me."

Logan was quiet for a moment. "Yes please."

Remus immediately glued himself to Logan’s side, and Virgil followed soon after. Logan giggled, and after a moment, Janus and Patton joined the cuddle pile.

Roman looking somewhat curious, floated over to Logan and placed a hand on his shoulder. Logan glanced at the spot. "What's that?"

"Roman" Remus replied.

Logan let out a soft "Oh."

"Unless he screams, I'm gonna hug him too now." Roman informed Remus. His misty heavy-airiness fell over the group hug, and only solidified the sleepy air. 

Logan smiled. "Remind me to put this in the notebook." He muttered.

Remus laughed. "Go to sleep, ghost hunter."

A round of good nights circled the room and it wasn't long until Patton was snoring next to the wheeze of the wind in the trees outside and the creak of the happily haunted house.

[destiniesfic]

132 Hours, Chapter 10

It is not better in the morning.

Previous

Read chapter 10 on AO3 or read below (but be warned, there’s mature content in this one):

Once again, it’s hard to sleep. I dream of kissing Cardan, who is actually Locke, and I am wearing Taryn’s pink prom dress. And that’s the tamest of them; I have more graphic nightmares that I won’t recount here, except to say that they are awful. Every time I wake up I am either too hot or too cold. I eventually decide I am most comfortable with one leg pushed outside of the blankets and fall into a light doze.

About two hours into my botched attempt at sleeping, I awaken to some odd noises and realize that Cardan is also awake. A moment later, I realize he must think I am still asleep, because when I look over at him there can be no other explanation for what he is doing.

As before, he is in slightly sharper focus than everything else in the room. I thought I’d find him lying down, but he is sitting up with his back against the wall, and his head is bowed forward. He is definitely trying to be quiet, but it is very clear to me from his weird breathing and the sound of skin on skin and the movement of his hand what is going on.

I shouldn’t watch. I know I shouldn’t. But I woke up turned on my side toward him and I can’t turn over or he might realize I’m awake. I can’t even imagine what would happen then. Would he stop? Would he come over? Would I invite him over? I don’t know which possibility terrifies me more.

His breathing grows more labored and he brings his free hand up to his mouth to muffle the sounds that fall out of it. I hate the way my heartbeat skips at every one, the way every muscle in my body clenches with want, with need. I stay quiet, though, watching with hungry curiosity as he curls over himself and makes a strangled sound, almost but not entirely swallowed up by his palm. His shoulders shake.

When it’s over—and I am marveling at how I just watched him jerk off—he sighs, a long, exhausted sigh that somehow really endears him to me. I want to crawl over to him and nuzzle at his neck. I want to drape my body over his body so we can keep each other warm. I want to lick his hand clean, a thought that I recoil from even as I have it. That can’t possibly taste good, and yet—

“Ah, shit,” he whispers. He’s looking down at his hand, and my delusional omega brain wonders if I should go offer to lick it. But then he pulls off one of his already dirty socks and uses that. He got a shower today, but being stuck in a dirty room the size of my stepmother’s walk-in closet negates that fast. Honestly, after being stuck down here for days, I’m not sure we’ll ever be clean again.

Cardan’s head falls back against the wall. His clean hand grabs for something at his side, and when he presses it to his face, I realize it’s my sweatshirt. He exhales again, and it must be my imagination, but it sounds suspiciously like my name. He takes a few, deep breaths, then puts it back down and curls up on his side, using it as a pillow.

I feel like I have been holding my breath this entire time, but I keep holding it a little longer, just in case. There is a pulsing, demanding heat in me, concentrated between my thighs, but, as I always do, I push it to the side. I curl my knees to my chest, and hope it will be better in the morning.

---

It is not better in the morning.

When I open my eyes, it is to the migraine that threatened me yesterday finally breaking, like someone’s jammed a railroad spike into my left eye. The fever is roaring, too, and I pull my leg back inside the blankets and wrap myself up tight, but my shivering doesn’t stop. My muscles have acquired a dull ache that makes me think they’d be bruised if I could peel my skin back and look.

I think I half-expected to find that Cardan had crawled on top of me in his sleep. Then I would wake up, then he would do it, and it would be an awkward thing to work around while kidnapped but at least the worst of my symptoms would abate. But Cardan is still by his corner where I’d seen him fall asleep last night, except now he’s curled up in a ball around my sweatshirt. So there would be no morning hump session, which is good, because I am not yet at the point where that seems more alluring than scary, awkward, intimidating.

