#and how bleak it seamed at times when he looked around and it was. Just him. and he wasn't enough! He wasn't enough!!

[symbolicbluecurtains]

"I've got soul but I'm not a soldier"

[forever-rogue]

I have a Joel request 🥰 Maybe reader was pregnant when the beginning of the pandemic happened and they got separated until years later when they reunite and their kid is older?? Whether or not joel knows about the pregnancy is up to you 🫠

Fluffy and angsty if you wish, but please not too angsty cause my heart is still healing from that angst fic 😅💔

(I see someone has already brought up a similar idea, but I thought I'd request for your take on the story cause I can never get enough of your writing!!!)

AN | Don’t worry babe, I’ve got you! But really I love this concept!

Pairing | Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Warnings | Language

Word Count | 2.7k

Masterlist | Joel, Main

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"Joel?" your voice shook, and it was so painfully obvious that you were trying not to cry. Then again, a lot of people had been doing a lot of crying lately. You couldn't blame them; the world had basically ended.

And now it felt like yours was ending all over again. Fuck.

You padded into the living room of the apartment that now served as home for god knows how long. You found him sitting on the couch and staring out the window. He wasn't paying attention to what was going on out there, which happened to be very bleak at the moment. 

"Joel?" you called his name again, moving closer and hesitantly putting your hand on his shoulder. He startled easily lately; you didn't want to be the cause of it. He finally snapped back into attention and looked at you, all dark circles and empty eyes. It broke your heart, "I-I have something to tell you."

He remained quiet but looked raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. You opened and closed your mouth a few times, suddenly at a loss for words.

How were you supposed to tell him that you were pregnant?

The world had come apart at the seams and he'd just lost his daughter. This was absolutely the worst in the world for all of this to happen.

You waved your hands for a moment, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole, "I-I'm-"

Before you could go any further, a loud knocking came at the door. Both of you startled as Joel jumped up and walked over to the door, opening it hurriedly, "what?"

"New horde of infected," a man's gruff voice reached your ears, "FEDRA wants everyone to pack up and go now."

"How far away?"

"Less than a mile."

You did not like the sound of that. A lump welled up in your throat as you looked at Joel helplessly. His face hardened into an unreadable expression before he gave the man, you were pretty sure his name was Nick, a hard nod, “we’ll be ready to go.”

“Good,” he was already moving along to the couple next door, “now go, there’s no time to lose.”

Joel slammed the door shut before letting out a long sigh. He was tired, so, so tired, but he couldn’t just give up. He had to keep going, he had to keep pushing. 

“Joel?”

“Pack a bag, whatever you want grab,” he motioned towards the bedroom, “it doesn’t really matter anymore, but get what you need.”

“What’s going to happen?” your mind was reeling with worry; about you, him, the baby, and whatever the hell was about to go down, “I-I’m scared.”

“I know baby,” he set his large hands on your shoulders, “but right now you can’t worry about that. Just focus on getting your stuff and leaving. Ten minutes, okay? Then we have to get over to the FEDRA station and leave. Yes?”

“Yes,” you agreed shakily, already padding back to your bedroom to get the few possessions you had felt in the world.

Joel nodded as he went to grab his stuff, knives and guns and other weapons, agreeing to meet at the door shortly.

Time seemed to move in a combination of incredibly fast and wickedly slow and before you knew it, Joel was calling for you to leave. You met him at the door the two of you looked at each other in silent understanding.

The trek over to the FEDRA outpost wasn’t far and the other people in the small community were already in a panic to get out, all scrambling around each other. You grew nervous, wondering if you’d be able to get out in time. 

Joel’s hand was on the small of your back as he led you closer to the vehicles designated for exactly this purpose. 

The rest of it all happened so fast. The first group of infected had come around and were making their way into what you had once believed to be a safe space. Chaos ensued as some people tried to get out as quickly as possible and others hung back to try and fight. 

“Go,” Joel shielded you as he walked you over to the one of the vehicles. You were trying to get him inside with you, holding onto his hand tightly and pulled him. 

“Joel-”

“Go,” he insisted firmly and for a moment, time stood still as he kissed you, “go. Get out to safety, okay?”

“What about you?” you hadn’t realized you’d started crying; you hated that he had to be such a good man, “please, come with me now. Please-”

“I’ll find you,” it was a promise both of you knew he might not be able to keep, “I swear it. I’ll find you.”

“Joel-”

“I love you,” he took a step back as the vehicle started up and a few stragglers tried to get on, “I’ll find you soon.”

“I love you,” you cried, “please. Please.”

You weren’t even sure what you were asking for. Everything felt so surreal and left you in a daze; the next thing you knew, he was gone. 

You were leaving to get to the next safe space and he was just gone. 

You’d never felt more numb. 

But you never let go of the hope that one day he’d find you.

Joel Miller was a good man.

A good man that kept his promises.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"Luca!" you sighed softly as you tried to find your son. You loved him dearly, but sometimes he just stressed out. He was just a kid though, and you couldn't be mad at him for that. 

He also happened to be extremely friendly and sociable, which made him popular among everyone. You walked down the street to one of his little friend's houses, sure they were just playing.

It was almost too quiet when you got there, and you were sure that they'd gone off somewhere else. You knocked on the door nonetheless and Lisa opened it, smiling when she saw it was you, "hey darlin', I'm afraid they're not here if you're looking for the little bundle of chaos they are."

"I had a feeling," crossing your arms over your chest you rolled your eyes playfully, "it's way too quiet and calm here."

"It's a nice change of pace if I do say so," she winked at you and the two of you exchanged smiles that only a single mother would understand, "do you want to come in for a bit?"

"Rain check?" You asked sheepishly, "I was going to go friend the kiddos….realistically I know they're fine but I'd rather see it with my own eyes."

"Definitely," she gave your shoulder a squeeze, "see you around."

It was a beautiful spring day, warm and breezy with small creatures scurrying about; it always felt like life was back to normal. Or what you had once known as normal…but this had been your reality for almost seven years now. Maybe this was your normal now. 

Nonetheless you decided to remain positive and decided instead to head down to the pond where the kids liked to play. Spring had brought around a bunch of ducklings and you were sure that the kids would be mesmerized by them. But, to be quite honest, so were you. The magic of such simple things was not lost on you. Now, more than ever, these sorts of things were so important. 

“Luca?” you saw a bunch of small figures around and screaming, and you finally relaxed. As you came into view, the boy grinned at you a big smile on his face, his curls roguish from the wind, “hey babe. You doin’ okay?”

“I’m okay,” he confirmed, his brown eyes sparkling as you ruffled his hair affectionately, “are you okay, mama?”

“Of course,” you crouched down so you were eye level with him, “all better now that I know you’re here. Remember when we talked about letting me know when you go out to play?”

“Yes,” he looked worried for a moment before you shook your head softly, “I’m sorry. I got excited about playing and forgot.”

“It’s okay,” you touched his cheek softly, “I’m not mad. Next time can you please remember to tell me?”

“Okay,” he wrapped his small arms around you, hugging you as best as he could. He was a sweetheart and of all the kids you could have ended up with, you were glad he choose you, “can I go back and play now?”

“Definitely,” tender kisses were pressed to his cheeks as you tickled his sides, “go and be good! I love you, kiddo.”

“I love you too, mama,” and off he was, running back to his friend as you watched him go. 

You slowly stood up before stretching and relishing in the popping of your joints. Having been reassured that he was going to be okay, you decided it was time to go back and start tending to the communal gardens. You never really had a green thumb before, but the last few years had really helped you grow. 

You were wrapped up in your own thoughts and almost didn’t notice the man in the middle of the sidewalk, clearly confused. You’d heard some newcomers might be headed your way, but you hadn’t come across any of them yet. Having new people around was something you’d come to love; it wasn’t common most of the time. 

“Hello there,” you were practically beaming as you bounced over to him. The man turned around at the sound of your voice, “you must be new…”

You stopped dead in your tracks as soon as you met his face, suddenly unsure if this was real life or just a wicked dream. You blinked a few times, trying to clear your vision and figure out if what you were looking at was real. There was no way…absolutely none. 

But he looked just like him, watching you with equally curious eyes. Your heart was beating so fast you were surprised it didn’t burst through your ribcage. Your mouth ran dry but you managed to get one singular, “Joel?”

After a moment of stunned silence he nodded before whispering your name in return. The tears were already welling up and threatening to run down your cheeks. Before you knew it, the man that once was your partner, lover - everything - took you in his arms and crushed you to his chest. You didn’t mind.

He was all too familiar, bringing back a rush of memories and emotions as you buried your face in his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. The two of you held onto each other tightly for some time; you were afraid that if you let him go he would disappear again and you would wake up to find it was all a horrible dream. 

When he pulled back, he took your face in his hands and gently brushed your tears away with his thumb. He drank you in, trying to understand every single thing that had happened since the day you lost each other, “hi.”

“Hi,” you grinned back with a teary smile, “you’re here. Really here.”

“I’m here,” he promised, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead, “I’m here.”

“Joel, I-”

“Mama!” the small voice of your son reached your ears as he ran over to the two of you, “I found a little duckie and I don’t see the mom duck and it’s so small and can I keep him?”

“Whoa, bud, slow down there for a moment,” he tucked himself behind your legs, suddenly feeling shy when he realized Joel was there. You could see Joel’s eyes flick to the young boy as his brow furrowed in confusion. You put a hand on his shoulder and encouraged him to introduce himself, “can you say hi?”

“Hi,” he sounded so young as he looked at Joel; their eyes mirroring each other, “I’m Luca.”

“Hi Luca,” he held out his hand to shake the young boy’s much smaller one, his mind racing and reeling with questions. But he was a smart man and could put two and two together,  “I’m Joel.”

“My daddy’s name was Joel,” Luca mused as Joel turned his attention back to you, “that’s what mama said anyway. Can I go back to the ducks now?”

“Yeah babe, go ahead. Don’t touch them though and let the mama duck do her thing. I'm sure she'll be back,” he nodded in response before trekking away again, throwing a little wave at the two of you. You nervously turned your attention back to Joel. 

“A son?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion as you nodded softly, “we have a son?”

“Yes,” it felt like a huge weight lifted off your shoulders as you finally got to tell him what you had wanted all those years ago, “we have a son. He looks just like you.”

“I never…I had no clue,” he ran a hand over his face in surprise, “I didn’t even know you were pregnant.”

“I found out that day,” also known as the day. When everything fell apart for a second time and you were separated from each other, “I was trying to tell you, right before Nick had come and knocked at our door. I realized that morning that I was…pregnant. And I never got the chance to tell you…when everything just started happening, it didn’t cross my mind again. And then…I lost you. I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“You had to go through all of that alone,” he looked at you in awe as you shrugged lightly, “you had to go through being pregnant alone and then raised our son alone.”

“I had a lot of help along the way,” you admitted softly, “turns out that times like these are good at bringing out the worst and the best of people. I told him about you; from when he was little. I always wanted him to know what a wonderful man his father was. And now…he got to meet you.”

“All this time,” he could cry thinking about it all. You, alone and scared, being pregnant in a world that was collapsing, and then having to raise a son alone. He’d lost Sarah, a loss that hurt still, and he knew always would, and he’d almost lost his son. But the universe, fate, or whatever was out there had given him a second chance. Not only to find you, but to be you and the son you shared, “baby.”

“It’s okay,” this time the tears running down your cheeks were happy, “it’s okay. You’re here now and that’s all that matters. And now you’ll get the opportunity to know Luca, and it’s…all I ever wanted.”

“We have a son,” he repeated as though he was in a daze, a happy blissful daze.

“You don’t have to…if you don’t want to spend time with him or anything I-I understand,” it would kill you, but you’d understand, “I don’t want you to feel obligated just because. O-or if there’s someone else.”

“No,” he shook his head fervently, “there’s never been anyway else. How could there ever be? It was always you for me; you’re still it.”

“Yeah,” you exhaled with a small laugh, relieved to hear his answer, “it’s always been you for me too.”

“I was just planning on passing through,” he touched your face, thumb gently brushing over your cheek, “but if it’s okay with you, I could stay a while.”

“How about forever?” you asked softly, “i-if you want to. I-I mean we can figure it out, but-”

“Forever sounds perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

My thing with writing König is trying to find the sweet spot balance point of like 3-4 different angles that are integral to the characterization I want to put out there.

I want him absolutely riddled with the kind of dangerous loser vibes that start the first day of kindergarten as almost an leprotic aura of Contaminated: Do Not Touch that everyone he comes into contact with wordlessly picks up on and carries for his entire life.

Just borderline violent othering that he struggles to fight, embrace, and figure out without ever getting a clear answer or mitigation method. He gets older and becomes a problem, a human toxic waste dump, and the avoidance is tinged with alarm. He figured out how to cover it, though, like he’s pulling on a patchwork person suit.

I’m a real boy, I’m like everyone else, nevermind the seams. Yeah, they’ll split the longer you’re around, but maybe this time—this time—I will have become an endeared thing and I will be understood instead of left.

Skin-splitting horniness, which is ha-ha on the surface, but Jesus Christ, it’s starvation, straight-up. Man is a fucking alien, he doesn’t get people, his veneer of normality is quick to shatter, and he just wants-wants-wants to be wanted. To be needed is a pipe dream. He’s like a dog taken away from mom and litter mates too soon—the need for closeness is set at so high a threshold it’ll never be met, never be fixed.

Fucking is a quick fix for this desperation. Bandaid over a bullet hole, finger in a cracked dam. Gets sharper teeth and longer claws the lower the fuel gauge is, and he’s been running on fumes for years. He’ll eat any scraps given to him at any table. Any even mildly kind word, any mote of attention, approval, or acceptance.

Even in his worst mind, he knows he’s not owed, he is not dying because he is not getting fucked or loved or befriended, but god fucking dammit, what he wouldn’t give for company to cut the bleakness, to not be fucking flinched at or eye-rolled. He wants to eat someone piecemeal as they eat him piecemeal, and the brutal symbolism of cannibalism is the best way he can understand the depth of this fragile-skinned desire.

A level of jaundiced, yellow-eyed sweatiness that pervades every aspect of his life. This is more difficult to describe. It’s literal sweat—from flop or exertion, it doesn’t matter—it’s also a state of being. It’s having not a flicker of volume control—indoor yelling or outdoor muttering. It’s being exhausted and anxious to the point of hysterical cry-laughing at hallucinations after 3-4 days sleepless. It’s saying the wrong fucking thing at the wrong fucking time and chasing yet another person off and wanting to kill himself for it.

It’s surviving on 4 hours of sleep and cigarettes and any kind of caffeine and below-board military amphetamines he can get his hands on for the last ten years because he feels like he’s wasting time. It’s getting smacked because his monstrosity of a body fucking hurts and being borderline greened-out makes it easier to go grocery shopping or to the gym or outside. It’s showering and then cutting his hair over the sink and not giving a fuck what it looks like as long as it’s not getting caught in his collars.

He doesn’t blink, he doesn’t sleep, he’s constantly spilling hyena-pitched stupid nervous laughter, and he bites when he’s overdone, and his teeth aren’t dull. He’s never threatened violence that he can’t overpay out on. He pulls on his face and his scars and that might as well be the same thing, gets sick to his stomach that they’re still numb and he can’t push into the pain he remembers from them. Sometimes he just moans and groans, shoves a hand up under his mask to cover his mouth like he’s going to hold back the tide of bile. He does this shit in front of people, and wants to die when he figures it out.

He likes killing people, he likes feeling powerful, he likes being seen when he’s the executioner, he likes being a scary nightmare. He doesn’t even know if he’d rather fight than fuck, but at least he’s good at it, and there’s undeniable imagery in driving a knife in between ribs over and over and over. He’s never not throbbing hard at exfil, and he’s never not sick to death with himself and his fantasies after he beats off the second he gets privacy.

Anyway I love him, he’s a sad sack.

[fandom-soda-writings]

Farther From Each Other Than Ever Before - Chapter 3

Description: Emmet has one chance: Fix the future and Dialga will help him find Ingo. If that wasn't the deal of a lifetime, then Emmet didn't know what was going to be better.

He didn't realize the Future wasn't repairable where - or rather when - he was placed. He finds help in a lone Grovyle who inhabits the bleak landscape. This is his once chance to get his brother back, He is Emmet and he refuses to fail.

Ratings: Mature (Strong Language, Minor blood and injury description)

Warnings: None

Chapter select: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

Emmet woke up before Grovyle, one of the first times that this had happened to his knowledge. He wasn’t sure what had woken him up, nor when he had even fallen asleep, but his heart pounded in his ears. 

“Must have been a nightmare…” He breathed quietly, “I am Emmet. No time to sit around. Time to make preparations to depart.”

He stood up quietly, determined to not let the leaves rustle beneath him. As he packed up his bag for the following trip, his eyes kept straying to his surroundings. The vision he had before wouldn’t leave his mind, what was it about this area that triggered it? 

He set his bag down and walked to a nearby tree, eyeing the bark up and down as if it would hold some sort of secret within. Arceus, this was so stupid. 

He gently placed a hand on the bark, fully expecting nothing to happen. His sight wavered and his head began to spin as the surroundings around him vanished. He was once more in the colorful surroundings he saw before, the bright blue gear spinning slowly in the center of the clearing. 

“Can I perhaps..?” He whispered to himself, Taking his hand off the tree. 

He reached to grab the gear, moving closer and closer… and then he came back to reality. He stood in the middle of the gray clearing, no time gear, no sounds of any kind. 

“So I can only hold it as I am holding something associated with the area?” He muttered, “Or is it the influence of the gear itself?” 

He picked up a stick from the ground, feeling the sensations wash over him once more. The colors returned once more and the gear manifested. If he could just grab it… 

His hand passed though it as he attempted to grab hold.... It was just an illusion after all. 

Emmet dropped the stick, his smile threatening to come apart at the seams. If this wasn’t the true gear then…

“What the hell then am I being shown?”

If it wasn’t something in the present - or he supposed his future - then…. Was it the past?

He needed Grovyle’s book. How many gears were there again? 

He carefully walked to where Grovyle was sleeping and gently shook him awake, being met with one of Grovyle’s glares in the process. 

“My apologies, but I wish to see your book once more.” 

Grovyle yawned and shoved his satchel into Emmet’s arms, turning back over to return to sleep.

“Thank you.” Emmet whispered.

He felt bad for rummaging in Grovyle's things but Grovyle could have given him the book himself if he cared. He found the small book eventually, the satchel seemed almost bottomless as he sifted through the items, opening it up to the page bookmarked with the Time Gears. He skimmed the pages, committing the information to memory once more. The book seemed precious to Grovyle, So he didn’t want to look at anything else than his intended target. 

Five Time Gears, All hidden across the land. Associated with the Temporal Tower, but It was unknown in what way. 

Right, he knew that much. His mission involved the Temporal Tower and the Time Gears in some way. Perhaps if he brought them to the tower they would do something? 

He closed the book, the information he required being found. Five locations, which means four more to test his hypothesis on. Emmet put the book back, placing the satchel by Grovyle once more. The pokemon was snoozing quietly, his side raising and falling with his breath. 

Emmet could let Grovyle sleep for a few more moments, But they should be moving soon. The Subway Boss had a bad feeling that trouble was coming soon. 

Grovyle woke up a few moments later, Emmet had just finished cleaning up their firepit from last night when the grass type caught his attention with an annoyed grumble. 

“Good morning Sleepyhead.” Emmet teased, which received him a small pebble to the face. 

Grovyle ignored his suffering and began to clear his bed slowly. Emmet sighed, picking an apple out of his bag. He broke it in half, whistling to get Grovyles attention before tossing a half his way. Grovyle caught it and nodded in thanks, consuming the fruit as he worked. 

“...I am Emmet. I have a theory,” Emmet suddenly spoke, Grovyle looked over in his direction once more, “About those visions.” 

Grovyle stopped working and moved closer, a raised eyebrow indicating Emmet to continue. 