My mouth is dry, and I turn over to reach for the water bottle, but it is empty. When had it emptied? Did I empty it?

“Cardan,” I whisper. That’s all it takes to jolt him out of sleep. He sits up, and rubs his eyes, which then widen when he looks at me so I must look really terrible.

“Shit,” he says again, which brings back echoes of him saying it in the night, which just makes my entire body seize up because he’d been jerking off—over me? or over the situation?—and there was an increasingly urgent part of my brain wondering why he’d had his dick in his hand when he could have put it in me. And then, ow, a cramp on top of everything else. As if everything else weren’t enough.

I paw for the pills the Bomb left me and swallow them dry, hoping for some relief from the headache, even though it won’t be immediate. Then I start to push up to my hands and knees.

“No, no,” says Cardan, shoving out a hand but not coming any closer. “No, you just— just wait, I’ll get them. I’ll get you more water.”

“I can do it,” I insist, but it’s taken so much effort just to get this far up and I’m trembling holding myself in place.

“Jude, you look—” He trails off and shakes his head. It must really be that bad. I want to tell him he doesn’t look much better. The circles under Cardan’s eyes have deepened, and he’s already sweating so much that his curls cling to his forehead. But he just sets his mouth in a line and says, “Let me do it.”

In almost any other circumstance I would hate being bossed around by him, but I just flop onto my belly and groan, “Fine.”

Cardan, however, is wired. He must feel as jagged and sleep-deprived as I do, but I can see the extra jittery energy in his every step. I did make that joke about thrusting, but what happens when you box an alpha in rut in a basement with no outlet? Where does that energy go?

Apparently into his fist, because when he pounds on the door it’s so loud that I nearly jump off the mattress. My head throbs. “Hey!” he calls. “Jude needs water!”

There is no answer for a solid thirty seconds. When Cardan glances at me, I am frowning. “They’re usually right outside,” I say, and my stomach plummets at the thought that we’ve been locked in here and just left with no food or water.

“They’re coming,” Cardan replies, probably to reassure himself. He bangs on the door again, this time with even more urgency. “Hey!”

A few seconds later the door opens, and it is not the Bomb standing there, but the Ghost, dressed in black, his face an inscrutable mask. “Alright, I heard you.”

Cardan takes a half-step back from the door, toward me. I pull the blankets tighter around myself and flatten my back against the wall. This was the outcome we had worried about. Everything Cardan had said and done yesterday was to keep our captors out, and especially to keep the Ghost away from me.

“You need to leave,” Cardan snarls, his hands balling into fists at his sides. I am surprised at the ferocity in his voice. I’ve seen him angry. I’ve seen him hurt people with a shove or a cruel word. I have never seen him like this.

But the Ghost is unimpressed. Probably because if it came down to a fight between the two of them, he would definitely win, even though Cardan has more muscle. “You can relax,” the Ghost says. “I’m a beta.”

Cardan blinks, and so do I. But then his eyes narrow. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

The Ghost sighs. “Ask your girlfriend if I smell like anything. Her receptors are on overdrive. Even maskers wouldn’t help.”

I expect Cardan to protest that I’m not his girlfriend, and I’m about to open my mouth to say he isn’t my boyfriend, when he looks at me and asks, softly, “Jude?”

The urge to deny anything is knocked right out of me, and I inhale, concentrating. It’s difficult to get anything beyond Cardan’s scent and mine, both of which hang heavy in the stagnant air, but I do pick out something. I look up at Cardan. “Just hand soap. He smells like hand soap.”

Cardan looks skeptical.

“I’m less of a danger to her than you are in this state,” the Ghost says. “I can help her out of the room. Let me.”

In this state. He has to know, then. Uneasily, Cardan moves aside to let the Ghost into the room, tracking him as he walks over and crouches at my side. The Ghost presses a cool hand to my forehead while looking at my sweaty, tangled hair.

“Why didn’t you say you’re a beta?” I ask, shivering.

“Wasn’t relevant. When did you last take medicine?”

“A few minutes ago. What about the Roach and the Bomb?”

“Do you introduce yourself to people by telling them you’re an omega?” It’s a rhetorical question, because he then says, “We have to get you into the shower. I’ll help you up.”