“I tried some experimentation. They activate with anything around this area. I have no idea the distance these visions will activate. But they show the time gear in this area. I cannot grab it when the vision is active. I think it might be showing me the past.” Emmet explained, rubbing a thumb on the back of his right hand, “I cannot be certain until we find another Time Gear location. There are four more to find. I don’t know how to confirm my theory, however. These gears keep time moving in these areas, correct? Like a machine?” 

Grovyle nodded, although he was slow to start. 

“Then this may be because they’re simply missing now. Perhaps it has to do with Dialga’s current state too…” Emmet muttered. 

Grovyle nodded again, this time in agreement. He had come to the same conclusion over the few months (Maybe?)  of travel, it seemed. 

“Right then, Shall we be off? Those last four locations won’t find themselves.”

“Vyle.” 

Emmet fell into his familiar point and call pose, announcing a quiet “All aboard!”. Much to his surprise, Grovyle slowly began to imitate Emmet’s point and call pose. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes at the sight, but he withheld them. The pose was truly better with another by his side, after all. Emmet allowed Grovyle to be his temporary second half as they left the forest. He couldn’t help but wonder if Ingo would allow Grovyle to live with them once this was all done. From how it sounded, Grovyle was born in this bleak future, he had never seen a single sunrise or sunset in his life. He hadn’t known a life beyond running and fighting. Emmet nodded, his eyes filled with determination. He was going to bring Grovyle back with him and give him the life he deserved once this was all over. He doubted that Grovyle would want to participate in the Battle Subway but that didn’t matter. Emmet would give Grovyle a life of relaxation if that was what he wanted.

[girderednerve]

finished listening to this audiobook about coal worker's pneumoconiosis, yay

the book is soul full of coal dust by chris hamby. a lot of it is very good! it provides a brief history of CWP primarily in appalachia, then gets into the modern regulatory history of coal dust, beginning with the 'black lung insurgency' of the late 60s & early 70s. he cites derickson, i love it so much when i am reading a new thing and it cites something i already know i am always like 'yeehaw that's my buddy, noted labor historian alan derickson, whom i have never met.' anyway it's concise & engaging on that front imo although i understand if you don't trust my judgment here

most of the book is interested in very specific procedural problems around black lung safety regulation & the black lung benefits program, which hamby mostly examines via a former miner named gary fox and his lawyer, john kline. the human details are reported with depth & care & i found them moving. the end of the book is sort of awkward, as hamby tries to find for us a victory—primarily the new medical disclosure rule in black lung benefits cases, although he also points to new dust limits in coal mines—even as the situation seems pretty fucking dire. if you look at any NIOSH reports about black lung & particularly progressive massive fibrosis (a condition caused by extensive exposure to both coal dust & silica; i have only read about it as PMF, but hamby calls it 'complex black lung,' so idk what the technical term is), you will see that they both trend sharply upwards over the last few decades. the reasons for this trend are complex & entrenched: aggressively mechanized mining, longer shifts, narrower coal seams, years of cursory enforcement for insufficiently rigorous dust exposure standards, plus other stuff i've forgotten. we might consider decreased unionization, too. anyway that part is bleak, but now at least when you have to go to court to get your former employer to pay you a monthly fucking pittance for exposing you to deadly coal dust for years, they have to give you all the medical evidence they collect as they try to discredit you! yay? it's one of those regulatory changes which is profoundly small & incremental but does have a meaningful effect on people's lives. it is just hard to get excited when you've gone into exhaustive detail about how every other part of the process is also bad & evil. maybe that is a me problem. it was very interesting

other things i noted: this book dodges a lot of large-scale politics, although hamby is obviously on the side of labor; he (very pointedly, imo) avoids talking about coal miners' personal politics. soul full of coal dust also doesn't really address the environmental aspects of coal mining at all; it's pretty focused on the risks & indignities of black lung from underground mining. there's a brief moment where the practice of coal mining is connected to air quality risks for the surrounding communities, and i wanted to read more about that. i think i have a reasonably high tolerance for reading about the law & i thought this book went a little long on the court stuff, so i would've preferred some more environmental connections. especially since rates of black lung in surface coal workers are also ticking up!

anyway good book good time i recommend it & i think we should all spend more time contemplating industrial dust inhalation disease

[centaurianthropology]

Thoughts on NY by Night S1E5 ‘Darkness Clings’

Wow, that was an episode, and as usual, and appropriately-titled episode at that. What started off with some interesting RP and the coterie setting off on a ‘treasure hunt’ rapidly devolved into something far messier, far more dangerous, and something that shot cracks through everyone’s shaky connections.

Let’s start at the beginning, shall we?  It’s fun when basic healing and feeding leads to some serious RP, both with the confrontation between Fuego and Rey over her asking him to kill a man, and when Serif’s risk-taking behavior bites her in the ass with a 4-hunger spike.  Not only did it give us good scenes, but it led to more information about the blood bond, as Serif very nearly made an accidental one by feeding off Rey.  I found it very interesting how obviously conflicted Isaac was about either letting it happen or warning them ahead of time.  There is a part of him that loves watching others make mistakes, likes to study the foibles and stand back from being emotionally invested in anything. He also is struggling with being the one who is somewhat in charge of this group, as he’s not great with people, and his possessive tendencies don’t seem to tend him toward rulership so much as being owed favors.  He’s an extortionist, not a king.

But he’s also the only source of information these vampires have that they see on a regular basis, and so he does end up stepping in to stop Serif and Rey before they can make a mistake without proper information.  And armed with that information, Serif elects to finally eat the blood bag that’s been in Fuego’s purse for a week, and then go hunting (I loved the touch of her victim calling her ‘m’lady’.  A great moment of humor in an otherwise fairly bleak episode).  This is clearly not how she likes to feed.  She likes mortals who know who she is, who are her friends and who enjoy the feeding, and just picking up some random idiot at a bar makes her feel hollow.

So it’s already not a great start to the night.  And things are made more complicated by the strain between Rey and Fuego after their confrontation.  He’s uncomfortable around her, even as he finds her hard to resist or deny.  And that clearly scares the shit out of him. Fuego, rather than de-escalating the situation, leans into it, letting him think even more that she can control him, though she does imply that she’s not actively doing so to the extent he fears. Still, it leaves them very much at odds, and when she finds out about the blood bond, she has a very different reaction to the information than Serif and Rey did.  She seems intrigued.  She looks Rey up and down like a tasty snack, and something tells me that, while he’s the obvious target, she might not want to stop with him.  This coterie is her ticket to control over her life and her surroundings, but they also are coming apart at the seams.  It wouldn’t be too far a step for a Ventrue to decide to blood bond them all to her, or at least be very tempted to try.  

And that’s how they start their treasure hunt, trying to be cheerful while cracks open up under their feet. When they get to the Crescent and the construction site things only get more complicated.  There are still workers there, making their entry and their attempt to get underground and find the lost ship far more dangerous.  Rey has the sense to leave his jacket behind, and Serif tries to talk to a crow nearby, only to find that it’s the familiar of another vampire who’s been scoping out the site.  Her name is Bree, and she’s a Gangrel.

Bree is both a help and a trouble immediately.  She’s friendly and open, but also clearly more interested in solving things with violence than the others might be.  When they confront two security guards in the underground parking garage, things deteriorate into a blood bath.  Rey and Bree both whiff their initial attacks against the guards, leading to Bree getting shot and Fuego stepping in, wresting the gun from one security guard and shooting him in the head.  Bree then goes and slits the throat of the other, though she doesn’t kill him.  All the while Serif is shocked by the turn of events, and Isaac watches on with grim distaste as they make a hash out of an encounter that could so easily have been resolved with a precision application of Dominate.  

After the blood bond scene, Isaac is clearly sick of having to step in constantly and prevent them from making mistakes, so he just watches, and once they’re done he turns and leaves, Serif on his heels.  The others follow, but Isaac turns on them, coldly furious that things devolved so fast and that they just left the bodies behind.  Fuego, realizing what she’s done, seems to be as shocked as anyone, and doesn’t know what to do.  Isaac insists that they do something about the bodies, disposing of them or otherwise. His anger pisses her off, as I think she was hoping for him to give her a hand or some pointers, rather than to treat her as though she fucked up and now has to clean up her mess.  This is as cold as he’s ever been with them, and it snaps whatever tenuous connection he and Fuego might have had.  

As Isaac returns to the van, refusing to help them out of this particular dilemma, Bree helps Fuego dump the body of the man she shot into wet concrete.  They kiss, and Bree urges Fuego to claim her own freedom, to be beholden to nothing save herself.  With Fuego on a steep moral decline, this might not be the best advice ever, even as Fuego grabs onto it.  It’s clear she likes things to go smooth.  She likes people to like her.  Rey is scared of her, Isaac was cold to her, and Serif has her own problems. So Bree is the most welcoming option.

As Fuego and Bree try to shove aside the consequences or moral quandaries of their actions, Rey has his own moral quandary.  The guard he was fighting with isn’t dead, but he is very badly hurt and will die without help.  Rey wants to take him to the hospital, but the man saw their faces.  Rey is struggling to hold onto his humanity, to uphold his personal vow to be a man and not a beast, and he wants to save this guard where he couldn’t save the other guard or the real estate developer Fuego convinced him to kill.  

And that leaves Rey, so far as he’s concerned, with only one option.  He can feed the guard his blood, save his life, and start him down a path to being a ghoul.  Serif, who is with him, turns and leaves in disgust as soon as she realizes what he plans. To her, death would be the better option than servitude.  It also means that their bond cracks as well.  They have perhaps the most closely aligned morals of the group, with Fuego’s being tenuous and very specific, and Isaac’s being fairly far off normal morality. But this action means that Serif in particular would have a hard time finding common ground.  So Rey is left alone.  Serif is left alone.  Fuego has a temporary new bond with Bree, but she is also alone.  And Isaac goes back to Michael and Angela, alone as well.

Their reunion at Isaac’s van is tension-filled.  Fuego doesn’t want to get back into that van, doesn’t want to be anywhere near the man who left her alone with her mistakes.  Serif doesn’t want to be anywhere near Rey and his choices.  Rey doesn’t want to be near Fuego and the danger she poses. And Isaac is frankly fed up with all of them.  

It leads to at least a temporary parting of the ways.  Fuego, Bree, and Serif decide they’ll take a walk, while Isaac and Rey get back in the minivan.  The episode is capped with two interesting discussions.  The first is between Bree and Fuego and Serif.  Serif reveals that she plans on not letting her mother remain a ghoul much longer, one way or another.  She’s struggling because she wants to be free more than anything, but she feels beholden to her mother, her sire, and now the coterie.  And she feels uncomfortable with and betrayed by all of them. She obviously has a growing sense of distance from the coterie she was hoping would help her break her chains. Isaac keeps ghouls unapologetically, she likes Fuego but they’re working on very different wavelengths, and Rey just made another man a ghoul almost in front of her.  

Fuego, while feeling sympathetic to Serif’s plight (they still have perhaps the bond coterie that seems the least strained amongst the coterie) is mired with her own moral conundrum. She murdered a man, not with her fangs but with a gun.  She shot him, and the moral question of that has not yet been addressed.  Bree urges her to own her mistakes, or own her actions and regret nothing.  While the former would perhaps be the better choice for Fuego morally, the latter definitely speaks more to the monster inside her that is unapologetic and hungry for control.  The two share another kiss, with Serif concealed by shadow nearby, and Serif watches on, happy enough for Fuego, but grimacing all the while.  She tries to still be friendly once Bree leaves, but she is drawing away from this group of people, even Fuego.

Meanwhile, in the van, Rey is grappling with his own moral dilemma, and demands that Michael tell him if Isaac could undo their bond and make him ‘normal’ again.  When Rey gets aggressive, demanding answers, Michael comes back at him, stating that Rey can’t order him to do shit.  When Isaac gives permission for Michael to divulge the information, Michael states that, while the bond could be broken and he could go back to normal, he doesn’t want to.  Isaac rounds on Rey, raising his voice for the second time this episode (it’s been a bad night for all of them).  It’s as close to snapping as we’ve seen from Isaac, and though it’s clearly a far more dangerous situation than Rey realizes, it also might be the single most honest moment we’ve had from our normally smiley Tzimisce.  For once, there is no politeness, but simply the bare statement that Isaac has opened his home and offered this group of fuck-ups excessive hospitality, which they have returned with ingratitude.  He expects politeness, and he expects that Rey never ever speak to Michael in that tone again.  There’s a brief confrontation between Rey and Isaac with Rey getting sassy and Isaac getting increasingly angry that these three chuckle-fucks they have the temerity to be mad at him when they fuck up a plan and he doesn’t stop them.  I feel like this is a continuation of the earlier moment this episode when he stopped them forming a blood bond.  Isaac, again, is not cut out to be a den mother.  He’s trying his best, but is losing patience. And feeling like his hospitality is being scorned?  Really not where Rey wants to be with a Tzimisce.

Luckily, Rey is the one to de-escalate.  When Isaac demands to know why he’s angry with Isaac, Rey admits that this just wasn’t where he expected to be.  He isn’t as open about his personal conflict as he was with Fuego, but he says enough. He can’t see ‘the bright side’ of undeath the way he thinks Isaac with his smiles and his friendly demeanor can.

And his honesty is returned in kind, as Isaac continues to be more open about his outlook and his perspective in this moment than I think he may have been this entire campaign so far. He says quite plainly that there is no ‘bright side’.  They’ve all lost the bright side right along with the sun.  The only thing they have is being all right with living in the dark.

Perhaps Rey understands this honesty, or at least respects it more than the friendly mask Isaac usually wears, because the two of them settle in in something like acceptance. Not friendship or even any particular fondness, but a better understanding of one another.  Isaac lays out Rey’s options: he can never see the man he saved again, and the man will return to normal after a rough month.  Or he can take responsibility for what he’s made. Rey asks if Isaac would want a servant in the tower, but Isaac immediately rejects that notion.  He chooses his servants with extremely stringent criteria.

What struck me both with that moment and with him genuinely snapping at one of his coterie for the first time after Rey got aggressive with Michael, is that—while Isaac’s attitude toward ghouls is clearly influenced by his Tzimisce possessiveness—he is also abnormal for his clan in that he looks at Michael and Angela as his friends. His real friends, who he will protect.

Isaac is, I think, lonely. They all are.  They crave a connection with other vampires in a world in which being as young as they are means that their options for connection and trust are extremely limited.  Every other vampire want something from them, wants debts and rent and favors.  A coterie is the option to simply have people who you trust to have your back, but they were thrown together, and they don’t trust one another.  By the end of this episode they barely like one another.  The dynamic has shifted from the Fuego-and-Rey and Isaac-and-Serif dynamics we’ve had to Serif-and-Fuego and Rey-and-Isaac.  And weirdly, despite the cracks these might be a healthier pairing for each of them to end up in at this point.  They are coming apart, yes, but Serif does still like Fuego.  Fuego sympathizes with Serif and wants to help her.  And though there’s less friendship between Isaac and Rey, Rey really does need an anchor point of calm with his frayed self-control.  Isaac could provide that, and if Rey can get himself more under control and treat Isaac and his people with respect, then the two of them might actually have a lot in common as far as their criminal backgrounds go.  They might have some very interesting conversations about the nature of monstrousness, as they both strike me as men who were monstrous even before the embrace.  

But that’s presuming they can patch over the cracks and get back together.  At this point, that’s going to take some real honesty and some real acceptance of the nature of themselves and the others.  They’re all monsters, and they’re all monsters with very different drives and motivations.  The beasts within them want wildly different things and drive them all to different bad places.  Serif wants friends, but she also wants freedom and to never be tied to them too closely, especially after the revelations about Isaac and Rey.  Fuego wants people who understand her the way her human family can’t anymore.  She wants the sense of community she’s lost, but she also needs to control her interactions in a way that often leads to unhealthy results.  Rey wants to be a good man, and to be around people who help him do that.  He wants them to be anchors and points of calm when he lacks it.  But he can’t trust Fuego, and he’s alienated Serif.  Isaac maybe could do that for him, but that would require Isaac to be interested in being an anchor for a Gangrel with an anger issue.  There’s not a lot in that deal for him at this moment.  There’s not a lot in this coterie for Isaac at all, so far as I can see. He’s remained the most emotionally removed from them so far.  He’s been a source of information and resources, but not a friend.  And with this rupture and his view that they’ve spurned his hospitality he must be very tempted to kick them all out and go back to just living alone in the brownstone with the two people he genuinely cares about: Michael and Angela.  

At this point, they’re either going to break or something major is going to happen to throw them all together in a way they can’t deny or skip out on.  They need something to bond them together more than just circumstance and Richter’s order that they share domain.  Perhaps that Sabbat monster is what shifts the tides for them.  An incursion into the Bronx by the Sabbat would be just the disaster to force them to lay aside their differences.  Fuego would need their help in protecting the people she loves in the community.  Isaac would need them to protect him from both sides, as the Anarchs already half-view him as a Sabbat spy, and the Sabbat would see him as a traitor.  Serif would need them to keep her free, and that sort of danger would trigger all of Rey’s protective instincts.

Would they come out of some real danger as friends?  It’s difficult to say.  They’re all complete messes in very different ways.  They’re oil and water with one another on fundamental levels.  But they also occasionally bring out something necessary in one another.  When they manage to work as a team, they are genuinely stronger and better than when they fall apart.  And they are interesting in every configuration I’ve seen so far.  Each different iteration of this four-way-mess of a coterie is fascinating.  So I hope that some major event comes along to force them to see the benefits in one another more than they see the shortcomings.  

Anyway, this was a great mid-point for the season, with the team at their lowest, cracked down the middle and teetering on the edge of complete collapse.  I love how hard all the players are leaning into their beasts and the bad decisions they’re driven to in the heat of the moment.  I love how morally complicated they all are, and I love how dangerous they all are to one another, as much as they could be a fantastic team.  I can’t wait to see what comes next week.

[softichill]

(fic based on that anon's idea)

(this probably won't be that good 'cus I'm not rereading/revising this)

(also because this isn't how I usually characterize Jevil I'm not good at writing him as the smug bastard pushing his beliefs onto people kmjnbhuijknhujkjnj):

"MAGICIAN, YOU MUST, MUST UNDERSTAND. THIS WORLD IS SIMPLY AN ILLUSION! SO, WHY NOT HAVE A LITTLE FUN, FUN WITH IT...?"

Jevil spoke with a smug voice, continually egging the cat on with a level of insistence they had never seen from him in the years they had spent before the day they were forced to lock him up. He moved closer each time he spoke.

Seam, while usually never even the slightest bit miffed, was growing annoyed with the jester's words. Even though they had always admired his strange, poetic ways of speaking, it all just seemed much too pretentious here.

They sighed.

"...I know, clown. I know already."

"OH? IF THAT'S SO, THEN WHY, WHY DO YOU HESITATE PLAYING THIS GAME WITH ME? WHY DOES EVERYONE HESITATE SO MUCH...? IS SUCH AN IDEA REALLY TOO MUCH FOR YOU, MY DEAREST COMPANION, TO UNDERSTAND...? NOTHING IN THIS GAME IS REAL! EVEN AFTER SO MANY YEARS, YOU STILL-"

"Shut up."

An unusually curt, sharp response from the plush cat who was usually so calm all the time. Jevil was caught off-guard by this.

"...EH? WHAT DO YOU-"

"SHUT UP!!"

The old shopkeeper swatted the clown's hand away when he started to raise it. They turned their back to him, arms crossed and fuming.

"... Do you really think I care about that anymore? About if any of us are truly 'real' or not? I know that I still think and feel. I know that I'm alive. I assume the same is true for others. Is that not 'real' enough, Jevil...?"

Jevil was silent for a moment. Seam did not usually raise their voice, or make any real show of anger at all. He was not prepared for this.

"...SHOPKEEPER, THAT IS DIFFERENT. THEY NEED TO BE SHOWN THE TRUTH...! THEY NEED TO KNOW THAT THEY AREN'T REAL!"

"Is that so? Well then, what about me?"

"...you?"

Hearing this, Seam growled slightly, finally turning to stare Jevil right in the eye with a fierceness he had never seen from them before.

"DO YOU TRULY THINK YOU'RE THE ONLY PERSON WHO MATTERS IN THIS WORLD!? DO YOU REALLY SEE THE REST OF US AS ONLY EXISTING FOR YOUR AMUSEMENT!? BECAUSE WE 'AREN'T REAL!?"

Jevil backed up slightly out of shock. He had never seen Seam snap in such a way before. He wasn't quite sure how to respond.

"M-MAGICIAN, I... YOU... YOU'RE-"

"WHAT!? AM I NOT 'REAL ENOUGH' FOR YOU, TOO!?"

Filled with rage, the cat scratched the clown in the face, taking him aback. He put his hands over his face.

"OW!!"

Seam looked down at their paw, a hint of regret in their face. But, their voice mostly reflected exasperation.

"...You've always been real to me. Even after all you've said, all you've done... and how it's made my view of this world become darker, yet darker."

"..."

Jevil lowered his hands from his face. He was fine. He had been scratched by the cat once before, it never really left any damage.

Looking back on that moment, he thought that perhaps, he had deserved that scratch.

He looked at his former friend. They looked like they were about to cry.

"...ever since the kings forced me to lock you away, I could never get your words out of my head. I could no longer see the world normally. Everything seemed bleak. But, the kings... once my words no longer fit their ideals, they sent me away."

Jevil started feeling an unfamiliar, piercing feeling set in. Seam continued.

"For many long years, the only thing I've had to look forward to is the end. I've been alone in my shop, watching the rest of the world go mad around me. I was there when the Lightners abandoned us. I was there when the Knight appeared. I was there when the heroes of the legend appeared... and I know none of it will matter in the end. More fountains will be made. Eventually, the heroes will fall behind. The world will crumble to pieces... but, should we not enjoy the time we have until then...? Should we not be there with each other, laughing as we watch the world come apart at the seams...? Does how we treat each other not make all the difference? Is it not fulfilling enough for you?"

They paused for a second.

"...am I not enough for you?"

The words hit Jevil like a ton of bricks.

"...N-NO, I... YOU'RE NOT..."

Jevil couldn't say anything. He couldn't argue.

There were consequences to his actions after all.

They were right in front of him.

"...OLD SHOPKEEPER, I... I'M...."

Seam sighed, expecting Jevil to try to refute again. A shame, they thought, they had been so excited to talk to him again.

Jevil, eventually, managed to get a few words out:

"...SEAM, I'M SO SORRY."

Sobbing and crying

[thesightstoshowyou]

Pain Relief

Jason Voorhees x AFAB Reader (NSFW)

Summary: Jason wants to help you feel better. I am Suffering, so here, have some smut.

Warnings: Period sex, praise kink, zombie Jason

Read more of my Jason fics on my Masterlist

 ~~

             The idling car goes quiet and you sigh heavily, stuffing your keys in your pocket and retrieving the grocery bag from your front seat. The car door creaks when you throw it open, your breath instantly billowing white before you in the chilly air. Pancake barks at the door when he sees you exit the car.

             As you trudge up the icy porch steps, movement out of the corner of your eye makes you flinch. Jason pauses his advance and you let your arms fall to the side, a relieved huff escaping you. You really should be used to him appearing out of thin air by now.

             “Sorry, Jase. You’re just so quiet.” He must notice your bleak expression because he tilts his head as if to ask, ‘What’s wrong?’

             You chew on your cheek, wondering how to answer. Does Jason know about periods? Unlikely. You’re not really in a teaching mood at the moment.

             “I’m alright, just a long day. Want to help me with dinner?” Eagerly, he follows you up the steps, the heavy thud of his boots rattling the handrail. Pancake’s tail thrashes wildly and you greet him with a few scratches behind the ears before setting him free outside.

            You dump your purchases in the bathroom, tossing a couple ibuprofen in your mouth before meeting Jason in the kitchen. He fills a pot of water when you instruct him and you preheat the oven. Midway through chopping an onion, you exhale slowly, gripping yourself around the abdomen and leaning forward, forehead touching the counter as you ride out your body’s attempt to kill you.

            A large hand splays across your back, Jason crouching so he can search your face. You give him a weak smile and stand up straight, hand brushing his cheek reassuringly.

            “I’m having, um, cramps. It’s my…my time of the month.” A blank stare meets your words. You clear your throat, “Uh, well, so if someone is born female, usually about once a month they, well, we…bleed.”

            Never in your life did you expect to be explaining the menstrual cycle to an undead mass murderer. Jason looks startled, standing and placing a hand on your shoulder. You realize, to Jason, bleeding means death.

            “No, uh,” you chuckle, gripping the hand on your shoulder, “I’m not hurt, or injured, this is just a natural thing that happens. I’ll be better in a week or so,” you assure him. He doesn’t seem convinced and motions to you as though he is asking where you’re bleeding.

            “Uh,” you sigh, “I’ll—I guess I’ll just show you?” He nods and you take his hand, leading him to the bedroom you now, mostly, share. You unbutton your pants, tugging them down your hips and biting back a smile when Jason draws back in surprise.

            Your underwear joins your jeans on the floor and you swipe two fingers between your legs before bringing them to eye level so Jason can inspect the red coating the digits. He takes your hand, smearing the blood onto his own fingers before looking down at you curiously.

            His huge hands find your waist and guide you to the bed. He seats you at the edge of the mattress before kneeling and spreading your thighs. Gingerly, Jason’s hand traces your inner thigh before he dips his own fingers between your folds. You bite your lip, your cheeks flushing pink when he sinks the digits in up to the knuckles before withdrawing them and inspecting the crimson now coating his graying skin.

            “I’m not hurt,” you assure him when he peers up into your face. Fascinated, he scoots closer to you, his bloody fingers returning to your slit and pressing inside once more. You inhale sharply, hips bucking involuntarily when Jason beings to slowly pump his fingers in and out of your bleeding cunt.

            You realize he’s trying to make you feel better, that this activity brings you pleasure under normal circumstances, so maybe it will now. Once again, you’re struck by how attentive he can be, how surprisingly thoughtful. It warms your chest, brings a fond smile to your face.

            Jason curls his fingers and your eyelids flutter, a breathy moan escaping your lips. You have to be careful with your reactions, you’ve learned. Jason has a tendency to get carried away—

            You’re on your back before you even register that you’re moving. The slide of a zipper makes you glance between your spread thighs and you see Jason freeing his enormous, hard cock. He’s more enthusiastic than usual today.

            Briefly, you wonder if it’s the blood, but then all thought is wiped from your mind when he lifts your hips off the bed and pushes into slick muscles. You breathe slowly, relaxing to make the stretch as easy on yourself as you can. You doubt you’ll ever be used to the monstrous size of him

            “Jason,” you gasp, fingers digging into the comforter when he bottoms out, hips meeting yours. Slowly, he pulls back, eyes glued to the bloody cock sliding from your cunt. The next sharp snap forward makes you keen, discomfort overshadowed by the pleasure that arcs through your gut.

             “Yes, f-fuck yes, Jason, good, yes, please, so g-good,” garbled praise tumbles from your lips when he starts pounding you into the mattress, his brutal strength a little less under control than normal. Jason chokes on a moan behind his mask, fingers digging bruises into your hips.

             He bends low over you, forearms resting on either side of your head as he ruts into you. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, whispering praise in his ear. You voice turns warbly and high pitched when his hips smack furiously against you, growing more insistent with every murmured word.

             Soon, you lose all ability to speak. You cling to Jason for dear life, arching into him as you unravel at the seams, piercing cry of pleasure on your tongue, tears spilling into your hair. Jason grunts and wheezes, fucking into you twice more until he’s shuddering and crushing the mouth of his mask into your neck.

            Slowly, Jason pulls back, hovering over you again and brushing away the hair sticking to your flushed cheeks. You stroke the back of his neck, placing a soft kiss to the mouth of his mask. There you stay for several long minutes while you catch your breath and your limbs cease their frantic trembling.

            “I’ll take that over pain meds any day,” you mutter with a giggle and Jason presses his masked forehead to yours in agreement.

[itsmoonpeaches]

The Ocean Meets the Sky

Chapter 5: Stitches

Please note: Every prompt for this Kataang Week connects into an over-arching story.

Prompt: Healing

Story summary: After his battle with Fire Lord Ozai, something lingers within Aang's spirit. Katara is the one that pulls the seams back together. No matter what, Aang and Katara find each other.

Chapter summary: Aang’s vision swam. He was Kun, then he was Kureno, then Samaya, then finally himself again. One moment he was Yangchen, then Kuruk, Kyoshi, and Roku. The next, he fell into his body like a stone sinking to the depths of the sea.

-

Or, Aang tries to escape.

TW: implied/referenced suicide

Written for @kataang-week

Read on ao3 or ffn.

---

In a hazy, far-off lifetime that Aang could not quite recall, he was once a boy named Kun. A boy the people called a little too lanky, a little too tall, especially for his age. He had a mop of brown hair and a sprinkle of freckles splattered across his tanned nose. His eyes were a bright forest green that turned hazel with just the right amount of sunlight.

He was playful, sociable, a teenager through and through. He liked to make jokes about the way old men babbled about everything and nothing, and how the iguana parrots that the sailors insisted on taking with them on voyages in the fishing village he lived in squawked nonsensical things. He had a best friend who he deeply cared for that would laugh with him and play pranks on passerby on the docks, a best friend that understood his awful jokes.

“You’ll never become a respectable fisherman with that attitude, Kun,” his friend would scold him. “You gotta remember that the iguana parrots are the key to success!”

Kun would laugh and pat his friend on the back. “Who says I want to be a respectable fisherman? I want to be a pirate! I want one of my two front teeth to be made of solid gold!”

He was only fourteen, and no one took him seriously, least of all the adults. That is, until he accidentally bended the element of fire when he tried to protect himself from a scoundrel who he had dumped a basket of day-old fish on. An elder had seen him and that was that.

His world fell apart.

“You’re the Great One, our protector,” said an elder of the village. “You cannot live with us anymore. The trivialities of the human world should never touch you. You are too precious, the reincarnation of Yuka of the Water.”

He had tried to protest. “All because I can control two elements?” he questioned. He had felt the desperation as it caught in his throat, the absolute need to be wrong. But he knew in his heart of hearts what would happen. The same way he instinctively knew how to create flame, he knew who he was.

He was not human.

As Kun, Aang was taken from his family to a grand estate atop a mountain that had been built a lifetime ago. The walls were high, the hallways winding, there was hardly a person in sight.

They came to train him, to cower and grovel to him. He stayed there, knowing what had to be done because it was the way of things.

He stayed there because he had to. It was his duty, his purpose.

And he stayed locked away in a room with slats of light that streamed through the rice paper walls and sliding doors while the people told him that they adored him. They worshipped him.

He was, beyond all else, one of the spirits.

Yet, there was one who called him by name, who snuck around the guards when dusk fell, who threw a pebble at his window every other night.

“Are you there?” a voice would call for him from below, just above a whisper, just enough so he could hear. “I’ve missed you.”

So as Kun, Aang latched onto what he had left. He kept ahold of this person, this wonderful best friend of his. But one day the elders found them.

“You are meant to let go of all worldly possessions, as your other incarnations have!” they shouted at Kun. More than berating him, they said words that stung. “To have connections is to have possessions! You must never love!”

His best friend had disappeared the next day. He was told that they had gone somewhere far away, somewhere he could not follow.

He told himself that he could not love again. He was not human, not like the rest of them.

He continued his duties with diligence, with detachment, and the world knew peace for years.

Aang’s life as Kun was weary, and he remained weary. He had mastered three elements when he had held the plain porcelain cup in his hand. The warm liquid inside glistened. He took a moment to watch the yellow powder settle to the bottom, and then he raised it to his lips.

-

Aang’s vision swam. He was Kun, then he was Kureno, then Samaya, then finally himself again. One moment he was Yangchen, then Kuruk, Kyoshi, and Roku. The next, he fell into his body like a stone sinking to the depths of the sea.

His palms were sore and swollen. There was grime underneath his fingernails. A smear of dirt slashed across one of his cheeks. Remnants of his attempts to dig himself out of the Tree of Time dusted his clothes.

He had no bending to assist him, and no amount of spiritual energy could get him past the barrier that separated him from the rest of the Spirit World.

He did not know how long he had been inside the hollow of the tree. He sat there, silent. Visions of the past continued to flit by him, but he was used to it now. The words and phrases that the images buzzed became background noise, the kind of thrum that lulled someone to sleep. Nevertheless, it was also a persistent nuisance.

Over and over, he was forced to hear and see snatches of time. In a loop, in a never-ending cycle.

“I am sorry, Aang,” Raava murmured gently from somewhere inside his head. “I am truly sorry.”

He felt a brush of energy on his shoulder, as if someone was comforting him there. Something stirred inside him. It was a tingling sensation, a rush in his ears.

“Though perhaps, light always has a friend,” Raava added, softer this time.

The visions that drifted about him stuttered, stopped, restarted. Illumination flooded the tree hollow, and he heard someone calling for him.

“Aang? Aang!” they shouted. It echoed through the space. He knew that voice. He knew it like the back of his hand, like the wood grain of his glider staff, the tufts of hair on Appa’s back.

He blinked, and he was somehow outside looking in. He was standing just outside the barrier, and he peeked inside the tree. Someone else sat there instead of him, a familiar person. A girl wearing blue.

No, no, no. Not her. Not here. It was all he thought, all he could muster.

He pounded a fist on the barrier that separated them, and the sound pealed out across the realm.

In one, clear ring, everything became dark and blank. All of a sudden, he was floating in a world of bleakness, of nothingness. A void he did not comprehend. There was a constant ebbing and flowing of energy that engulfed him. Strings of different colors that made up pieces of him, pouring out of his heart like an unravelling tapestry.

Blue strings led to his left, his right. Yellows went above him. Greens squiggled to a place he did not see, for it was too far beyond him. Black and pink, lavender and orange, they tangled and furled from the opening in his chest.

“Give him back to me!” the voice bellowed again. It was louder now, coming closer.

Out of all the strings that drifted from him, there was a single red one. It led straight from his middle and outward, into a burst of yellow and gold.

Katara, in all her beauty and grace, reached for him across the expanse on the other side. Her arm outstretched from far away. She was a dot upon a distant horizon.

She grabbed a handful of strings, and then another clump of them, yanking him forward. Her hands moved in quick succession, and the strings started to detangle from the knots in which they came.

Katara was as dazzling as purifying light. She stitched his seams back together and told him how to heal.

[shadoedseptmbr]

@theoriginalladya also asked for a What If? from that no excuses writing meme and there *has* been a what if floating around in my subconscious for awhile because my version (or Aedan’s version, anyway) of Kaidan has had a What If pinging in his head for a while, too.

So...A Horizon What If?

He’s never quite sure after; what made him do it.

The fact that when his life had flashed in front of him as the seeker swarm crawled all over him, it was those big, starry eyes that kept coming back and then suddenly, there she was.  In front of him.  

Or if it was the scent of that green, spicy soap under the blood and adrenaline sweat.

Or if it was the way, for just a second, she’d tucked her face into his neck and clutched when he’d hugged her.

In the end, it doesn’t matter.

  He isn’t really thinking when, with a twitch of his fingers against her hip, he shifts her mass and hoists her up and simply turns on his heel and walks away from the rest of the squad.

He can’t hear their protests at all, just the swearing in his ear as she tries to get purchase to push away.  The not particularly creative but entirely sincere use of fuck...fucking fuck Kaidan Elek Alenko you put me down right the fuck NOW marine, I will fucking nail you to the next fucking tree is what decides him that it’s really her and he just tightens his arms and agrees, “Yeah, you probably should harden this armor better before you fight any other biotics.” as he heads into one of the abandoned colonial huts.  

She huffs a laugh as she tries to get control of her arms back.

Even with her mass shifted, it’s a little awkward to carry a fully armored Shepard while she’s squirming and he turns and collapses into the nearest sofa, with her still in his arms.  

“Kaidan...what the FUCK?”  But she’s left her head against his shoulder and he closes his eyes and drops his head against the formed cushion.

“I mean.  I could ask the same thing, Shepard.”

“I…Yeah.”

“How long have you…”

“I woke up about a month ago.”

“Does Anderson know?”

“I went straight to the Citadel. He can’t…”  He can hear her swallow.  “He couldn’t tell me where you were, even.”

“Well...it’s Cerberus.” 

Yeah.”  She sighs  “The Council has decided it’s out of their jurisdiction, the Alliance is…”

“Still trying to rebuild.  I’ve been…” He has to stop.  It’s Cerberus.

“There was a saboteur, that’s why the guns wouldn’t work.”  

“Okay.  How did you find out about the colony in time?” 

“I’d like to think they were just monitoring all the colonies and noticed when this one went off the grid but honestly, Cerberus probably planted the saboteur.” 

“Jesus.  Aedan...how can you…”

“Tell me I have another choice.”  There’s nothing but bleak in her voice and he lifts his head to see her staring at him.  “Give me another option and I will fucking run to it.  Cerberus has the resources I need.  They built another Normandy, for Christ’s sake.” Her jaw shifts and he can’t help it, he runs his fingers over the glaring scars.  “It’s me, I’m almost certain.”  But her eyes drop.

“Hey.  Does that hurt?”

The tiny, broken croak she swallows back lodges right in his chest.  “Sometimes, yeah. Chakwas says they’ll go away if I...if I let them.”

Her communicator pings and Joker’s voice fills the quiet. “Commander...you okay?  That Alliance ship we hailed is going to be in system within the hour.”

“Yeah, Joker.  Send the shuttle.”  Her hand is still gloved but he can feel the delicacy in her touch when she brushes the fingertips across his forehead.  “I should...I have to go.”

“I know...but...I want to come with you but..”

“NO.  No, you can’t.  I had this whole...You can’t.”  Her fingers have curled into the seams of his armor and there’s the same look in her eyes that had haunted him for two long, lonely years.  Terror that he won’t listen to her and something else.   “Please. Just...it’s enough.  Knowing you’re okay.”

He laughs.  “I’m really not.  I’m…”  He isn’t sure what he is but he doesn’t have time to figure it out.  

Garrus yells out, “Shepard, the shuttle is here.”

And then his whole world narrows back down to her and her mouth, her lips cool and cracked and the faint hint of blood as his lips part to meet hers.  The little gasp as their tongues brush, the grip on the back of his neck, the slide of her hair under his fingers.  The taste of salt as he traces the freckles on her cheeks.  

“God, I’ve missed you.”

And then it’s gone. 

“I...they’re reading my mail, so don’t....  If I can figure out a way to...let you know how...how it goes.  I will. I...uh.  Bye.”  

And she’s gone, too.  His omni pings before he gets to the door.  A readout of all the data she’s collated on the Collectors, a list of possible Cerberus affiliates, and a….cipher?

Kaidan files that little code snippet into a personal file as he watches the shuttle lift before he turns to help Delan open one of the Collector pods.

[ginnywasafriendofmine]

So I wrote this last night while wondering if things could have turned out differently if James Potters parents had survived. It evolved in a way I didn't expect (Euphemia Potter, where have you been hiding?) It's not finished either, but here is what I have so far...

They lived

When Fleamont Potter first felt the stirrings of pain, deep in his chest-he ignored it. He was no healer, and it was to be expected in his age after all. He ignored it when he felt it flutter through his spine, passed it off as a working hazard when he felt a pang in his knees. (He shouldn’t have been fiddling with that old cauldron anyways).

But when his wife said to him, almost idly at the fireside-

“Will you remind me to owl Healer Robbins in the morning? I had a strange pain in my shoulder earlier, and it doesn’t seem to have gone away just yet.”

Fleamont looked at his wife, her hands quick and nimble as they laced glimmering threads through soft fabric. He looked at his wife, and saw his life’s love before him. He saw the dark eyes that had drawn him to her, the sharp wit of her tongue and the power and grace he knew not. He saw beyond her greying hair and the fine lines that told stories of their joy, and saw the life they had built. The garden they had cultivated, the business that had flourished beneath their feet, the son who had his mothers eyes as well as her spirit, her spark, her joy. 