I nod. I know what I look like and what I smell like, and I am not so proud that I won’t accept his help.

“Hey,” Cardan begins, when the Ghost reaches out to put an arm around my shoulder, but I give him a look and he doesn’t say anything else, although the set of his jaw tells me he’s unhappy. He crosses his arms.

“Cardan,” the Ghost says, “can you go turn the water on for her? The old heater takes a while to get started. Make it warm to start, not hot. She can turn it up if she needs to.”

“Right,” Cardan says, and over the Ghost’s shoulder I see him nod and leave.

“He listened to you,” I marvel as the Ghost peels the blankets from my body and helps me to my feet. I should feel more self-conscious that I’m wearing only a tank top and underwear and my thighs are definitely crusty with residue, but he isn’t making a big deal of it, so neither am I. Besides, between my shaky legs and my bad ankle, I am a little distracted by the effort of not toppling over.

“Alphas. Temperamental, but they like to feel like they’re doing something.” It seems like a joke, but he doesn’t smile when he says it. He supports my weight easily, and with his help I hobble out of the room.

“You really don’t smell like much,” I inform him. “It’s weird.”

“I’m used to it.”

“Right.” Mentally, I kick myself. And the Ghost doesn’t say anything else, so I don’t either.

As he helps me across the little room, I am very conscious of my body pressed against his and his arm around my shoulder. My hormonal brain, ecstatic that I am being touched, is swimming, trying to tell me I am attracted to him. Am I attracted to him? I mean, I think he’s handsome, objectively. Should I have sex with the Ghost? I probably shouldn’t have sex with the Ghost.

But, of course, those images are provided to me unbidden because the omega part of me is ecstatic that I am willing to actually entertain my horniness. What if the Ghost helped me into the shower and he stayed there with me? And Cardan also stayed? And then what? My rational brain scolds. I don’t know anything about the logistics of having a threesome in a shower. It seems like an easy way to get more injured than I already am.

And while having sex with the Ghost would be simpler from an emotional standpoint because I barely know him, he is a beta, so it would not actually solve any of my current, heat-related problems. Also, Cardan would be sad.

Do I care that Cardan would be sad? That’s an uncomfortable thought.

“Oh, thank god,” I say, when we finally reach the bathroom and I see Cardan pacing back and forth in the little hallway and hear the shower stream hitting the old yellow tile in the bathroom. I can’t wait to be clean. I can’t wait for these heat-induced intrusive thoughts to go away either, but unfortunately that’ll take a little longer.

“Do you need any help getting undressed?” the Ghost asks, in a tone so dispassionate that even my omega hindbrain wilts at how obviously uninterested he is.

“I think I can manage,” I say, mostly because I can, but also because Cardan looks like he’s on the verge of tearing the Ghost’s throat out, and I still think the Ghost would win that fight but I’m suddenly not sure. We’ll all be glad when this is over.

So I limp into the bathroom, close and lock the door behind me, and tear off my sweat-soaked tank top and my underwear. Instead of standing in the shower, I grab the soap and sit right down, not caring if the floor is gross. I nearly start crying when the water hits my skin, and am almost surprised it doesn’t start steaming around me. It feels cool, so I turn it up a little until I’m comfortable. Then I begin scrubbing myself all over.

It takes a long time before I feel clean. My body still reacts to the lingering traces of Cardan’s scent that cling to my skin and hair. But I discover that someone’s stocked the shower with a set of floral shampoo and conditioner that claims to be “scent-dampening.” Small text on the back advises that they “may have diminished effect during periods of heat or rut,” but I pour a good third of the bottles out into my hands and wash and condition my hair, detangling it with my fingers. I wash my pubic hair, too, just in case it’ll help.

When I step out of the shower, feeling much better, I eye my gross clothes and dread putting them back on. But on the closed toilet, neatly folded, someone has left me an alternative: one of those loose maxi dresses you can find hanging on a rack in the back of a Walgreens, for cheap. I pull it over my head; it’s olive green, and too long, but it fits okay otherwise. There are also some soft black shorts, which I put on under the dress. There’s no replacement for my underwear, so I wash it in the sink, wringing it out as best I can, and leave it to hang dry on the towel bar.

When I step out, Cardan, who has now taken to pacing the main area with his head bowed sulkily forward, perks up. “Hey,” he says. “You look… wow, a lot better. Your scent’s— you’re better.” His nose wrinkles. “The shampoo’s a little weird, though.”