Fleamont looked at his wife, his partner and knew that the world would be just that dimmer without her.

“Actually dear, I think we should owl them tonight.”

Their young son, his dark head of hair ducking under the mantle as he arrived, joined them at St. Mungos, his glowing wife at his side, her fingers weaving knots into her robes. James paled as he watched the Healers gather around the ones who had given him life, and he rushed to call his brother to his side, their dark heads bowed together as they sat in the crowded little waiting room. 

So Fleamont saved his wife, but he died that Thursday afternoon with his little family gathered at his bedside, his last act of love surviving without him. 

Lily Potter may have danced with her new father-in-law at her wedding, his beaming smile as bright as the candles flickering around them but it was to her husband's mother, alone, that she passed her newborn baby to.

Harry Fleamont Potter felt a fitting tribute, and James was sure he wasn’t imagining the tears sparkling in his mothers eyes.

Harry learned to walk through his grandmother's begonias, the ones that, in another life he may have walked towards his namesake. Or in another life, he would not know existed at all. 

When the war which had brewed around them throughout their adolescence came knocking at their door, James cloistered his young family into Godric's Hollow, leaving his mother alone at the Manor where he had frolicked and grown and on one fine summer's day wed his now targeted wife. 

James did not apologise to his mother as he kissed her goodbye. He didn't need to. 

Her second son, the one whose hair was as Black as his name, as black as the scorch mark his birth mother had left in his wake, loped through the wards every few days. Neither of them dared voice the hope, that courageous flighty thing that had found a home within their chests as they sipped their tea, watching sunsets that should have been savoured. 

But they did dare to hope, they dared to trust. And James Potter, who may have his mothers eyes and her spirit, also had his fathers unwavering loyalty. He trusted the wrong man.   

(and their protection fell, shocks of green light rang through the air, and a boy who had found love and joy in the presence of his first friend, found his worst nightmare come to life instead as he rushed through the air on a motorbike he would soon hand away). 

And the dog chased the rat, and the rat knew how to disappear when all the dog knew how to do was grieve. 

Fleamont’s last act of devotion didn’t change the fact that Euphemia woke up on November 1st with an intrinsic feeling of dread. When she opened the door she wasn’t faced with a scarred orphan as a shrieking Petunia Dursley was three counties over, but with the weary and regretful eyes of the men in red robes who had come to symbolise loss in their world. 

Euphemia managed to hold it together, her head held high until they used the words ‘Death Eater’ and ‘Sirius Black’ in the same sentence. Only then did she start to laugh, that horrible haunting laugh that only Blacks could. For Euphemia may have looked like her mother who had grown up across the world, but she was still a Black.

The two men, who had expected a feeble old woman and had gotten a glimpse of true Black madness did not think to question her when she demanded an escort to the Ministry. For her dear, kind son and his brave and bright wife would have to wait, their bodies still and cool as they would be for eternity, for it was her second son who needed her now. Her second son who sat in a stone cell and had cried himself to sleep.

For all that Remus-scarred, sweet, lonely and heartbroken-thought it was Sirius still, Euphemia knew her son. She knew he couldn’t be responsible for this. She also knew the look in a boy’s eyes when envy and greed had made its way deep into his heart, and she had seen it on Peter Pettigrew’s face one too many times to be as trusting as her dearly departed son.

With the power of her husband's name and his wealth she bullied an unsuspecting Barty Crouch into a trial the very next day, where a relieved Remus sat beside her, shaking while she was still. Later Sirius had wept apologies into her cloak, his regret tangible and as dark as his hatred for the man he had once called a brother. 

Sirius did not spend his 22nd birthday as he had planned, holed up with three Potters, being plied with cake and butterbeer, but he spent it screaming at the man he had once called a leader, at the man whose heart may have been heavy with regret, but whose hands still meddled in places he ought not to touch. 

The day after they gathered in Godric’s Hollow and watched a pair of twin coffins lowered into the fresh earth.

(While miles away, Harry cried for his mother and wondered why this woman who did not resemble anyone he knew had hands as sharp as her beady eyes).

Euphemia had saved her son from twelve years in Azkaban, but that did not mean she was going to leave the precious boy that had somehow survived, her husband's namesake, with a woman who had hated her own sister nearly as much as she had once loved her. 

Euphemia hadn’t expected Dumbledore to interfere. 

Dumbledore had expected Euphemia to acquiesce once he had explained with words like blood protection, and love sickly sweet on his tongue.

But she did not. 

Perhaps, in another world-one where Fleamont survived the night that his dear wife did, this would have played out differently. Quieter perhaps.

But Euphemia was different from Monty. She had grown up having to hold her head up, high, above the snickers and the stares and the comments. She had grown up between two worlds; not white enough, not dark enough. Having to make space for herself in a world that did not know what to do with her. 

When she first visited her family in India it wasn’t the overwhelming feeling of joy, she had expected, but rather a deep, dark loss in her soul. A wanting, a longing, a missing she would never truly understand. The colours were just as vivid, the smells just as enchanting, the sounds, the streets filled with life. But Mia had grown up across the world, where she’d had to learn to pronounce her r’s just so, how to preen, and dress and and hide so much of herself away that she’d never really found it again. Mia had grown up with a mother who was just as much a British citizen as everyone else around them, but different in a way they would never understand. 

(It was only when she met a man with eyes as deep as the ocean, and a smile that made her feel like she could soar did she feel she was coming out of the seams. Bit by painstaking bit). 

So yes, Monty, with his lineage and his old money and his class wouldn’t have dared, his fight would have taken place quietly, behind the scenes, where there was no fuss, no ruckus. 

But Monty wasn’t here anymore, and Mia had spent her life being quiet. 

So she raged, and stormed and threw herself into a battle with the most powerful man in Wizarding Britain. She argued her way through the courts, through countless politicians, secretaries and bureaucrats who she had spent her life kowtowing to when she was nothing but an immigrant's daughter with no power they could understand. 

And she won.

The snow had just begun to stick, and the lights were up in the neighbors windows when her grandson finally came home to her, with a trembling lip and a scarred forehead.

Euphemia Potter held him close - his hair smelt just like James had, when he was little, when her entire world could fit in her arms-and then passed him to her other son. The one who hadn’t been born from her, but who she loved just the same.  

They’d both had something taken from them, something ripped away with a cold curse and a flash of light, and she knew that only they could understand each other now. So Mia stayed in her opulent and empty house, and Sirius settled in the South Wing at the room that had always been his, his godson slumbering safely in his arms. 

That first Christmas was as dark as the words carved into stone back in Godric's Hollow. Two men who had to learn to trust each other again and a woman who many had expected to break by now. Only Harry’s laugh, his smile, his sparkling eyes could light up their bleak and unforgiving day. 

So Harry forgot the mean, cold woman who stared at him like something she would rather forget, and spent the spring with his grandmother as she planted flowers, her fingers quick and nimble as they had always been. He spent it with his godfathers-both of them-while one suffered each month as he always had, but whose love for Harry never wavered, and the other finally grew up.

For in this world Sirius Black did not wile away his years counting his regrets as he counted the bars on his cells. In this world he strategised, he built battle plans with the same fervour and determination he might have used to sliver between those bars as a shaggy, black dog. He focused on wiping out the forces that had taken so much of the light from their world. 

But he did not do this alone. For in losing one brother, he had gained another back. 

Regulus Black did not go to die in the cave that dark day in October of 1979. He would still be brave, and fierce, and full of righteous anger, but he did not die alone and afraid. Regulus Black had been in St. Mungos that summer, regretfully rejecting his prized and hard worked offer of a place as a Healer. 

Regulus Black had been there. He had seen his brother-the one who he missed as much as Petunia Evans missed her own sister-pale and weary with grief. He had seen him stumble in the corridor from Fleamont Potters room, the loss deeply etched in his face. 

Grief is the price we pay for love.  

Regulus had watched his brother, and wondered if perhap there were things worth living for-as much as they were worth dying for.

So despite what his mother, and the Dark Lord, and about every other Black relative wanted him to do-A Healer? How plebian. Regulus Black did what he had always yearned to, and was brave. He tore the rejection letter from the secretaries fist, and asked, with a weak attempt at his brothers bravado;

“What day do I start?”

So Regulus had taken a different path, a path that was still hard-for the road to hell was still paved with good intentions. 

Regulus stood with his head held high above the looks and snide comments-from both his Death Eater cohorts and his fellow trainees. But the Dark Lord could not touch him, could not stray him from this path, for the vow that was taken on his first day of orientation had sworn him to the Healing service, and even Tom Riddle knew some vows could not be broken.

Regulus Black had taken a different path (though the knowledge of the Horcrux and the unrelenting question of what/when/how still lingered) and was finishing up his rotation in the children’s ward when his long lost brother rushed in, a feverish child in his arms, and panic wreaking havoc in his young face.

“Please, I don’t know what’s wrong-I-I, he wouldn’t eat, and now he’s warm, too warm, and I-”

“Hand him to me.”

And Sirius had passed over the child he thought of as a son to a man he didn’t recognise and saw a boy he had once known. 

“I-Reggie-?”

But Regulus had always been good at his job. Even the other trainees, who glowered at him through the corridors as they once had in Hogwarts could not deny this. Regulus saw the brother whose approval he had always craved, but he did not think of it now. Regulus only looked at the child who lay shivering before him, and set to work.

Dragon Pox may have taken Fleamont Potter, but Regulus Black’s quick mind and steady hands ensured that his namesake did not follow in this regard. Sirius had cried tears of relief, and Remus had shaken Regulus’ hand so hard it felt bruised.

By now Harry had spent as much time without his parents as he had with them, and his loss would have taken his family to a place they could not return

Once Harry had settled, Mia Potter at his bedside and Remus Lupin fetching the blanket that Harry reached for every night, did the two brothers talk.

They spoke of nothing that had lingered deep in their minds, and their hearts in the years since the older one had departed.

“A Healer, huh?” Sirius Black tried to hide his surprise. 

Regulus bit back the 'You once told me I was good at Healing spells' and managed a smile. "Yes, coming on four years now.” 

Regulus felt young in his brother's presence (even if they were both the same height now).

“That’s… really great.” Sirius smiled, looking close to proud. 

“That's James son, isn't it?” Regulus asked, and watched the darkness flicker in his brothers eyes again.

“You can tell by the hair, huh?”

Really he could tell by the way Sirius looked at the boy-the same way he had always looked at James-but he smiled at his brother's attempt at humor anyways.

When the little family left two days later, a chagrined Sirius mumbled something out that was close to an invitation-coffee? Do you drink coffee? As he left St. Mungos, his beloved godson giggling in his arms. 

Regulus watched and wondered if perhaps he had gotten his brother back. If his brother would walk away from him again.

(He would, once he found out about the paradoxical life his brother led, a Healer who moonlights as a Death Eater. The life of one who fixes scars and curses he recognises, the life of one who is vowed to both worlds even as they threaten to pull him apart at the seams). 

But this time he would come back. And not on accident, stumbling in with a sick child, but with a determination for history not to repeat itself. 

For this Sirius Black knew about the transformative power of second chances.

Harry Potter grew up at his grandmother's elbow, learning about his culture, his heritage. What was left of it. Some had been lost to time, others to the journey made from Delhi to here. The rest to the pressure of a world who didn’t want girls with dark skin and a determined glint in her eye. 

But in this world Harry knew who he was. Where he had come from. What had been lost so he could live. And oh, did he live. 

He lived in the same trees and lakes his own father had made his kingdom at his age, he lived in the books his Moony shared with him-Moony, who watched as identical green eyes skimmed over the same pages he had seen a flame-haired girl devour. He lived in the adventures, the wild reckless stories and pursuits of his Padfoot. He lived in his grandmother's kitchen, watching her bake roti in between English cakes of lemon drizzle and his favourite treacle tart. 

Harry lived, and he knew what it was to be loved. 

(After all, a boy must live so he can learn to die. 

And even now, even here, Harry still had to be the boy who learned to walk to his death).

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,147

Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced past suic.ide, referenced past character death, mentioned nausea, blood

Chapter Summary: In which things start coming to a head, and not everything is going according to plan, but they’re trying.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Nineteen: wake the beast

His mind races.

If the enchantments are gone, someone must have destroyed them from within their bounds. Tubbo said as much, said that it was the only way. And now Ranboo stands by Dream’s side. Ranboo stands by Dream’s side, Dream’s hand on him, and he would not have thought it of Ranboo, of the awkward kid who so often sticks close to Techno or to Phil, of the person who they both obviously care for. He would not have thought it—and that was his mistake. He should have been more watchful, more vigilant, should not have dared to let his guard down in the slightest, because this is what it gets him, time and time again—

(all eyes on him and his people turn against him in a blink in a second and a sentence and he feels dead even before the arrow tears through his heart)

(and it was never meant to be, says a trusted friend and he is numb numb numb even as his comrades his friends his brothers his family die around him and he has been betrayed and he dies terrified and knowing that he has failed and the memory of that first death has never left him nor the pervasive thought that it could happen again that any valued companion could hide a traitor’s heart)

“Ranboo wouldn’t,” Phil says, as if reading his mind. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but Ranboo wouldn’t.”

“Just because you think someone wouldn’t doesn’t mean that you’re right,” he hisses back. “People stab each other in the backs, Phil. It’s what they do. You ought to know that.”

Phil looks at him, eyes wide and wounded, but he pays him little mind, creeping forward to peer further over the side of the roof. He stays low in an effort not to draw attention; the longer Dream doesn’t know where they all are, the better.

“How did you get in?” Eret is asking below, their voice steady, commanding. They are still a monarch in their own castle, though the wolves are inside the gate. Beside them, Sapnap takes on a battle-ready stance. There’s no sign of anyone else yet, and Wilbur is torn between hoping that the others will be out any moment and praying that some of them have the good sense to stay inside.

(because he closes his eyes and sees Dream shooting Tommy dead where he stands and he sees the blackstone walls of the final control room and he sees the vine pull Tommy away from him and Dream lunging for him with an axe and it is all too easy to imagine a sword at Tommy’s throat at Tubbo’s throat at Fundy’s throat and he won’t let that happen but he couldn’t prevent their deaths before but he has to now he has to)

Dream laughs.

“I’ve said before that I’ve got eyes everywhere,” he says. “It still counts if the eyes don’t know you’re watching through them. I have to say, that was a good trick, with those enchantments. But people go wandering sometimes. All I had to do was wait until Ranboo stepped back outside.” He tugs Ranboo closer to him. Ranboo moves with the pull, completely unresistant, like a rag doll. “Don’t worry, I’m taking good care of him. We’re great friends.”

Wait. That almost sounds like—

He turns to Phil again.

“Can he control other people?” he whispers.

Phil shrugs helplessly. “I’ve got no fucking clue,” he says. “But Ranboo sleepwalks. I dunno, maybe that would make it easier. But Ranboo would never betray us of his own free will.”

The cacophony of whispers in his mind, the storm that swirls and tosses and insists that he has been betrayed, that the world is out to get him and that this only confirms as much, quiets. Dies down at Phil’s insistence and at the scene before him,

(and you would not have allowed this months ago would not have allowed someone to talk you down did not allow anyone to talk you down so perhaps you do not quite know what better means but that is not to say that you have made no steps toward it toward that nebulous and far away goal even if you have difficulty in recognizing it you are different from how you were you are)

because Phil could be right.

(and it would make sense, perhaps, because even from here he can see the way that Ranboo’s eyes stare straight ahead, unseeing, and it is not like how he met him in the corridor last night but it is how he was in the Egg’s chamber, and he has wondered for quite some time now how Dream knew to break out of the prison when he did, how he knew to take advantage of their ill-fated attempt, and maybe there has not been a willing betrayal at all)

But if Ranboo is an unwitting accomplice, is somehow under Dream’s control, then that only complicates matters further. He’s not sure how many complications they can afford before all their planning falls apart at the seams.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re right, we need to move.” He glances back down at Dream. He’s still talking, though it doesn’t sound like anything too important anymore. Nothing they didn’t already know. “He likes to monologue. We can use that.”

Phil nods, and together, they inch back along the roof and toward the stairway. He breaks into a run as soon as he’s sure no one below will see or hear them, and Phil keeps pace with him. They careen through the hallways at breakneck speed, and the further they get back into the main corridors, the more people he can hear, moving about, their footsteps rushed, their voices frantic.

“Wilbur!”

The shout echoes, ping-pongs off the stone walls, loud and overwhelming all else. That is no surprise—Tommy has always known how to make himself heard, even when the moment does not call for it, and he trained himself a long time ago to respond to Tommy’s voice above all others.

(because even when they were younger, even when they were children, brothers by choice taken under Phil’s wings, Tommy always looked to him before anyone else, before Techno, before Phil, and that was even before the other two began leaving so often)

(for better or for worse, your little brother has always believed the sun shines through your eyes and you have him caught in your orbit just as surely as he has caught you in his and perhaps you are twin suns circling one another but then again perhaps not because you crashed and burned and you know better than to believe that it was anyone’s fault but your own and no one’s gravity was powerful enough to help you not when you denied them all)

(though your beliefs once rock solid are shaken and unsteady and the fault lies with you to be sure but you have always assigned yourself more blame than you ought so sure are you that you are at the center at it all that you are on a pedestal the spotlight shining down and some of the fault is yours but not all not all and it is growth to accept responsibility but also growth to let some of it go to let slip from your shoulders that which is not yours to carry)

Tommy all but barrels into him, panting, and he reaches out on instinct to steady him, placing his hands on both his shoulders. Tubbo follows shortly behind, but at a slower pace, his face pale and wan.

“You weren’t in your room,” Tommy gasps out, “you weren’t—where the fuck did you go? And the bell, we heard the bell, and Tubbo said he could feel the enchantments going down, what the fuck is—is he—?”

“Dream is here,” he answers, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “Inside the gates, and he’s not alone. The vines haven’t reached the castle proper yet, but they’re making an effort.”

Tommy draws in a sharp breath, and Wilbur hates this. Hates that this is happening, that any of them are being put in these positions at all. Hates that Tommy is confronted with this danger time and time again, that Tommy never seems to get a rest, never seems to have time to heal, that he and Tubbo both have never had the opportunity to escape the solder’s uniforms that he dressed them in, he in all his misguided hopes and dreams.

But he’s thought as much before. It never stops the hated thing from occurring.

“So is that it, then?” Tubbo asks quietly. “It’s all coming down to this?” His voice is bleak, and Wilbur wishes he could understand all the weight behind his words

(a weight that comes from being a soldier a spy a president an executioner a leader of so much rubble, that comes from exiling his best friend for the good of his nation, that comes from being trapped in a box with nowhere to run, that comes from no walls being strong enough and no weapons powerful enough to protect himself, that comes from seeing it all come crashing down again and again and being helpless to stop any of it, and it is easy to allow Tubbo to slip to the sidelines when Tommy is so much louder, so much more overt with his fears and his pains, but Tubbo has been hurt just as surely, and he needs to remember that, when all of this is over, needs to remember that Tubbo needs healing and safety just as Tommy does, and he needs to remember and so he will)

but now is not the time to over-analyze, to pick through tone and cadence until the true meaning is laid bare.

“What about our plan?” Tommy says. “What about—do we still try? Or do we just have to go down there and—”

He’s trying not to act panicked, is trying to disguise his quick breaths, his shaking hands. Is trying, and failing, and Wilbur continues to grip him by the shoulders, even if it doesn’t seem to do anything at all.

“We were too slow with it,” he says, blunt. “We’re being pushed into reacting rather than instigating ourselves. But we have to work with it. We don’t fall here. We fight—”

“We go through with it.” The voice is confident, steady, brooking no room for argument. He looks past Tommy’s shoulders to see Techno striding down the hallway, hair loose, armor already on, shining netherite sword in hand. He doesn’t know if this is his typical gear or spares—he doesn’t remember whether anyone thought to pick up his scattered inventory or not, when he died. But it doesn’t seem to matter.

“Do we?” Tubbo asks. “Seems like it’s gone a bit pear-shaped, Technoblade.”

“Yeah,” Techno says, “but we were plannin’ to lure some of them away from the Egg anyway. They’ve practically done our job for us. Sure, we’re on the defensive, which isn’t—I won’t lie, that isn’t fantastic. But we can still work with this, as long as we’re quick.” He draws up short next to everybody and levels a stare right at him. “Phil and I will go out there and help hold them off. Wilbur, can you do this?”

He knows what he’s asking.

“Hold on,” Phil says, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Maybe we get someone else to—”

Techno shakes his head, visibly frustrated. He doesn’t have the context that Phil now does, doesn’t know what the Egg whispers to him, doesn’t know that he nearly gave in, doesn’t know that he did.

Wilbur sort of regrets telling Phil any of that, now, in retrospect.

“Who?” Techno says. “Who else, Phil? The options are they go try and make that omelet, or they stay here and hope that we can hold off Dream and his goons. If the castle is breached, I’d feel a whole lot better knowin’ they’re not in here.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Tommy jumps in. “What do you mean, they? I’m not hiding in this fucking castle, Technoblade, what the fuck are you on?”

“You’re not fightin’ Dream,” Techno shoots back. “Don’t try to argue with me. You’re not. You’re not gettin’ anywhere near him. So your choices are, you go with Wilbur, or you stay right here, inside.”

Tommy gapes, mouth working. There is some kind of realization dawning behind his eyes,

(and there is only one realization to come to, really, and that is that Techno does care about him, that Techno is trying to protect him in his own clumsy way, and it doesn’t make up for everything or for anything, really, but they’ve already made a start already laid the foundations for forgiveness, and he can only hope that Tommy sees it that way)

but there’s no time. Even though this feels like it’s all happening far too quickly, there is no time. There is no time for any of this.

“I can do it,” he says, and prays he’s not lying. “I’ll take Tommy and Tubbo with me. They’ll be safe, Technoblade.”

He meets his brother’s eyes, and sees there

(determination and anger and hope and a thousand cuts crusted over and not stitched closed and perhaps a lingering flicker of gold from a death that is sure to have scarred him even though he hasn’t spoken on it and will likely refuse to do so but there is trust there against all the odds there is trust in Technoblade’s eyes trust in the eyes of the brother who he has called his twin who he has used and strung along and not apologized to nearly enough but despite it all there is trust)

an emotion too deep to interpret.

“Why are you talking like that?” Tommy demands. He shrugs off Wilbur’s hold. “Why are you talking like you might—”

Die is almost certainly the word he intends to finish that sentence with, but he cuts himself off.

“I know they will,” Techno says. To his side, Phil sighs, closing his eyes, and then, Techno looks to Tommy. “Technoblade never dies, Tommy. Don’t worry so much. Dream’ll get what’s comin’ to him.”

Tommy flinches. “I’m not worried, dickhead. Who’d worry about you?” His voice cracks.

(Dream’s axe buries itself in Technoblade’s throat, and the red blends with the rest of the room)

“If we’re going, we need to. Like, now,” Tubbo says. Ever practical. Ever responsible.

“We do,” he agrees.

(it’s not a farewell it’s a see you later but he hates that phrase because you never know when it is a farewell, no one ever does, and a see you later never gives the closure that people so sorely need)

(and he never said goodbye in any way that counted)

They’ll be heading for opposite stairwells then, from here. Phil and Techno will go for the front, he and Tubbo and Tommy for the back. This is a separation, even though so much of his mind is screaming not to let them out of his sight, to not allow them to split up, not when there’s every possibility that this will end poorly, will not go in their favor.

(this will not be the end the story will not end here and they will see each other again there is war and there is the other side and there is a new sunrise and they will live to see it)

“Wilbur,” Techno says, and then, he’s pressing something into his hand. He looks down, and it’s a totem. Golden and whole, eyes of emerald. He looks back up.

“I have another one,” Techno says. “For me or Phil. This one’s for you. Or Tommy, or Tubbo. Call it insurance. But dying at all would be pretty cringe. Y’know?”

“I know,” he says, and closes his fingers around the figurine. “So don’t you dare. Either of you.” He flicks his gaze to Phil. Phil nods at him, and the same message is reflected in his eyes.

“That’s the plan,” Phil says quietly. He’s been quiet, this whole time. Tommy makes a soft, choked noise, making an aborted movement as if to step forward. But then, Techno and Phil are turning, striding down the corridor, to where the sounds of battle outside are growing louder by the second, and they’ve lingered here for far too long. Somehow, he doesn’t regret it.

(it’s not a goodbye but just in case it is, just in case, just in case, he has braced himself for the worst)

“They’re going to be alright,” Tommy says, voice pitching higher. “They’re going to be alright, aren’t they?”

“Technoblade never dies,” Tubbo repeats quietly. “And Phil doesn’t either.”

“They’ll be fine,” Wilbur says, and tries to believe himself, tries not to think of Dream lying in wait for them, Dream who has already managed to kill Techno once, Dream who is making what he surely believes will be his final move, the checkmate of his game,

(but this is no game)

Dream who may no longer be a god but is surely something other than human, something stronger, something else. And it has been a long time since he was able to truly believe his family invincible. The events of the past few days have only compounded that.

But there is no time for these considerations. They are all in it now. In his heart of hearts, he knows that this, come what may, will be the end of the ordeal. Someone will come out victorious this morning. And if it is to be them, they have no time to delay. So he jerks his head in the direction of the back stairwell, and his walk becomes a sprint, Tommy and Tubbo following behind him, their footsteps pounding against the floor. He takes the last few stairs at a jump.

(a realization, sudden as he impacts: he forgot to tell Techno their suspicions about Ranboo, but it is too late to turn back and catch up, and surely Phil will, surely, and it’s probably for the best that he did not say it aloud in the presence of the other two, because Tubbo and Tommy both seem to be friends with the boy to some extent, at least, and it would be unwise to cause them more anxiety, unwise to present them with yet another problem that they can do nothing about, especially when they may already be running full-tilt into their deaths as much as he will attempt to prevent as much)

As far as he remembers, the swords were left in the throne room, on the table where they were dropped, where a god bent reality to place them. So that’s where they need to go. Get at least one sword, and then, it’s off to the Egg, and he can only hope that he will have the strength to do what needs to be done. It was not meant to be him in this role. Was meant to be someone else, someone more resistant to the Egg’s call, because even he can admit when someone else would truly be a better fit for the task. Someone like Techno, who discards the voice as just one among many, or someone like Puffy, perhaps, who, as it turns out, has fallen under its sway once and uses that to form her resolution to never allow it in again. But they left it too long, and their base is under attack, the assault happening on their enemy’s terms and not theirs, and Dream must be held at bay here. The best fighters are needed.

So he’ll take up the sword himself, drive it into the Egg’s shell before it has the opportunity to tempt him. Hopefully the rest will fall into place.

(though when, when is it ever that simple?)

And then—

“Tubbo!” someone calls from down the hall. “Tommy!” And then, a beat of hesitation, and a slightly softer, more hesitant, “Wil!” And Fundy is running toward them, from the direction they’re heading toward, armor half on and half off, and he supposes he should be glad that he received any acknowledgment at all. “I was looking for you guys. I don’t know what’s going on! What’s going on? Are we under attack? Is that what’s happening?”

He’s frantic, panicky, his words falling out rapid-fire, and—Wilbur can’t leave him here. Separating from Techno and Phil was bad enough, and he knows that they’re capable warriors, have decimated armies between them, that their monikers are no empty threats. Fundy—Fundy can take care of himself. He has proved that much, even if the thought makes his heart wrench painfully, even if he blinks and still sees his darling boy interposed over the man he has become, even if his mind struggles to accept that his child has grown up without him,

(perhaps in spite of him but that hurts worse so he refuses to let the idea linger)

even if the feeling of failure is absolute, all-encompassing, chains wrapped around his chest and squeezing. Even despite all that, he knows that Fundy is strong. Is grown. Is far from the days where he needed a father’s protection. But he cannot leave him here, in a castle that might fall to the enemy. Cannot leave him where Dream might get his hands on him. Cannot abandon him again, even if it’s what’s expected, even if it might be what Fundy wants. He cannot, and perhaps bringing him to the Egg is a worse idea, but Fundy can defend himself from dreamons, knows all the same tricks as Tubbo. He could be of help, perhaps.

(though that is an excuse because the desire to bring him along to keep him in his sight is far from rational is born of fear and protectiveness because even if Fundy hates him even if Fundy wants nothing to do with him he wants to see him safe and some part of him still believes even after everything even after disowning each other even after the betrayal he felt in the ravine as Fundy licked the boots of a tyrant and even after the betrayal Fundy must have felt in turn after he refused to believe him and tossed his efforts aside even after all of that he still believes himself the most capable person to keep his son safe and he must see with his own eyes that he is well)

“Dream’s attacking,” he says, and does not slow to a stop, even as Fundy comes up to them. Instead, he grabs Fundy’s wrist, ignoring his startled noise, and changes his momentum, taking him along with them. “We’re enacting the plan as best we can. We’re going to the Egg. Will you help us?”

Fundy doesn’t reply for a moment, and the only sounds are their feet against the stones. They’re deep enough in the castle that the battle out front no longer reaches their ears.

“You want me?” Fundy asks. “Really?”

(the doubt in his voice is an arrow to the back is water rising around his ears is sinking and falling and hitting the ground too hard)

“Of course,” he says, and even though now is not for a conversation like this, he opens his mouth again, and starts, even as they keep running, “Fundy, I—”

But then, he stops abruptly, because suddenly Eret steps out in front of them, their shoulder bleeding heavily but their posture still erect, still lordly, still every inch a king. And Wilbur should despise them, but now is not for that, either, so the anger washes away, and he skids to a stop in front of them and feels only confusion for the fact that they are here and not outside, where he last saw them.

Eret steps forward, and proffers to him a sword, gleaming, electrified with an otherwordly aura, the presence of the universe contained in glowing runes and the sharpened point, and—ah. So Eret had the same idea.

“Good luck, all of you,” they say. Wilbur takes the sword, and for a moment, his fingers brush against theirs. He does not recoil from the contact.

“How is it looking?” he asks.

“Not amazing, but not terrible,” Eret answers. “I came to find you and to down a potion. It seems to be only the six of them at the moment, seven counting Ranboo, which I’m not sure whether we should or not—”

“What do you mean, counting Ranboo?” Tubbo demands. He shakes his head, trying to convey now is not the time without so many words, and Tubbo subsides, though reluctantly.

But Tubbo’s always been good at compartmentalization.

“—and they don’t seem to be trying to surround us,” Eret is continuing. “Not yet, at any rate, so if you go out ‘round the back, you should escape detection. Though I find it unlikely that they left the Egg completely unguarded. This has trap written all over it.”

He nods. It has occurred to him, of course, and Eret’s words only solidify his belief. If Dream wanted to take them all out here, now, he’d be smarter about it. He wouldn’t announce his presence, wouldn’t focus his attack in one spot. This maneuver is just asking for someone to escape, to head for the Egg, and he can only hope that they’re several more steps ahead of Dream than he believes them to be. If they are not, then Dream will be proven correct, and it truly will be checkmate.

Really, it all comes down to whether he knows they have these swords or not. Whether he knows that dreamons are not invincible. Whether he knows the universe has intervened.

(humming a tune)

“So, it’s a regular day, then,” he says. “I assume you’re taking the other?” He indicates the sword, and Eret’s lips twist wryly.

“That was the original plan, wasn’t it?” they say. “One for the Egg and one for Dream.” Their posture shifts a bit, almost imperceptibly, but suddenly they remind him far more of a soldier than a monarch. The soldier that they were, once, under his command. “We’ll handle things here, Wilbur. You all take it to the Egg. We’re finishing this today.”

He regards them. There is no sign of duplicity in their bearing. But then, there never was before, and perhaps it is not a good idea to allow them to take the second sword after all, because how sure can he truly be that—

No. No, he will not spiral down that road. Not now, not today. He is making a choice. And trust is not entirely built on choice, not really, because trust is a fragile thing, formed gradually, of shared experiences and opening up far more than he is comfortable with, but in an instant? In a singular moment? He can choose to trust. Can choose to have faith. And he doesn’t know whether Eret has earned it or not. But he doesn’t know that he has, either, and he will not be the one to deny them the opportunity to grow. To be better. He will not.

(and just maybe it truly is time for the old song to receive another revision)

“Yes,” he says. “We are.” And he meets Eret’s eyes, as best he can behind the glasses they perpetually wear. “Good luck, Eret.”

Eret smiles at him, small but genuine. And then they, too, turn on their heel and run off, back to the front, back to the chaos. He has stared at a lot of retreating backs today. He hopes that’s not an omen.

But then, he’s not one to believe in omens.

“Wait, we’re just going to let them go?” Fundy asks. “On their own?”

“They won’t be on their own,” he replies. “And neither are we.” He looks to the other three, to his son, visibly shaking, to Tubbo, face set in a hard expression, to Tommy, who is desperately trying to mask his fear. “You heard them. We go out the back and circle back around to the Egg’s chamber. Tubbo, Fundy, is there anything you can do to hide us on the way there?”

“We can try our best,” Tubbo says. “Right, Fundy?”

“Oh! Um, right, right, yeah, we can do that,” Fundy says.

“Then equip everything you need, and let’s go,” he says, the general’s orders coming easy in this moment. He still holds the sword in his hand; it weighs on him more heavily than it should, but he doesn’t know whether it’s the material it’s made out of or his mind playing tricks on him, something to do with a metaphor about the burden of responsibility. Heavy lies the head that wears the crown; heavy falls the hand that bears the sword.

He only hopes that the blow he strikes will land heavily enough.

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

It is easy to leave the castle. Too easy, perhaps, and all of his nerves are a clamoring mess, insisting that this is wrong, wrong, wrong. In this, at least, he is inclined to listen to his instincts; nothing in war ever comes this easily, and Dream is too smart to leave them such a simple way out unless he wanted them to take it. Wanted someone to take it, at least. Perhaps not them specifically,

(but you have never been one to believe in coincidence)

but the danger of falling into a trap is very real and present. Because it is, undoubtedly, a trap. Of what kind, he doesn’t yet know.

They slip out the back entrance. Fundy and Tubbo have a muttered discussion

(and Fundy keeps shooting looks at him, looks that he has to force himself to ignore, because he doesn’t know what they mean doesn’t know what Fundy wants from him and if Fundy would tell him what he wants then he would burn the world to give it to him even if what Fundy wants is for him to leave him alone he will do it no matter the part of him that such a deed would crush because it is no one’s fault but his and it is about time he began to respect his son’s wishes)

and then begin chanting under their breaths, words in a language that he does not recognize, but soon after they start, the static recedes from his mind, the Egg held at a further distance—and it is probably concerning that he didn’t notice that it was there again in the first place. Tommy sticks close by his side, staring at the other two with an unsettled expression and every so often brushing his fingers against the sleeve of his coat, as if reassuring himself. At any other time, Wilbur would tease him for it. As it is, he rather likes the reassurance himself.

The vines are crowded, clustered, making their progress slow. They writhe on the ground like snakes, or like worms, wriggling and oozing, and though they don’t actually seem to be secreting any sort of substance, sometimes he blinks and sees them covered in blood. But at least, they don’t seem to be interested in them, all of them stretching and straining and growing toward the castle, even before Tubbo and Fundy begin their incantation. And after that, some of the vines part before them, rearing away from their approach.

Picking their way through them is still difficult. And whenever he looks at them for too long, nausea rises in his throat.

But they manage to arrive at the entrance to the spider spawner completely unimpeded, and he stares down into the familiar hole. He’s been here thrice now. Both visits before, it all went terribly, horribly wrong. The first time, he was dragged out screaming. The second time, he stumbled into the sunlight having just watched his brother die.

“Third time’s the charm?” Tubbo suggests.

“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy returns, though there is little heart in it.

“Are we actually going down there?” Fundy asks.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “None of you three have to. You could all stay up here. It might be safer. I don’t know.”

He doesn’t want to force them to confront the Egg again. Doesn’t want to bring them back to that room. Or in Fundy’s case, doesn’t want to expose him at all. Doesn’t want him to have to confront the evil that lies down there. But he can’t guarantee that it would be any safer for them to remain above ground. Can’t guarantee that no enemy would come along.

He can’t guarantee anything. He doesn’t like the feeling.

“Like hell,” Tommy says. “You are not going down there by yourself. What kind of idiots do you think we are?”

“Yeah, big man, you’re not going in without us,” Tubbo says. “Not after—literally everything that’s ever happened down there.”

“What did happen down there?” Fundy asks. “I mean, I know Techno died. You guys told me that. But like, what else? I guess it was bad?”

He closes his eyes.

He’s already told his father. Tommy and Tubbo have been there for all the worst of it. But does he really want to tell his son?

(he can look at you no worse than he already does though you’re not sure that’s true and you do not want to see his reaction to knowing just how much of a wreck you still are the wreck that the Egg appeals to and you do not want to see horror on his face and you do not want to see pity and you do not know which would be worse but you would take cold anger over either of those)

“It got the best of us, and of me, specifically. Multiple times,” he says. That will do. Not a lie, but not too specific. But Fundy’s ears twitch, his eyes narrowing, and he knows that he’s about to ask for more details. “Now’s not the time to get into it further. We need to move.”

“It’s never the time,” Fundy mutters, and it takes all of his self-control to prevent himself from flinching, because that—is not about this, surely. But Fundy subsides, and Tubbo has stepped up to the edge of the entrance, staring down in concentration, and Tommy has a sword in his hand. Not the sword, but a sword, netherite and clearly well-used.

He has the sword. And a bow. No armor, though the rest of them are all kitted out. Full netherite. They’re as safe as they can be

(though that didn’t save Technoblade)

and they have no more time to waste.

So down they go.

The room containing the spider spawner, enchantment table and anvil and all, is choked so completely with vines that it is difficult to see past them. But there is a clear path, leading right to the Egg’s chamber, possible for people to traverse, and it has so obviously been left open as a walkway that even his instincts fall quiet, because it doesn’t get more clear than that. No sense in his mind shouting trap! at him over and over again when the bait is plain as day.

“This sucks,” Fundy says. But he makes no move to retreat.

(he thinks he might want him to, actually, thinks he might want all of them to go back, to climb back out and into the morning sun, despite the danger that no doubt still exists above, because there is danger and then there is danger, and though he wants to keep them all safe keep them all close to him he does not know that this is a danger that he can protect them from and perhaps he should have admitted as much earlier and perhaps this was all a mistake the greatest mistake he has made since his return and perhaps they need to run they all need to run and perhaps he cannot do this at all perhaps it is only hubris that has led him here and perhaps Icarus would have learned his lesson had he been granted a second chance but it seems it seems that he has not that he is facing the red sun knowing full well that it will melt his wings and he is only pretending that there will be any other outcome and)

Tommy snorts. “You can say that again,” he says, but he just sort of sounds tired.

“Nowhere to go but forward,” Tubbo murmurs. “You taking point, Wilbur?”

He can delay no longer.

He nods, and strides forward, wincing every time he treads on a vine, which is about every other step. The air grows warmer, more humid, more stifling. Each breath requires more effort. The air becomes a red haze, shimmering and distorted like heat coming off metal or pavement on a sweltering day.

The Egg’s chamber is more cluttered than he remembers it. The red vines sway gently, and make no move to attack them, to strangle them as they

(Technoblade dangling a snap of his neck and then a moment later the brilliant gold the phoenix rising the god deathless until he was not)

step inside. The Egg itself is unchanged, sitting in its corner. Blood red. Almost innocuous.

Static presses in around him, just barely kept at bay by the enchantments that Tubbo and Fundy laid. And even those will give out within minutes. He’s not sure how he knows,

(you do not bring a sword to a duel of bow and arrow and you do not hope to lay down magic against a dark void thing in the thing’s own lair)

but he is sure of it.

And the Egg is not alone.