“Not a fan of lavender?”

“It just doesn’t really…” He gestures vaguely. “...like, go with you. It’s the opposite of what you are.”

I limp over to an empty chair and ease myself into it. Because I am so tired that my filter is totally worn away, I ask, “What do I smell like to you, anyway?”

“It’s…” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and fidgets. I notice his feet are still bare, and nearly blush, remembering what had happened to his sock. “It’s hard to explain. I mean, I probably smell like a lot of things at once to you, too, right?”

I nod. “But if you had to choose,” I press, and brace myself, trying to anticipate the worst thing he could say. Methane gas, rotten fish, a dump?

“Cinnamon, I guess,” Cardan admits.

“What?” I sit forward in my chair. “You hate the smell of cinnamon?”

“No, I.” He looks flustered, but tries to channel it back into haughty and irritable. “Don’t be stupid. I’m going to go shower.”

“But—” I begin, perplexed, but Cardan has already disappeared.

The Ghost, who had been leaning silently against the wall, pushes off of it to approach me. “I should change your bandages,” he says, crouching down to expect them. I open my mouth, but he anticipates me and looks up, adding, “I know you have questions, but I’m only going through this once. Better wait until Cardan gets back.”

I press my lips into a thin line. I can be patient when it’s important, but I am feeling frayed right now. As he is re-wrapping my leg, I blurt out, “How do you know what to do if you’re a beta?”

“What, with your leg?”

“No, with—” I look down at him and find him raising his eyebrows. He had been joking. I sit back in my chair, pouting.

“My dad was an omega,” he explains. “My mom was an alpha. I saw all sides of it growing up, even if I didn’t go through it. Three days every few months I’d be on my own.”

“Was that hard?”

“It was what it was.” He gives me another look. “Now wait.”

I scowl at him. “Can I have a mandarin?”

Maybe happy not to be talking, he gets up to get one from a bag slumped on top of the mini-fridge. I catch it when he tosses it to me, and alternate between picking at it and taking sips from a fresh water bottle until Cardan emerges from the shower, damp and cleansed of sweat. He sits down across from me, and I scrunch up my nose. Lavender doesn’t really suit him either.

“I told Jude I’d only go through this once,” says the Ghost, who seems happier to remain standing. “But I think I can guess your first question. Yes, we all knew what was going on. Pretty much from the get-go. We didn’t say anything because you guys were being cagey for some reason, but we figured we could get you the supplies you needed anyway, no harm done. I only said something because I’m the only one here, and Cardan wasn’t going to give me access otherwise.”

Cardan shifts. I ask, “Why are you the only one here?”

The Ghost blinks at me. That wasn’t the follow-up he was expecting. “The Bomb and the Roach were called away.” He shrugs. “Might be good news, might be bad. Hard to say. They figured I could handle things alone while you were in heat. It’s not like either of you are in a state to go anywhere.”

“So, what, you’re all betas?” Cardan asks, cutting me off before I can follow up.

“Yes.”

He frowns. “We thought you were using maskers.”

“It wasn’t a bad assumption,” the Ghost says. “People in our line of work often do, so we can’t be traced by scent. Betas make good spies, too. Any profession that requires stealth.”

I hadn’t thought about that, but it makes sense. “So were you recruited because you were a beta, or…” My stomach sinks as I consider another possibility. “You were all, like, born… nobody made you this way, right?”

The Ghost hesitates, then says, “I was, yes. The others’ stories aren’t mine to tell.”

Cardan gawps at me. “You’re thinking they were… what, de-designated? Why? To make them better at… crime?”

I shudder. Forcible de-designations were categorized as human rights violations by the United Nations in the early 1970s after certain unethical human experiments came to light. Sure, there are de-designation therapies out there for people whose designations cause extreme dysphoria or health complications, but they take months. The forcible de-designations are quick, and brutal, and painful, and if the subject survives the physical complications, they might not survive the psychological.

“I hope not,” I say, quietly, telling myself that my discomfort is brought around by the idea of anyone suffering such a painful ordeal, not because I like our abductors. I change the subject. “But you were recruited?”

“Yes.”

Man of few words. I hug my arms around my stomach. “Must be nice.”

“The job opportunities or being a beta?”

“Not having to deal with…” I peel one hand away from my abdomen and gesture vaguely.

“No, I don’t envy that.” The Ghost looks between us. “Although I do sometimes wonder what I’m missing out on.”

I glance at Cardan, who, to my surprise, actually looks angry. “If you had fresh clothes for Jude the whole time, why didn’t you give them to her?” he demands. “Why didn’t anybody stay with her? She was stuck in her gross clothes and she was alone, all day.”

Again, the Ghost looks slightly taken aback, although he smooths his face into his usual inscrutable mask in an instant. “The Bomb got these for her yesterday, but she was curled up in her nest and we didn’t know if she’d want to move or be bothered.”

“My nest?” I frown. “No, that’s not right. I don’t have a—”

“It’s a sad nest, but you did pile all the bedding in the room up in one corner.”

“No, that wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t—” I look at Cardan in horror, as he is the one who put all the blankets and pillows on me, but he is looking away from me. I shake my head, and some wet hair falls into my face. “It’s okay that I was alone. I think it was better. Don’t worry about it.”

I feel the Ghost watching me closely, and shift in my seat. “It’s not shameful, what’s happening to you,” he says at last. “Plenty of people go through it all the time.”

“Not you,” I retort.

“Maybe not, but I’ve been around long enough and seen enough to know there are upsides to being an omega.”

“Oh, yeah?” I ask. “Like what?”

The Ghost’s eyebrows shoot up. “You want me to tell you?”

“Yeah.” I glance at Cardan, who’s slouching in his chair and pretending to ignore both of us. “Tell me how my life doesn’t totally suck right now.”

He looks at me, then at Cardan, then says, “I guess I don’t have anything better to do.”

Next

[indyerstraits]

THE PRODIGY ▶ JAMESON ‘JAMIE’ DYER

I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere Fell behind on my classmates, and I ended up here Pouring out my heart to a stranger But I didn't pour the whiskey

CONNECTIONS. PINTEREST. PLAYLIST.

August 10th, 1999 - Leo  ♌︎

Jamie was born twenty-five minutes after his twin brother, Johnnie, who embodies the spirit of the lion they were born under. His mother always joked that Jamie was waiting for Autumn to come out when she realized that one of the twins was much less exuberant than the other. No one in the family understood that Jamie was just as dramatic as his brother was, because no one understood the depth of his sarcasm.

likes: horror movies, ghost stories, algebra, reading, long naps, being warm, praise, cats, clean bedding, the quiet, solving puzzles, conspiracies, vodka sodas, milk, taking apart things that don’t need to be taken apart, carb-heavy foods, anchovies, star gazing, arguing

dislikes: instruction manuals, plot holes, the taste of cigarettes, calculators, people who talk during movies, drugs, apathy, authority figures, people who don’t finish their food, people who can’t calculate their tips, people who don’t leave tips, most people in general, large bodies of water, sex scenes in movies, sticky bar tops, doing laundry, carrots

The Dyer family who lives on the brink of poverty…

tw: mentions of drug and alcohol abuse, mental illness, gang violence

Margaret Dyer: Estranged Mother. Margie was the hurricane that blew in and out of the Dyer household, bringing with her the hope of the Dyers ever becoming a real family again. A hard woman to pin down, Margie had always marched to the beat of her own drum and her cadence drew her to a life of partying and drugs that she was never able to leave behind. Although her love for her husband and her kids was genuine, it was hard for any of them to reconcile with it when she was always determined to chase whatever high she was feeling at the moment. The highs in the family depended on whether Margie was in the mood to make things right and the lows almost always involved her leaving.

Jonathan Dyer: Deadbeat father. Once an intelligent and promising young man, John has long since shirked all responsibility for the family in favour of drugs and alcohol. The early days of the Dyers were filled with grand ideas of love and family. John and Margie were two kids from the opposite ends of town, attempting to outrun the judgmental eyes and skepticism with parties, booze and pills. Their reckless foray into marriage resulted in a house and kids that they weren’t prepared to take care of when their teenage fun had evolved into addiction and arguments. John is a loving husband, but an awful father who spends most of his time slinging whisky sours, wallowing in self-pity, and ranting about the injustices done upon him by society and his bipolar wife.