“Fuck,” Tubbo murmurs. He echoes the sentiment, but all his words are caught up in his throat and tangled in his chest, a web beyond saving, beyond saving him or anyone else, thread that is too coarse and too rough and too fragile to have any hope of mending this.

To one side, there is a boy, one that he vaguely recognizes as Purpled. He seems bored, watching them with sharpness, but also some degree of indifference. But Wilbur cannot focus on him, even though from what he knows, the kid is a dangerous mercenary.

Flanking the Egg itself, there is Jack Manifold. And there is Niki.

Jack Manifold seems unchanged, though the lenses of his glasses are both red, now, where he was sure that one was blue before, and his expression is set into something harsher than he ever recalls him being. But then, he never paid too much attention to Jack Manifold. Niki, though, Niki—the bags underneath her eyes are prominent, dark and deep, and he almost takes them for thick eyeliner at first. Her face is more lined than he remembers it, her hair a different color. And her eyes are red. Red like fire, red like blood, red like the shards of a shattered mirror, red like a thousand broken things.

Around her shoulders, she wears the hood of his coat. Slowly, his hand comes up to feel around his shoulder blades, and finds the hood missing. He’s not sure how he never noticed that before.

(he gave her one of his coats, didn’t he?)

They both grip swords. Purpled has one too.

(there is a creature living in his chest, wounded and desperate and howling, but for once it does not slam against his ribcage, seeking its freedom, but curls up in a corner, whining, pitiful)

“The Egg said you would be coming,” Niki says, and somehow, her voice is both flat and trembling with restrained emotion. “It said—you were back.”

His tongue lies like lead.

“Niki?” Fundy asks, and steps forward. He shoots out a hand to hold him back, to keep him from going too far, and Fundy glares but does not fight it. “You’re really with the Egg?” And at the same time, Tubbo starts on something: “C’mon, Jack, why’d you think joining up with the breakfast item would be a good idea?”

Tommy, conspicuously, remains silent.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Jack Manifold snaps. “Tell me, Tubbo, what other options did I have? Did you even think to come and tell me about literally anything that’s been going on? No? I don’t think so.”

“We’ve been overlooked,” Niki says, and her voice is quieter, but there is no softness in it. Only anger, and he does not know whether the emotion is the Egg’s or hers. Or both. But he would deserve it, if it was hers. He knows that. “Forgotten, cast aside time and time again. Abandoned by the people who were supposed to care about us.”

(the creature whines again at the word at abandoned at abandoned because he didn’t mean to he wasn’t thinking about abandoning anyone he just knew that they would be better off without him without him and his corrupted creation without him to drag them all down because he was the villain he was)

“But the Egg’s going to give us what we want,” she continues. “Joining it was the best choice for us. The best choice for me.” And she speaks it so defiantly, as if daring him to argue, and there’s a trap in that, a trap in trying to tell her that it’s not a good thing, that she should have chosen something different. Because he has no right to dictate Niki’s choices. Nobody does.

But that includes the demonic egg.

“What’s it going to give you, Niki?” he asks, finding his words at last. Jack scoffs, and Niki’s eyes flash.

“What’s it going to give me?” she parrots. “How can you think that you of all people have the right to ask me that? I mourned you, Wil. I mourned you for so long. It was hard to eat, hard to sleep. For the longest time I couldn’t even accept that you were gone, that that—that ghost took your place and forgot all about me. But that’s—I don’t need you. I don’t need your promises, and I don’t need your lies. I’ve got the Egg on my side.”

(that’s wrong wrong wrong because he never forgot about Niki not even once even when he willfully let the rest of his memories slip through his fingers like the blue that stained his skin even then he never forgot the scent of freshly baked bread never forgot her smile her steadfastness and never forgot missing her either missing her when it was too dangerous to come for her when one wrong move would mean getting her killed never forgot stepping up and offering his final life for hers because she was always worth so much more then he ever could be and even when he forgot everything else he never forgot a thing about her)

(and the irony of her statements is not lost on him, because perhaps he is a liar perhaps he is built of empty promises promises that scattered like ash in the wind over the cliff top but if he is that then what is the Egg)

“We’ve got the Egg on our side,” Jack says. “You want to know what we want? It’s simple. We want Tommy dead.”

The words land like a rockslide. Or too much TNT.

His fingers twitch, a second away from calling a weapon to his hand.

Tommy is still silent.

“You what?” Tubbo says. “Jack?”

He sounds like he’s hoping it’s a joke. But Jack just crosses his arms.

“We’re tired of him doing whatever he wants and not facing any consequences,” Jack declares. “He keeps on getting away with everything. He literally killed me and didn’t even apologize for it! And he was one of my best friends! I went to hell and had to claw my way back out, and that’s his fault.”

“Everywhere he goes, there’s conflict and suffering,” Niki says, and her voice is filled with less hatred than Jack’s, but that’s not saying much. “Until he’s gone, there will be no peace on this server.”

“We’ve tried before. We even tried to nuke him, and somehow we managed to fuck that up,” Jack says. “It never seems to work. But with the Egg’s help, it will. We’ve made sure of it.”

“You tried to—oh my god,” Tubbo says. “Oh my god, did you—did you actually—I trusted you!”

“And I trusted you,” Jack says. “You’re a good sort, Tubbo, really. I do like you. ‘S why I never wanted you to find out like this. But in the end, you still let me down. I don’t hold it against you, because everyone does it. The only one who ever looks out for me is me. Niki and I have that in common, see? But Tommy needs to go. And I’m sorry if that’s going to hurt you, but I’m not sorry for doing it.” He pauses. “And if you join the Egg anyway, it can make sure it doesn’t hurt, actually, so you should really consider it.”

Tubbo’s face is a mask of horror, tears glimmering in his eyes. There’s something here that he’s missing. But now hardly seems like the time to ask.

“He never takes any responsibility,” Niki says. “He needs to. For once.”

Beside him, he hears Tommy draw in a shaky breath, and—he’s not actually believing any of this, is he? But he’s not denying it, as he might expect, and looking to his face, to an expression that reads like sorrow and resignation but no shock at all, he realizes that Tommy knew, to some degree. Knew that Niki and Jack have been—have been trying to kill him, and he’s just accepted that, and that breaks Wilbur from his stupor, draws him from the sea of guilt that he’s been swimming in ever since he laid eyes on Niki’s face. Because he has wronged her. Has hurt her. And he needs to make it right, as best he can. But that doesn’t mean she gets to take it all out on his little brother.

“Never takes any responsibility?” he repeats sharply. “Never—do you know Tommy at all, Niki? Or did you forget the time he was exiled and abused for the high crime of—oh, let me see, griefing someone’s house? Or the time he was chased out of our nation for the fact that he was my running mate? Or the time—I mean, are you even hearing yourself? You think Tommy doesn’t take responsibility? You think Tommy’s never suffered? He’s a teenager, Niki! And he’s been through worse than any teenager ever should be. You can’t blame him for things that were never his fault in the first place.”

Tommy stiffens. And for a moment, she seems to waver, glancing at him, and then at Jack, frowning. For a moment, he thinks he might have broken through. But then, she hardens.

“I’m sick of everyone making excuses for him,” she says. “I won’t take it any more. And you—you have no right.” Her voice breaks. “I think we’re done talking.” Her fingers flex around the hilt of her sword, and that is all the warning he receives before she charges forward, weapon held high, Jack at her side, and he goes for his bow, goes to take a shot,

(though it might fly wide because he doesn’t know that he can bring himself to injure her even for Tommy’s sake and he thinks he will if he has to but whether the fortitude it will take is beyond him is difficult to say)

but then a weight hits him from the side, sending him flying, and he pulls his head back up, expecting to see the vines twisting, dancing, slamming into him, but instead, it is Purpled, now standing over him as he’s sprawled on the ground, sword in his hand. And he’s between him and Tommy, him and Tubbo, him and Fundy, and now Tubbo is yelling and there is the clash of metal on metal as Niki and Jack attack, as Niki and Jack go in for the kill that the Egg has promised them, and he is on the ground and Purpled blocks his path, blocks his way, blocks him from helping them.

“Sorry, Wilbur,” Purpled says. Cool, casual, perhaps vaguely apologetic. “Business is business.”

And then, just as he’s pushing himself to his feet, unsteady and desperate, the enchantments give out. The protection that Tubbo and Fundy attempted to give them, gone.

So, here you are, the Egg says, and here I am, as I ever am and always will be. Hello, void child, will you let me bring you home?

[after-avenging-hours]

Virtue & Valor [3]: Steve x Reader

Series Masterlist

You and your husband have the perfect life. Jobs that you love, a happy marriage, an amazing sex life… You couldn’t ask for anything more. But when something unexpected shows up on your front doorstep that completely turns your world upside down, can your relationship survive the fallout? Or will you have to let your feelings go in favor of the greater good? Letting go of the past can be difficult, especially when the future looks so bleak, but maybe you can figure out how to move forward together. You may just make it out to see the other side.

Word Count: 4334

Warnings: Canon typical violence, strong language, Hydra fuckery,

“20 minutes from the drop site.”

You look up from the tablet with the mission file that you’d been reading as you stand at the back of the jet. The other agents start to move, grabbing their gear, tucking various weapons into different straps and harnesses across their bodies.

“How does it feel to be back out of the ice, Cap,” one of the agents asks, a twisted smile on his lips as he slaps a hand to the Captain’s shoulder. “You’d been in there quite a while. What was it like? Did you ever dream while you were in there or is it just completely blank in there the whole time?” he taps a finger to the Captain's temple.

“Do you ever shut up, Rumlow?” you question in annoyance. The Captain doesn’t respond to the questions, just continues to look forward as if he hasn’t heard anything.

Rumlow turns his gaze to you, that ever-present smirk still on his mouth as he scoffs. “How’s it going with the Misses, over there?” he asks the Captain with a jerk of his thumb in your direction. “I certainly wouldn’t mind having a handler as hot as that one. I bet she takes real good care of you, doesn’t she?”

You roll your eyes at his childish antics. “Come, Soldat. It’s time to gear up.”

“Mommy’s calling,” Rumlow teases, slipping his hand off the Captain’s shoulder.

The Captain moves fluidly, like a shadow in the night, as he steps over to you to grab his gear. His black tactical uniform allows him to blend in with the other agents. There’s just one obvious difference between his uniform and theirs. The blood-red logo on the center of his chest grabs your attention. The black, soulless eyes of the skull look back at you in the same way the Captain’s eyes do. Tentacles curl out from underneath the skull, like writhing snakes.

“Ya gotov otvechat,” the Captain tells you, his voice cracked and hollow, as he stands at attention. Ready to comply.

You feel empty inside as your response tumbles passed your lips. “Hail Hydra.”

You wake with a start to the sound of a knock on your bedroom door. You sit up a little blearily and wipe at your eyes. “Come in,” you respond, briefly wondering why Steve would knock on his own bedroom door.

However, Steve isn’t the one that steps into the room. It’s the redhead. Natasha.

You swing your feet over the side of the bed and stand up, eyeing her warily.

She raises her hands up as a sign of coming in peace. “We’re not here to hurt you,” she tells you. “We only want to help.”

“Help?” you repeat with a scoff. “You think that telling me my marriage is a lie is going to help?”

“Hydra is keeping you complicit by feeding you a fantasy. Only the truth can set you free. You have to trust me on this,” she urges.

“Well, I don’t trust you.”

“You did once before.” She crosses her arms over her chest and stands her ground. “You and I have known each other for a long time.” You slowly walk around the bed, taking your place in front of her and mimic her pose. “We trained together when I first got to SHIELD.”

“I’ve never worked for any SHIELD. I’m just a PE teacher,” you insist.

She raises a brow as the corner of her mouth tilts. “I’ve never heard of any PE teachers that teach Mixed Martial Arts to a bunch of teenagers.”

You frown, wondering what else Steve has told these people.

“Hydra built you the picture-perfect life. Mixing just enough of your base personality with new memories and a happily-ever-after storyline to keep you from questioning your reality. You know that this isn’t right. You know that the picture is photoshopped. You just have to be willing to accept it.”

You don’t give her a response, so she keeps going.

“Sam and I are only guests here. We can’t navigate this world the way you and Steve potentially can, but you have to be willing to take back your control. If Hydra has been able to do all of this to your mind, imagine what they’re doing to your body! The longer it takes for you to wake up the more powerful their grasp on you becomes.”

“Enough!” you shout. You dart forward, not even thinking about what you’re doing. Grabbing her by the side of the neck and shoulder, you slam her face-first onto the mattress. Before she can react, your hand dives underneath her shirt, grasping the handle of the gun that’s tucked into the back of her jeans. You then jump back, holding the gun with deadly accuracy at her head.

She raises her hands in surrender as she slowly straightens back up, now eyeing you warily.

Your breathing comes out in heavy puffs, but your hands remain steady as adrenaline surges through you. It takes a couple more seconds before your mind finally catches up with your actions. You take a stumbling step back, arms lowering slightly. “How- How did I know you had this gun on you? How did I even do that?”

“Because we’ve been training together for years,” she tells you calmly. “Because you’re an Avenger.”

“I’m not!” you argue, but your voice waivers. “I’m just me! I’ve never even held a gun before!”

“Then why does it feel so familiar?”

Your breath catches at her words. Because she’s right. It does feel familiar. And that terrifies you. Your hands tremble before you drop them completely. Your thumb moves on its own to click the safety back into place as if you’ve done it a thousand times.

“Val…” Natasha calls hesitantly.

“Get out,” you whisper brokenly.

“We only want to help-” she tries one more time.

“GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE!” you scream, flying into a rage so intense that your vision turns red.

“Okay,” Natasha responds softly, keeping her hands raised. She moves slowly so as not to startle you, even though you keep the gun lowered at your side. She backs out of the room and soon she’s out of your sight.

You choke on your next breath, the rage draining out of you and leaving behind an empty sort of ache. Your hold loosens on the gun and it falls with a dull thud to the carpet at your feet. “Oh my God…” you gasp out before covering your mouth. You feel like you’re going to be sick. Your body is shaking by the time the first sob forces its way out of your throat.

“Hey,” you hear his soft voice moments before Steve’s arms wrap around you and pull you into his warm embrace.

You allow yourself to completely breakdown against him, the tears falling from your closed eyes and soaking into his shirt. He gently rocks you back and forth, running his hands soothingly over your back. You feel like your whole world has just cracked and it’s mere seconds away from completely shattering. You’re barely holding on by a thread.

You must cry until you’ve completely exhausted yourself because you don’t remember when the crying stopped, but you’re now waking up to the morning sunlight filtering in through the curtains. It takes a few blinks before you realize that something’s not right. Normally Steve would have woken you up by now.

You turn to look over your shoulder, but there’s an obvious lack of another body on the bed. In fact, both his pillow and the extra blanket that’s normally folded over the foot of the bed are missing, too. You frown, feeling that sense of dread pooling deep in your gut. Pushing yourself out from the warmth and general safety of the covers, you look for the strength needed to try to face whatever comes at you today.

You find yourself curling your arms over your stomach as you make your way down the hall as a means of self-comfort and protection. When you surpass the kitchen and head straight for the living room, you find Steve exactly where you expected. He’s standing in front of the couch, folding up the blanket from your bed.

“Why did you sleep out here?” you ask in a hushed voice as if talking any louder will ignite the tension that seems to weigh over you and will cause it to explode.

Steve keeps his gaze focused on his task, not even giving you a glance. “Had a lot on my mind. Didn’t want to keep you awake.”

You feel like a frayed piece of cloth that’s coming apart at the seams. Pulling on the thread just makes it unravel even more, but you can’t seem to stop it. “Steve, please tell me you don’t actually believe anything those people said yesterday,” you beg.

He releases a long sigh, setting the blanket down on top of his pillow. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.” He finally lifts his gaze and meets yours.

You don’t like what you see. The seed of doubt has been planted inside of him and it’s had all night to grow. The uncertainty in his eyes cuts you to pieces like a thousand tiny daggers.

“Believe in us,” you tell him, your voice wavering emotionally. “Believe in the vows we took for each other.”

“And what if we didn’t really take them?” he cuts in.

Your lips tremble as you desperately fight for composure. “Wouldn’t you rather be happy if you were given the option?” you ask him the same question he asked you just yesterday.

His eyes turn sad and it makes your heart crack. “Not if the happiness is a lie.”

“Steve…” The crack in your heart splinters before it completely shatters.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, dropping his gaze once more. As if the words will be enough to fix what’s just broken.

You want this to be a dream. Some sort of twisted nightmare. You want to wake up back in bed and back in his arms. To feel his sleepy morning kisses against your lips and his feather-light touch over your skin. You don’t want this. Whatever this is.

Before you can decide what you want to say next, there’s another knock on the front door. Steve must read the panic on your face as he moves to answer it. “It’s not them,” he tells you.

Your brow furrows as you wonder how he could possibly know that. You follow him to the hall, but hang back as he pulls open the door.

“Package for Steve Rogers,” says the delivery carrier on the other side of the door.

“That’s me,” Steve confirms taking the package from the man. He tucks it under his arm, giving a gentle thanks to the delivery man before closing the door.

“What is it?” you find yourself asking. It’s a relatively large, but flat box. Almost like a pizza box, but bigger.

Steve moves passed you toward the kitchen. “Natasha said they’d send something that could help restore our lost memories. Some type of data package.”

“A data package…” you repeat doubtfully. “That showed up as a box from a delivery guy… because we live in a computer…” You’re hoping the words sound as ridiculous to him as they do to you.

“Won’t know until we open it,” he shrugs, disregarding your tone. He sets the box down on the kitchen table and grabs a pair of scissors. He slices through the tape and lifts the top lid of the box.

You’re not entirely sure what you were expecting but it’s certainly not whatever you were looking at. “What is that?”

“It’s a shield,” Steve tells you, looking over the large circular disc. “Captain America’s shield.”

“How is that a data package?” you question. Every little thing seems to only raise more questions than answers.

“I’m not sure…” Steve takes a second to look it over before reaching forward to run his fingers over the white star in the center. He inhales sharply, his spine straightening as his eyes glaze over.

“Steve?” You call out, startled by the sudden change in him. You’re not sure if you should be doing something, but before you can take any sort of action, Steve rips his hand off the shield and stumbles back a few steps. “Are you okay?” you place your hand on his arm to help stabilize him.

He jolts away from your touch as if it burns. “I’m fine,” he gives a curt response in a tone you don’t recognize. “I remember the truth. I remember who we really are.”

When he finally meets your gaze, it’s not your husband that looks back at you. In fact, if his features weren’t so familiar to you, you’d think you were looking at a complete stranger. Gone is the soft, gentle, and sweet art teacher. In his place stands someone who’s hard, disciplined, and stoic.

“Steve…” you choke on his name, shaking your head. “Don’t. Please don’t do this.”

“It’s time to wake up, Val. Everything around us has been created and molded by Hydra. We can’t stay here any longer, but I can’t get you out of here until you fully understand what we’re up against.”

“No,” you deny. “That’s not possible! This isn’t a fake world! This is our home! This is our life!”

“Enough!” Steve insists, quickly growing annoyed with your denial. “None of this is real! You’re not my wife!”

You rear back as if he’d just slapped you.

Seeing the look on your face, Steve makes an attempt to soften his features. “Look, everything will make more sense after you touch the shield.”

“No!” you protest, taking several steps back and cross your arms over your chest as if you expect him to come at you and force you to touch it. “No, if this is what it’s done to you… then I don’t want that.”

“You can’t stay here forever!”

“Why not?!” You argue. “We were happy! Why can’t you just be happy with the way things were?”

“Because it was an illusion! A trick to keep us distracted from what’s really happening here.”

“Nothing is happening here, Steve! Except for you deciding to throw away our marriage because of two complete strangers that showed up at our doorstep!”

“They’re not strangers! And you would know that if you would just touch the God damn shield!”

The tension between you both has gone from a flickering flame to a full-on raging inferno. You can’t remember the last time the two of you have had such an explosive argument and that thought only seems to piss you off even more. You hate that any little blank space within your memory only seems to tip the scales of truth further toward Steve’s perspective.

“I won’t! I won’t touch it and I won’t give up on us!”