Jimmy Dyer: Older brother. The first born of the Dyers had many perks and many downfalls and Jimmy is a direct result of the tumultuous imbalance. He’d been the one to witness the love their parents had to offer and was also the first to feel the effects of losing it. As the eldest, Jimmy had a choice on whether to sink into his role as family protector or let it all disintegrate and he chose to leave it behind in favour of his much cooler uncle after Margie left the first time. Whatever happened in Frank’s trailer, Jimmy never talks about, but the result of it was him joining The Revenants upon adulthood. He’s an angry, resentful man who haunts the town as his uncle’s shadow. Jimmy’s known for violence and attributes it loudly to his shitty family.

Johnnie Dyer: Older Twin. Johnnie and Jamie might’ve shared the same face, but that’s just about all they have in common. Johnnie was always louder, more charismatic and more demanding of affection, much like Margie. He played baseball and was popular in high school, doing his best to pretend like everything was normal at home. Never seen without a girl on his arm, there’s something to be said about how quickly Johnnie goes through relationships and how miserable he was without one. Johnnie is a mechanic at Cid’s and contributes to the family’s finances as much as Jamie does, but he’s never been good with money when his popularity called for him to put it where his mouth was.

Stella Dyer: Younger sister. Stella was raised by her brothers and it shows. She’s a down-to-earth tomboy who’s wiser than her years, appearing to have a level head for a teenager. Having little recollection of their mother, Stella’s experience with the Dyer parents is mostly in the warnings her brothers give her whenever Margie is around and she’s taken it as gospel. However, her youth is evident in her easy compassion for her parents despite what they say. Yearning for parental affection was a trait all the Dyers seemed to have.

Jack Dyer: Youngest brother. Jack is a troublemaker. Despite only being in elementary school, Jack’s reputation among the neighbourhood kids is one of great fear and reverence. Often left unsupervised, Jack was raised on media and TV and has an eerily low sense of empathy due to it. He enjoys setting fires and destroying public property, bullying other kids and general mayhem. However menacing he may be, Jack comes to heel easily when it comes to family.

Kahlua Dyer: Youngest sister. Kahlua was born into controversy like a true Dyer. Only two years old and the topic of much conversation between housewives and neighbours who loved speculating about Kahlua’s real father. The Dyer kids, however, have never considered her anything but their sister.

Frank Ward: Uncle. Always covered in soot, grease and a looming sense of dread, Frank Ward may be the pinnacle of ghouls in Gravewood. Having worked in the mines far outside of town for most of his life, Frank was once a contributing member to Gravewood’s economy but the years of neglect by the mayor and his in-laws has left Ward disillusioned.  Now leader of one of the notorious gangs in Gravewood, the Revenants, Frank Ward is a man out to regain his power in any means possible, even if it means tearing up the town he once worked so hard to build.

if you knew Jamie in childhood, you knew…

A precocious boy who stood out for pointing out contradictions and asking prying questions. Jamie was an odd-looking child with bruised knees and eyes bigger than his head, always donning a stupid wooly kitty tuque because his mother couldn’t remember which twin he was without it. He learned to read early on and never stopped, always caught with his nose in a new book.

While Jamie was more reserved than his brothers, he was a troublemaker in his own way and was always picking apart things he shouldn’t have. He had a natural curiosity that had him wandering aimlessly through the neighbourhood after school, flipping over rocks and peering into the neighbours’ windows. With absent parents, he was given free reign to explore and do whatever he wanted like a stray kitten.

Jamie didn’t have a lot of friends, most kids finding him a little odd with the way he rambled about things they didn’t understand. Often, Jamie could be found trailing around behind his brothers and their friends, telling fanciful stories about kingdoms and beasts to anyone who would listen.

memorable moments: During a moment of clarity, Margie enrolled Jamie into the cub scouts with Johnnie in hope of starting over with the family on the right foot. His run in the cub scouts only lasted as long as one summer, but it was enough to put him into the periphery of the people in Gravewood when rumor circulated that a kid at camp had memorized an entire chart of constellations and the stars that made them.

if you knew Jamie as a teen, you knew…

tw: suicide, bullying

A prodigy. In high school, there was no more denying Jamie’s brilliance when it was laid bare in all the accolades he acquired from his school work. From Math to English, there wasn’t a subject that Jamie couldn’t excel in. His brain worked faster than others, his memory a steel trap. He recognized patterns and solved logical problems with the kind of ease that MENSA would’ve fawned over. Jamie’s capacity for learning and his smart mouth earned him a reputation as more than just a troubled Dyer kid. 

Jamie was a skittish kid but nervy, emboldened by affirmations from the adults at school. He always sounded proud of being smart, like his IQ was a brand new gadget he’d gotten for Christmas. It was the happiest Jamie’s ever been, if anyone could call his dramatic soliloquies an expression of joy.

However, the glow of recognition couldn’t withstand the onslaught of drama his parents brought home and Jamie’s moods swung with the door his mother came in through.

During Christmas break of junior year, Margie came back from her latest sabbatical and brought with her the gift of family. For a week, the house was vibrant and alive, his father lucid and pleasant. Jamie really thought that he’d be graduating with his parents in the front row seats by the way things were going.

Everything came crashing down when Margie entered a drug-fueled psychosis and attempted to take her own life the week after.

It was the last time Jamie ever got his hopes up for anything.

memorable moments: The death of Jamie’s naivete was swift and punishing. When Jamie returned to school the next year, he was desperate for a semblance of normalcy. Wanting to be a teenager instead of a crash-test dummy for dysfunctional families, Jamie accepted an invitation to a party with Gravewood’s elite. Unfortunately, teenagers didn’t care about whether Jamie could ace AP Calculus, deeming him too much of a nerd to consider cool and too much of a prick to consider a friend. The kids threw him into the pool for laughs, sinking both Jamie and his ego when he was left to flounder in the water until a classmate fished him out. He walked home alone that night, drenched like a rat.

if you knew Jamie after high school, you knew…

A frustrated, stressed out kid who was feverishly trying to salvage the pieces of his life from the wreckage his parents made it. Senior year puttered out like a dying engine for Jamie. Despite his bright start, the accumulation of pressure from all sides had him miserably dragging his feet through his exams. He picked up a second job at the Windsor Rink and worked longer hours at Marie’s to cover the cost of raising a household full of kids and his GPA suffered for it.

Jamie's eyes were always heavy with bags but the determination in them never disappeared. After all, he’d always had a plan B: he had been picking up gigs and hustling schemes to contribute to a savings account that he kept for a rainy day. Although he didn’t graduate with a shower of scholarships and grants like he wanted, he hadn’t lost faith in his own ability to fix a bad situation. Most of all, Jamie hadn’t lost faith in himself yet.

memorable moments: An explosive argument on the Dyer lawn rang out in September after Jamie graduated that drew the eyes and ears of all the neighbours. Gossip around town said it was about drugs, while others said it was about money. All anyone could agree on was that the Dyers had raised a terribly awful boy who could yell at his own mother the way he did that evening. Margaret wasn’t seen coming back to the house for a while after that.

if you knew Jamie half a year ago, you knew…

tw: alcoholism

Lost potential. Jamie never recovered from having his life savings stolen when he was drowned in the debt his parents left behind. He grew jaded, only then coming to the realization of just how futile his life was. It didn’t matter how high his IQ was or how many times he could pivot if he was born with his feet cased in cement. Margie was going to continue to be Margie and John was going to continue being a leech.

Jamie had been stealing sips of beer from the fridge since he was ten, but his drinking reached a peak when the sweet abyss of intoxication became the only reprieve from his daily grind. A night cap became a day cap, became an all day cap. He was rarely found without the smell of alcohol on his breath and was starting to look a lot more like his dad.

memorable moments: During a bender, Jamie redecorated the side of the town hall with a wordy manifesto and a picture of a big penis before falling asleep beneath his work. He spent the evening in the drunk tank before being released with a misdemeanor on his record and a hefty fine for vandalism. It’s the most reckless he’d ever been with himself and money, but he couldn’t say that it didn’t feel good to let off some steam.

Jamie now…

Jamie is exactly where he’s been all his life. Working at the same places, wearing the same clothes, drinking the same drinks. Jamie’s a bug trapped in amber with no way out of the endless cycle his parents had started for him. He’s settled into worrying about other people’s problems over trying to tackle his own in fear of upsetting the tenuous balance of his sanity. The uncertainty of when his mother will return and bring chaos leaves him with little option but to stay and protect his siblings from being subjected to the same rollercoaster of disappointment he has.

Despite the monotony of his life, his innate ability to devise plans and problem solve has given his siblings a chance at a semblance of normalcy for however long it'll last.