“Aren’t you listening?! There is no us! Not in the way that you think. Only in the way that Hydra made you believe. Everything we had was based on a lie. It’s nothing but a pretty piece of artwork created by someone as a means to keep us trapped here. There was no wedding, no honeymoon, no marriage. You can’t give up on something that was never there.”

“Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that you feel absolutely nothing for me?” you challenge him. “Look me in the eye and tell me that because you now remember the so-called ‘truth’, all the nights we’ve spent wrapped in each other’s arms, every stolen kiss between class periods, every moment you were fucking inside me… is now completely meaningless to you. Tell me that none of that matters.”

“Val…” he winces like he’s in physical pain, some of the fight deflating out of him.

“Tell me, Steve,” you urge through clenched teeth. “Tell me I don’t matter.”

“You,” he starts before his voice falters. His jaw ticks as he tries to keep himself composed. “You are my responsibility. I got us into this mess and I’ll find a way to get us out. But I need you to be stronger than this. You’re an Avenger, so start acting like one.”

He squares his shoulders and moves to grab his wallet and keys from the bowl on the counter. His actions throw you for a loop as you stare after him when he makes his way toward the garage door. “Where are you going?” you ask in disbelief that he’s just walking out on this conversation.

He opens the door and glances briefly at you over his shoulder. “I need to clear my head.” The door closes behind him with a resounding slam. You next hear the mechanical whirring of the garage door opening moments before the rumbling purr of Steve’s motorcycle starts up. Soon he has become no more than a sound fading into the distance as he takes off and leaves you behind.

You can’t believe that he just left. The shock is slowly eaten away by the fire of rage within you. It bubbles and pops like molten lava as it feeds and grows on the frustration and pain that are also tumbling inside you. It builds and mixes into a volatile cocktail until you feel like you’re about to burst at the seams. Unable to keep these feelings inside you any longer, you erupt in a sharp scream of rage and swipe the box off the kitchen table.

The shield separates from the cardboard mid-air and clatters to the floor with a metallic twang. The sound, though not particularly loud, seems to slice straight through you. It’s a unique sound but is also somehow familiar to you. It seems to ring in your ears and bounce around your head.

You release a pitiful whine as you raise your hands to your ears in a vain attempt to make the sound stop before you crumble to your knees on the kitchen floor. The more you try to resist, the more your head begins to ache. “No…” you squeeze your eyes tight and shake your head, willing the sound to leave you alone. “Stop,” you beg. “I don’t want this.”

You envision brief glimpses of the shield flying through the air before it collides with various objects and releases that same twang. The shield is so clear in your mind, but everything else from the memories seems to be just out of reach. You can’t let go of the deeply seeded feeling that these truly are memories, though. Your memories.

Your eyes snap open as you release a startled gasp. Your eyes land once more on the shield where it rests just a few paces away from you. You’re not sure how much time passes as you sit on the kitchen floor just staring at it in a battle of wills. You almost feel like you’re getting drawn in by it. Compelled to just reach out and touch it, despite how much you really don’t want to.

Like following a whisper in the back of your mind, you find yourself inching closer. You’re not even sure if you’ve blinked the entire time as you come to a stop with your hand stretched over the shield. You pause and find yourself hesitating. You know that there’s no going back once you’ve touched it. You can continue to stay in this blissful ignorance, but without Steve, there’s nothing left for you here.

At least after you’ve touched it you know that you’ll get to go where ever he’s going. Maybe you can do something to salvage what’s left of your tattered relationship.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper quietly, though you’re not entirely sure who it’s meant for. Be it, your broken heart, or maybe just as a goodbye to the life that you thought you could have here.

You close your eyes, allowing a single tear to slide down your cheek before you press your hand down onto the cold metal.

Images flash in lightning speed across your closed eyelids. You thought it might play out in your mind like a movie on fast forward, but it doesn’t. It’s more like small snippets here and there in no particular order. You see Steve in his Captain America suit, jumping out of the back of a plane. You see Natasha in an all-black stealth suit taking down enemies in combat with swift elegance. You see Sam flying above you with a pair of metal wings. There’s a man walking out of a red and gold robotic suit of armor. Tony. A flash of lightning followed by a flying hammer and a man in a red cape. Thor. 

Bit by bit the snippets begin to come together, forming your life story. You remember the fall of SHIELD shortly followed by your recruitment to the Avengers. You remember training with the team and going on missions. Fighting side by side with every single one of them.

You remember the mission briefing with Steve the day before the two of you left the compound. You remember the fear that shot through your veins when the Quinjet took its first hit. And the pain that exploded throughout your whole body when it crashed.

Your hand rips off the shield. You take a few heavy breaths, your eyes opening once more as the memories settle in place within your mind. You give yourself another moment to let your heart rate slow before you pick yourself up off the floor. You scoop up the shield as well and let it rest against the wall.

You release a soft groan, and rub your forehead. You decide that a hot shower might be a good way to calm your reeling mind and help you plan your next steps. Your head feels extremely full now that your original memories are back, but the planted ones are still in there, as well. It’s strange how the planted ones feel no different from the real memories. It's like having two completely separate lives and memories jammed into one brain. You almost feel like there’s not enough space to store it all.

While you’re in the middle of lathering shampoo into your hair, you come to the realization that besides the planted memories, you can’t recall anything else after the plane crash. You don’t remember getting rescued or retrieved from the crash. You don’t remember any sort of Hydra facility. You certainly don’t recall any sort of mental download into this world. Your ‘real-life’ memories go directly from the moment of the crash to touching the shield.

Now that you’re a little more aware of what a memory alteration might feel like, you can’t help but notice that there seems to be a few blanks left. Something that’s still getting blocked somehow. You’re not sure what to make of that.

You finish up your shower and throw on some clothes. Steve hasn’t returned yet, so you head back for the kitchen to start on breakfast. It feels strange to go through your normal morning routine, knowing that everything is fake. Do you even need to eat in this world? However, the only other option is to basically sit and wait for him to come back, and you’re far too jittery for that, so cooking food is the best way to keep yourself moving.

The menial task and thoughts of Steve has your mind wandering a little as you try to grapple with the return of your memories and how that changes the way you feel about him. Or more accurately, how it doesn’t seem to change your feelings at all. It’s true that you hadn’t been in any sort of relationship prior to leaving for the mission, but thinking about going back to a strictly platonic and professional relationship makes you ache. When you try to separate memory from feeling, it still feels like you’re in love with him. It makes you wonder if maybe he’ll feel the same.

Time seems to drag as you wait for Steve’s return. You make your breakfast, eat the food, and then clean up the dishes. You dispose of the cardboard box that the shield arrived in, and then straighten up the rest of the kitchen. You begin to feel like you should be doing something more than your normal routine. Maybe figure out how to help Steve find a way out. But you don’t even know where to begin. You now wish that you had stuck around a little longer when Nat and Sam had been here. You don’t really know the first thing of what’s really going on here.

You’re a little worried that any sort of deviation from what’s normal might tip off Hydra to the change that has occurred to you and Steve. There’s no way to know what kind of level of monitoring they could have here. What if they already know? What if they’ve been watching you this whole time?

The paranoia doesn’t exactly help matters at all, so you attempt to push it aside and continue to wait for Steve. You hope that he may have more answers. You’re in the middle of folding laundry in the bedroom to keep yourself distracted when you hear the rumble of Steve’s motorcycle returning to the house.

Setting down the t-shirt, you move back to the kitchen. When he steps through the door, he meets your gaze first before looking toward the table. His brows furrow when he notes that the shield is missing before he spots it leaning against the wall. He turns his gaze back to you, giving you a curious look.

You try to keep your expression neutral, wanting to try to get a read on him before you decide to bring up anything about your relationship. You understand that there are more important things at stake. You have to be willing to put your heart on hold for now. “So, what’s the plan, Cap?” you ask him directly.

Part 4

[ashes-of-burnt-art]

i was in the mood to write pmtok so. have this thing w/ my Scissors (Saxen) and Handaconda (whom i’ve named Harlow). i have not figured out all of the details but this was the most solid thing i could come up with (i wrote this in. around 1-2 hours so idk if it’s my best writing but i should probably post my writing on tumblr more often pfft). i have a lot more stuff about these two in my mind than just this (but for context i will say that Saxen and Harlow have a sibling like bond and while they annoy the hell out of each other at times, they are very much inseparable). this is probably shorter than i thought

Saxen paced around the throne room's hall, her palms sweating underneath her gloves. When will he get back? He's taking too long. Just earlier, she had witnessed the purple streamer disappear - from the Sea Tower, if her memory served her correctly. But what she knew for certain was that Taniel had been the one guarding the streamer. Saxen thought of him as an idiot, but...he knew how to take care of himself, surely? Even if he's failed, he has to be okay. He can't be gone too.

She already heard about the fates of the other three members of the Legion - Jean-Pierre, Robin, and Holt. She still didn't want to believe that they were defeated, or that they were gone. They couldn't be, right? They were the Legion of Stationary, for goodness sake! There was no way they could be overpowered that easily.

However, the sight of seeing one of the streamers fall for herself was enough to strengthen that shadow of doubt that had cast itself over her head since she first heard of Jean-Pierre's defeat.

"Master Saxen."

Saxen jumped up at the sound of her own name - she whirled around to face Harlow. Finally. His clothes were slightly ragged, and the bandages wrapped around his hands were falling apart at the seams. Harlow's back, but... She looked over his expression - it was somber, an emotion that Saxen had never seen him show particularly much. Peeved? Sure. Livid? Definitely. Exasperated? Saxen just always assumed that was generally the case whenever he answered 'tired' or 'frustrated' for more than three days in a row. But this? It...wasn't something she was used to seeing. And it didn't help that he called her 'Master Saxen,' either. He never calls me by any of my proper titles.

She had to force the lump forming in her stomach to stay put. "Harlow. You never call me that, ever. What happened?"

A flicker of sadness shone in Harlow's visible eye. "I...I went to check on the Sea Tower, like you requested. T-Taniel, he..."

Harlow didn't finish what he was saying - he didn't have to. Saxen blinked a few times, feeling a few tears struggle to make their way through. That can't be true. He's not gone. He's not. He's just... As Saxen tried to come up with what she considered to be more factual, believable outcomes of the battle, she noticed Harlow slowly walking up to her. She lifted her head slightly, letting out quiet sniff.

"What have I told you about trying to sneak up on me like that?" she muttered, glancing away - it seemed to keep the tears at bay longer if she did so.

Instead of slinging back a sharp retort, Harlow just let out a shaky sigh and wrapped his arms around Saxen's shoulders. She was a bit startled, but quickly realised what was going on. Saxen was struggling even harder to keep the floodgates from bursting as Harlow started shaking a little.

"We're next, aren't we?" His voice was more of a hollow whisper, if anything. Bleak, hopeless, defeated...the very thing that Saxen could never imagine happening to her. To her friends.

"I know," she forced herself to say. She quickly realised it made no sense, but she didn't care to correct herself. It doesn't matter. We're guarding the last green streamer. Mario's going to come sooner or later. "We need to get ready for when he comes. Gather the Cutout Soldiers and Folded Soldiers. Send out the Sumo Bros to guard the entrance. Be prepared."

Harlow nodded, breaking away from her. "...And you, Saxen?"

"I'll fix your clothing and bandages up first, before anything." Almost instinctively, she reached for her duel blades sitting on her belt. A single tear ran down her cheek, stinging. "And then we'll make sure he pays."

[sanghyukstattoos]

Cross the street

Characters: Kim Youngkyun I Hwiyoung x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Words: 2468

Summary: Hwiyoung loved the sun and the sky and you but sometimes, all the hassles and life changes gave him a major headache but today and everyday other day since that time he had met you, you were there to listen to his troubles. 

A/N: There were so many beautiful Hwi gifs, I had a tough time choosing-

Also, this one wasn’t requested but I had thought of the idea ages ago so I hope you enjoy! 

His fingers roughly threaded through his hair, pushing the strands out of his face. Standing outside the room he had just walked out claiming that he needed, "air", the annoyance was coursing through his veins and he felt like venting. Just moments before, he had gotten the scream of his life and to add salt to the wound was the fact that it was for something beyond his control. That person must have been having a bad day too. However, if that was how his day started then he could have walked away like it was nothing.

Starting with the bad comments, the world worked wonders. It seemed as if there were no end to the amount of bad people that existed and the problems manifested as a result of their behaviour. Even listening to music didn't help as the thoughts persistently lingered at the back of his mind. At this point, this would be the second week to look bleak, he thought trying to selectively remember the good memories of the last.

Opposite him was a huge glass window and the sky couldn't have looked any more prettier. There were both dark clouds and bright ones alike but the bright ones took over the sky. Overlapping with the dark clouds, it looked as if the latter were adorned with sequins that shone even as the night raged on. Scoffing at the sky, his thoughts were interrupted by someone opening the door and walking out into the hallway. Sanghyuk looked at him with immense concern before saying, "They want to discuss something but they need everyone there". Nodding, he turned to enter but was stopped by Sanghyuk tenderly saying, "You'll be fine, let's go".

Taking a deep breath as he entered the room, a couple of eyes turned their way. When they actually got to the discussion, it wasn't anything like he expected it to be. Rather than talking about future plans, it was about reformation. A type of change subject to varying degrees but that's at least how he interpreted it. Is this how it’s going to be from now onwards? We change for those people instead of trying to bring about change as idols?

Change was harder than he thought because sometimes it required trying to convince a whole bunch of people who held the same opinions and were all equally persistent about it. Many beliefs couldn't be factually proven so saying that someone else's beliefs were wrong was incorrect because there was an equal chance that yours were wrong as well. So he had to let it go but not when their beliefs influenced his behaviour, especially in a way that he didn't agree with.

In the next room, it was as if they were having some sort of dance party, the stomping, screaming and and literal choruses of laughter made concentrating on what the director was saying, harder. His attention went fluttering to what could have been possibly happening in the very next room. From the look on the directors face, she also seemed dissatisfied and looking around, she let out a laugh that was of course, open to interpretation. At the corner of his eye, he saw Youngbin and Inseong glancing nervously at one another and looking at the others, they seemed to share a nervous disposition as well.

Hints of behind the scene movements that fans were indefinitely clueless about through the way the group presented themselves, seeped viciously from Sanghyuk. Taking a look, one would be able to see the negative comments clamouring and tearing down at the strong self- esteem walls he had built. These people are not our fans, he thought to himself. Hardiness is not a trait everyone was born with and subject to experiences in life, people gradually begin to display varying degrees of hardiness. Obviously, Sanghyuk was no exception to this, developing a strong sense of resilience over the course of his life as an artist but to see him like this, deeply saddened Youngkyun.

An inadmissible gap filled with the silence from Sanghyuk, Youngkyun tried his best to comprehensively understand what people were saying but while nodding, he couldn’t help but disagree to a larger extent. They really meant when they said that silence was key. These people were angry and Youngkyun immediately understood that they had lost the fight they started. Softly sighing, he smiled as he turned to the camera for the ones who were there for the same reason as he was.

During the course of the live, the members made sure to give Sanghyuk a pat every now and then. He found the premise hurtful but comforting because they were there with him. Temples throbbing a bit, he squeezed his eyes feeling temporary relief from having not blinked once within the last couple of seconds. Eyeing the snacks on the table in front of them, he reached for two, holding one against his chest while he handed the other one to Sanghyuk. The older one received it with a small smile to his face, murmuring a "thank you" whilst returning to his comfort zone.

A while ago, he put himself in Sanghyuk's place and shivered a little at the thoughts that crawled into his mind. He wasn't the centre of their negative attention but he ended up feeling self-conscious. It was coincidental for him to be called at that exact time allowing him to brush the situation aside. Looking over, he made a decision that even if he couldn't stop the problem, he would protect Sanghyuk, following whatever the older chose to do. Not thinking about how exhausted he could become, he went ahead believing that even if he burned out, it would be at Sanghyuk's side.

Gradually spinning, soft laughs and giggles passed them by as the live came to an end. Evoking a nature of warm- heartedness, interacting with their fans from all walks of life left a deep impression on the members. The support they received was instrumental in their music and it made them happy knowing that people loved the results of their hard work. Despite ongoing troubles, they compartmentalised, segregating the nice people from others. There was also strength in numbers but this didn't have to refer to a large number of people because even two could seal the deal.

Just like Fantasy's, the members had one another and being able to rely on each other meant that they didn't worry about concerning their fans. On the way back home, the members optimistically spoke about the live with Hwiyoung pitching in every once in a while. Bright but tired smiles lit the dimly lit car as the members fell asleep one by one. Comfortable silence enveloped the car as Hwi looked outside, watching the trees and other cars pass by in a blur. Taeyang looked over at him, tracing his face for a hint about his thoughts. From a glance, it looked as if he was wandering but Tae realised quickly that his intense focus must have meant that he was only thinking about one thing.

They all were because it wasn't fun knowing that someone who constantly made you smile wasn't smiling anymore. Obviously he'd pick up his baggage someday and throw it over the balcony, free from its weight but that toll it placed on him while it was with him was enormous. His balance from the rest of the world was crowded with aimless thoughts, thoughts that Sanghyuk quickly looked away from. You couldn't solve this problem today even if you wanted to. Neither could you run away from it, pretending to have solved it because that would be like putting a band-aid on a gushing wound.

Today wasn't the day and still looking outside, Hwi rested his head on the headrest, feeling a wave of tiredness wash over him as he did so. Getting off, the boys lugged out of the car with Hwi informing them that he would make his way to your house. Nodding, they wished him well and to be safe, watching as he got into his own car and made his way to your house. Half way through, he felt as if it was a bad idea to arrive at your house because while you'd definitely be excited to see him (he could already see the smile on your face), he'd want to complain about how terrible his day was. Parking outside, he shut the car door and practically ran to the door.

In less than five seconds, you were at the door, having felt excited to meet him. You skipped down the stairs, careful not to hurt yourself but as soon as you landed on the last step, you bounced all the way to the door, straightening a little as you reached to open it. Peeking at his form, alarm bells set off in your head but you prepared yourself for the scenario that was about to unfold, knowing that whatever it was, you would be here to hold him in your arms and soothe him. "Hey babe" you smiled, extending your arms and meeting your eyes, he mirrored your bright smile and lightly fell into your embrace.

Your fingers went up to his head, running your fingers through his hair as he hid in the crook of your neck, taking in your smell. Your smell was the most familiar and the most comforting, helping him relax as it instantly reminded him of you. "It's late, you must be really tired," you said as you pulled away, arms still around his waist. "It's okay, it’s surprising I’m not that tired" he replied scrunching up his nose and holding up his fingers to represent how little he was tired. Hand in hand, you walked to the bedroom, sitting on the bed as he went to the bathroom to freshen up, grabbing some clothes on the way from the free space you made for him in your cupboard so that he'd have some place to keep his stuff every time he came over.

You didn't like the idea of leaving his side when his composure was essentially ripping at the seams but you waited nonetheless till he came out. Joining you on the bed, he laid himself in between your legs with his head on your chest as you ran your fingers through his hard, supported by pillows against the headrest. Softly, you asked him, "You okay?" but you could tell that he wasn't going to reply from the silence. He was trying to tell you but he didn't know where to start because he felt like that was the most important. Not being able to put his finger down on the one thing that was causing him the most trouble threw him over the line. Just as you grasped his chin to get him to look up at you, he shifted to lay on his stomach, burying his head in yours as the tears that he had been holding in all day flowed free.

Feeling the warmth on your stomach and hearing his sniffles made you connect the dots together and immediately you asked, "Babe? Hwi baby, look at me, tell me what's wrong" you tenderly spoke but this only encouraged more tears from him. It was as if he couldn’t find the words to tell you and this is the only way he could start. Leaving your position from around him, you slept face to face with him and pulled him into your hold. You held the back of his head as his arms immediately found your form, squeezing you against him. Sobbing, the tears flowed at an alarmingly free rate and stained your shoulders.

This hurt you and tears pricked the corners of your eyes as Hwi was usually very happy with his gummy smiles and adorable attitude. Not to mention how much fun the two of you had but you needed to remind him that bad times only lasted as long. Pushing away your tears, you held his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. He peered through his wet eyelashes at you, cheeks wet and momentarily stopped at your actions but looking you in the eyes caused him to start again. You pouted as you watched him cry saying, "Baby boy, you have to tell me what's wrong so that we can try and fix it together". Hearing your words made him shake his head vigorously, disagreeing that you could help whatever was going on.

"Well, how would we know if you don't tell me?" you gently questioned looking at his eyes that were lost in thought. "Okay" he whispered, voice hoarse from the crying and swallowing, he took a shaky breath before starting his story. Letting go of his face, you shifted again, this time face to face with him as he explained. Going into detail, you made mental notes at the level of different elements whilst patting his butt which helped him calm down faster. He stopped every once in a while to take a breath which also allowed you to process the different pieces of information, trying to pick out any places where you could ask questions.

Completing his stories, he rubbed the wetness away from his eyes, throwing an arm over your waist as you rubbed the expanse of his abs. His turn over, you started, "It's difficult, I'll give you that. Even more so, you are able to deal with these situations. Look at them from a third person perspective and imagine that you were speaking to a fellow friend, how would you describe what just happened? After that, how long will that memory stay with you, won't it be crowded by the happier memories you make every day? It's really easy to get lost thinking over and over again about all the tiny things that have built up or a problem that won't go away, but if you give it time, I guarantee you now that you'll have moved on to other parts of your life, later on." you spoke, letting the words run through his mind, seeing the answers form in his mind.

You waited for a few moments till he nodded in agreement saying, "Thank you by the way" following with a soft kiss to your lips. Warm, they tasted a little bit salty and as you pulled away, you replied, "It's okay baby". Your hands found his hair, holding his head back a little so that you could press a kiss against his forehead, holding him in your arms. His eyes dropped, the exhaustion seeping through him having poured out the stress that he was carrying with him all day. You smiled at the small rises and falls of his chest, laying next to him as you pulled the covers over the two of you. Not before long, you fell asleep as well, thinking of the way he slept like a little baby. 

[hopelikethemoon]

Hangover (Javier x Reader) {MTMF} [smut]

Title: Hangover Rating: Explicit  Length: 3700 Warnings: Angst, Pining and Smut (Drunk Sex, Unprotected Sex)�� Notes: You can find the Maybe Today, Maybe Forever Timeline here. If you’ve read Promises then you know how this evening goes... but now you get to experience Javier’s side of things. Summary: Javier’s POV of the night that changed everything. 

Taglist:  @grapemama  @seawhisperer @huliabitch @pedropascalito@rogrsnbarnes@thewallpapergoesorido @twomoonstwosuns @gooddaykate @livasaurasrex @ham4arrow@hiscyarika @plexflexico @readsalot73 @hdlynn @lokiaddicted @randomness501@fioccodineveautunnale  @roxypeanut @just-add-butter @snivellusim@amarvelousmandalorian @lukesrighthand @historynerd04@mrsparknuts@synystersilenceinblacknwhite @behindmyeyes-insidemyhead@exrebelshocktrooper@awesomefandomsunited @ah-callie @swhiskeys @lady-tano @beskar-droids @space-floozy @cable-kenobi @longitud-de-onda @cool-ultra-nerd @himbopoes@findhimfives @pedrosdoll @seeking-a-great--perhaps​ @frietiemeloen​

The reality of Steve leaving Colombia hadn’t really hit Javier until he was sitting across the booth from him and Connie, listening to them discuss the condo they found in Miami. What sort of bullshit was that? Sure, Pablo Escobar was dead — things were changing at the office, but Steve’s departure had seemed like a far off thing. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, Javier knew Connie was miserable. Her agitation with life in Colombia had been growing more and more apparent since Christmas. 

If Escobar hadn’t died, Steve still would’ve left. Javier understood why, but it didn’t make it any easier. Why couldn’t Connie take the kid and just go back to the states and live with her mother or whatever? Why did she have to ruin a good thing? 

Apparently, that was what happened when you were in a relationship. You had to make concessions to keep the peace. Fucking stupid, if you asked him. Then again, he’d never been particularly good at that. Meeting someone halfway. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. 

Steve had warned him. Repeatedly. Not always in a straightforward manner, but it was always implied. Don’t fuck it up with the only other person in the world that could put up with Javier Peña. Steve made a great buffer, running interference between them. Without him, he was bound to self-destruct. 

She leaned against him, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “Do you think they’ll miss us?” 

He hoped they would. 

“You know Murphy’s a sap.” Javier gave a short chuckle, “They’ll trade us in for a new bunch of assholes and forget our names.”

Now it was just the two of them. 

They’d spent nights at the bar together before, but it was different now. There was no Steve to hold him accountable. To be the constant reminder for why this was a terrible idea. He never knew just how deep of an issue it was for Javier. Not really. He kept that bottled up inside. 

She wasn’t just some woman he wanted to fuck, not the way Steve thought. 

“Who am I going to have dinner with now?” She questioned and his eyes were drawn to the way her lips rested against the mouth of her beer bottle. “Five years of home-cooked meals.”

Javier forced himself to stop staring at her lips. “I’m not half bad.”

“I’ve seen your kitchen.” She shot back with a roll of her eyes. “Go get more beer.” She urged, nudging him in the ribs. Had she noticed the way he was staring at her? Was his want that obvious? Sometimes it felt like he’d put up a neon sign announcing just how bad he had it for her. 

“Alright. Alright.” He grabbed the empty bottle from her. His first mistake. He’d misjudged where her hand was on the bottle, his fingertips brushing against hers. God, he was a fucking idiot. They touched each other all the time and he was going to feel all warm and tingly over touching her fingers?

Javier slid out of the bar, thankful for the space between them. 

He needed to get his head on straight before he made a decision he’d come to regret for the rest of his life. Losing Steve hurt like a son of a bitch, but losing her? That was a bleak fucking outlook. 

If he was going to lose her too, why couldn’t he give in to that desire? Everything else was falling apart, maybe he’d luck out. Maybe this thing with her wouldn’t end in ruin. There had been so many little moments where he’d thought… maybe she was just as terrified of ruining this thing they had as he was. 

Javier ordered himself a shot of whiskey, knocking it back before he headed back to the table with their beers. He slid into the booth beside her. Maybe he could push his luck. See where it led him. See if she picked up what he was putting down.

“Here you go, baby.” He drawled out, letting the pet name curl on his tongue. Javier gave her leg a squeeze — he’d touched her like that a dozen times. But there was an added weight to his touch this time. An unspoken question as he let it linger there. 

He drew his bottle to his lips, taking a swig. 

Fuck. 

She shuffled closer, her leg pressed against his. He felt that warmth spread all the way to his chest — and his cock. 

He sat the beer bottle down, turning his head to look at her. She looked gorgeous sitting there. Color had risen to her cheeks and he doubted it was just from the alcohol. He wanted nothing more than to sink his fingers into her hair and kiss her. 

Javier drew faint patterns against her leg, no rhyme or reason to them, aside from the way he hesitantly drew them towards her inner thigh. She hadn’t pulled away, she hadn’t told him to stop. 

“Javi.” She whispered, lashes fluttering as she met his gaze. Here it came… she was going to tell him to stop. Wasn’t she? No. No. Instead, she leaned closer, so close that he could feel her breath against his lips. 

“I’m sad, do you think you can help with that?”

Fuck. 

His cock throbbed in his jeans. 

Javier had seen her work her magic before. The way she chewed on her bottom lip and fluttered her lashes and drew men to her. And here he was, letting her pull him into her web. Happily. This was a moment five years in the making.

If he had been a worse man than he already was, he would’ve fucked her that first night. She’d had his attention from the first time she put him in his place. And right now, his place was between her thighs. 

“I bet I know a surefire way to make both of us very happy.” Javier said lowly, flashing a charming grin to offset the rush of nerves that flooded his senses. He was playing a dangerous game. He couldn’t remember ever being this worried about fucking someone. He didn’t want to fuck this up. 

“You’re such a bastard.” She taunted him, her legs parting beneath the table to give his hand better access. Who was he to deny her what she wanted? He’d give her everything he had to give, if he could. 

Javier ran his fingers along her inner thigh, sliding up until he reached the seam of her jeans. He could feel the heat radiating from her cunt through the fabric and he felt his pulse quicken when her lips parted and she swore in response. 

She was so fucking perfect. The way she tried to remain composed, bringing her bottle to her lips and drinking even as he stroked his thumb over her. He shifted closer to her, eyes fixed to her face. Watching the way her lips parted, the way new color burned at her cheeks.

“Shhh.” He crooned as he circled that little bundle of nerves through her jeans. He’d found it, he knew he had because her lips parted and she moaned. A sound he never wanted her to make for anyone else. He wanted to be greedy. To finally claim what he’d been dying to claim.

“Then kiss me.” She hissed out, eyes flashing to his. 

Javier practically pounced. He had been waiting for this moment, waiting to know that she wanted him too. 

Her fingers curled around the back of his neck, holding him to her as their mouths moved together. He felt like a fucking idiot for waiting this long to kiss her. She tasted like heaven on his tongue. Her mouth was just as perfect as he’d thought it would be. 

Why had he denied himself for so fucking long?

She drew back first, her name on his lips and her hand still curled around the back of his neck, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I need to go to the bathroom.” 

Shit. Fucking finally. 

“So do I.” He rasped out, circling her sensitive flesh through her jeans again before he pulled his hand away. He grabbed his beer, taking a swig, before he slid out of the booth.

She was right behind him, keeping close as they wound their way through the bar, back to the bathroom. Javier could hardly wait to get her alone, pressing her back against the wall the second the door closed. 

He’d waited too long for this. He couldn’t fucking believe that she wanted him too. He had always thought she was made of far finer stuff than he was. That she’d never want him the way he wanted her — but she did. She wanted him. 

Maybe something good would come from Steve leaving. Maybe he could finally be with the woman he couldn’t get out of his head. How many times had he buried himself in some pretty hooker who looked just enough like her that he could pretend for a few fleeting seconds that he was hers?

Javier’s fingers made quick work of her jeans, practically ripping the zipper open as he shoved them down her hips. His hands slid over her hips, greedily taking advantage of newly bared skin. He hooked his finger in her underwear, dragging them down to her knees. 

Fuck. She was soaking wet. His fingers slid between her folds, circling that little bundle of nerves he’d already teased. He wanted to taste her, to lose himself between her legs and forget everything else. Javier wanted to prove to her that he could be more than what she’d seen from him over the course of five years. Or maybe just convince her that he was good enough for her. Convince himself too. 

“Is that all for me?” He questioned, lips brushing over hers as he pressed a finger into her. 

“Fuck you, Javi.” She groaned out, sinking back against the wall. Her tits looked fucking fantastic. All of her looked fantastic. 

He met her eyes, swallowing thickly to keep the words he wanted to say from escaping him. He wanted to confess it all. To confess how stupid he’d been for years. To beg her not to leave him. To promise her that everything she’d known of him before this moment didn’t matter. He could be hers. 

Instead he latched onto her throat, leaving open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat as he worked his finger in and out of her, his thumb circling her clit. He wanted to make her come. To feel her twitch and writhe for him. He wanted her. 

Javier pulled his hand away abruptly, kissing her soundly on the lips before he drew her away from the wall. The bathroom wasn’t very large, it was easy enough to usher them both towards the sink — giving her somewhere to hold on to.

He hardly got his jeans down his thighs, before he was moving behind her. She looked so perfect, lips parted, eyes wide with desire. He gripped at her hip, holding onto her like he never wanted to let her go as he pressed into her. 

“Yes!“ She cried out as her back arched. He buried the length of his cock within her slick heat, savoring how perfect she felt around him. Better than anything he’d ever dreamed of. Better than he pictured as he got himself off with his need for her. 

“Fuck, Javi—” Her words were cut off by another moan. 

Javier brushed her hair aside, pressing a soft kiss to her neck, tongue sweeping out to tease her skin. He grasped at her breast, palming it roughly through her shirt as his other hand gripped her hip, holding her steady. 

He caught her gaze in the mirror. Her expression was unreadable. He wished he knew what was going through her mind. If this was just a mindless fuck to forget how shitty things were or if this meant something to her. If this had been a long time coming for her too. 

He could’ve rushed it. He could’ve taken her the way he’d taken the women that he pretended were her. It could’ve been hard and fast, desperate for release. But he wanted to savor this. In case this was all he’d ever have. In case she’d slip out of his grasp, another reminder that this sort of shit wasn’t for him. Emotions had no place in his life. 

She clenched around him as his slow pace faltered, her name on his tongue as he kept rolling his hips into her. Holding her gaze. Baring his soul to her through their reflection.

Javier reached downwards, fingers finding her clit once more as he teased her. She made the most glorious faces when he touched her just right. The way she clenched around him, desire running high. 

She reached behind her, grabbing at the back of his neck and he let her pull him towards her. He kissed her, lips slanting over hers. That was all it took. Kissing him set her over the edge, her cunt pulsing around his cock as she came apart. 

He was so close. He could feel the build-up of his own release, the tight clench of her body milking it from him, and he started to pull out, cognisant of the fact that they hadn’t exactly been smart about this. But her fingers tightened around the back of his neck when he started to withdraw. 

“Need you.” She whispered, “Don’t stop.” 

Fuck. 

He pressed his lips to the back of her shoulder, teeth scraping over her skin through her shirt as he panted out her name. He wanted more. He wanted her legs wrapped around his hips as he got off. 

Javier pulled back, giving her little time to protest as he turned her around and picked her up to sit on the edge of the sink. 

“Fucking perfect.” He muttered as he lined himself up and pressed back into her. This time he wasn’t as slow, as reverent. He was chasing his release. Chasing the need he had for her. She clenched, aftershocks of her release still making her cling to him as he slammed into her again and again. 

His lips threatened to spill his deepest secrets as his cock twitched within her. He came with a grunt of her name, buried within her, lost to the sensation of it all. How had he gone this long without her? Now that he had her, he didn’t want to let go of her. 

“Birth control.” She promised him, resting her forehead against his shoulder — where she always rested her cheek. “Fuck.” The lightness in her voice made his heart ache. 

Javier wrapped his arms around her, not just to support her where she was perched, but to draw her closer to him. “You feel so good.” He mumbled, lips pressed against her shoulder. 

“I didn’t take you for a cuddler,” She laughed, warm and bright and everything he needed. Fuck — he was definitely just this side of tipsy. Drunk on her. And the pleasure warm in his veins didn’t help. “I’m impressed.” She teased and he held her a little tighter. 

He pulled back, just enough to look at her. She was perfect. Hair clinging to her cheeks, just begging for him to push back behind her ears. How was he supposed to walk away from this? To go back to a life where he didn’t know how good it felt to be with her? 

Years of verbal foreplay had led them to this moment and he didn’t want it to end.

“Come back to mine?” God, she’d break his heart if she shot him down. 

“Sure.” She whispered, brows furrowed with an uncertainty that made his heart clench. 

———

That uncertainty was gone by the time they reached his apartment. She had joined him on his sofa with the bottle of whiskey she’d stolen from his liquor cabinet. 

“I’d suggest a shot glass…” She had drawled out, taking a drink straight from the bottle. “But I don’t think we’re very worried about germs right now.” She passed the bottle to him, practically straddling his lap in her pursuit to kiss him. 

He held the back of her neck with one hand, kissing her back with equal fervor, before he pulled back to take a drink. “Can’t be too worried about germs.” Javier drawled out, raking a hungry look over her. “Am I leaking out of you right now, baby?” He questioned, hand moving between her thighs to cup her cunt through her jeans.

“Fuck off, Javi.” She breathed out, even as she kissed him again. 

This was what he wanted. The banter, the sex, the way she made his heart ache. He wanted this woman. He wanted every part of her. Not just for tonight.

Javier took another gulp of whiskey, offering the bottle back to her. “Always wondered what you looked like.” He remarked, running his hand up over her torso to grasp her breast as she rocked against his lap again. 

“Hmm?” She questioned, licking her bottom lip as she swallowed. “How I looked?”

He shook his head. Did he really want to admit that he’d spent years wondering what she’d look like coming for him? Did he really want to push his fragile brush with luck? He’d already fucked things up seven ways to Sunday, but that seemed like an admission he should hold back on. There was a lot better left unsaid. 

“Nothing.” He grinned at her. Javier ran his thumb over her collarbone, before he leaned towards her and kissed her again. It was a slow kiss, lips sliding over her lips, their tongues hesitantly finding each other. But the kiss grew, taking on a life of its own. Desperate and needy, fueled by the warmth of the whiskey in their veins. 

Javier peeled her shirt off as he guided her back onto the sofa. Her bra followed seconds later. He kissed his way down her throat, tongue tracing a line down the valley of her breast as he grabbed ahold of them. He relished the way she moaned beneath them, the way she rocked her hips upwards, grinding against his cock as he mouthed at her breast. 

He wanted to live in this moment forever.

She forced open the snaps of his shirt, fingers mapping out a path over his bare skin. Her fingers burned everywhere she touched him. Javier had no idea how they managed to get each other’s pants off, but they did. 

She stroked him teasingly as she guided him between her thighs, legs wrapped around his hips. He was nearly certain that he could die a happy man, now that he knew what it felt like to be in her. He clung to her, desperate to make it so he never had to let her go. He tried to prove to her that he wasn’t like the man she thought he was. She knew him better than anyone else, even Steve. She knew what a fuck up he was, but now — here — he wanted to convince her that it wasn’t the case. 

He could change. He could try. 

The bottle of whiskey was finished off before they found their way into his bed.

Proof enough that he wasn’t a changed man. 

Because the man she knew best was definitely a man who would get shitfaced and fuck his partner. That was the Javier Peña she loved to hate. 

But he still tried to convince her. Tried to promise parts of himself that he didn’t think he actually had. But he could try. Maybe he could pull it together. She was certainly motivation enough. The DEA had taken so much of him, but maybe he had just enough left to give her. 

He just couldn’t fucking believe that he had her. That she was there, in his bed, in his arms. She fit so perfectly against him. Warm and real and his… for the moment. Javier pressed his face into the crook of her neck, arm wrapped around her waist as he let exhaustion start to pull him under. 

Tomorrow. 

He’d make her breakfast in the morning and tell her everything tomorrow. He was too fucking drunk and blissed out to put together coherent thoughts tonight. Otherwise, he’d tell her then. He’d tell her what he needed to tomorrow. He’d spill his guts and pull his shit together then. 

But morning came. 

The bright sun streaming through his window seemed to mock the bleakness that had taken up residence in his bedroom. He knew the moment he woke up that she was gone. Not just because she wasn’t in his arms, but because he felt the absence of her presence. She was gone and maybe for good.

Could he blame her? How many women had she seen him go home with over the past five years? From the same bar she’d come home with him from. How many stories about hookers and informants had she been privy to?  Not that she hadn’t done the same before. He’d watched her flirt with men in that same bar. Let her freely talk about everything the day after. Nothing had ever been a secret between them…

Except for his feelings for her. 

None of the women had ever been her. No one had made him feel the stupid fucking things she made him feel. 

Steve had tried to warn him. Maybe not in so many words, but he’d tried to prevent this from happening. He’d tried to keep Javier from getting his heartbroken, not that anyone would believe he had a heart. He’d buried his emotions pretty fucking well. But he hadn’t shielded himself from her.

He had been such a fucking idiot. 

Somehow, she had seen through him. Realized he had nothing to give but heartbreak. 

He was bound to fuck up. Better to lose her now, than lose her to his own faults and failures. 

There were so many almosts. 

He had almost told her how he felt six months ago. When her blood was still staining his hands. A confession that would’ve been set to a backdrop of a heart monitor and the frantic voices of doctors as they rushed to stop the bleeding. 

But the moment faded as easily as her blood had washed off his hands. 

Javier pulled himself out of bed and found a new bottle of whiskey to crack into. Hair of the dog to chase away his hangover. Except it wasn’t whiskey that had left him hurting.