#and that when he was alive he would have been familiar with it

[sunni-stuff]

All they could give you was a symbol—a medal, small yet unbearably heavy in your palm, its weight nothing compared to the grief settling in your chest. It was meant to be an honor, a token of his sacrifice.

There was no uniform, no familiar scent of oak and Ives lingering on fabric, not even remnants of his mask worn and frayed from years of use. Nothing tangible to hold onto, nothing that felt like him. Just this medal, cold and unyielding, a poor replacement for the man who had once filled your world with warmth.  

The air felt thick, suffocating. Price stood before you, his head bowed, hands clenched at his sides, unable to meet your eyes. Maybe because he knew—knew that this wasn’t enough, knew that no medal, no folded letter of condolences, no words could ever replace the life that had been stolen from you.  

Your fingers tightened around the medal, nails digging into your palm as if holding onto it tightly enough could somehow bridge the impossible gap between the past and now. As if it could bring him back. But it couldn’t. Nothing could.

The questions flowed before your tears. How? When? Where? Was he absolutely sure that Ghost—no—Simon, your Simon, was truly gone?  

There’s a loud silence, the kind that bounces off the walls with its intensity. Gaz stares at your weeping form, or more accurately, stares through you, steeling his gaze upon you as he says— 

"Confidential."

Gaz's voice was steady, but the weight of that single word shattered everything. It rendered your questions useless, left an empty void where answers should have been. There would be no closure, no understanding of why—just a truth you weren’t ready to accept.  

Johnny shifted uncomfortably beside you, his fingers tapping restlessly against his knee before he spoke. “His pension… it’s there for you.” His voice was gentler than usual, words carefully chosen, but they felt hollow.  

As if money could ever fill the gaping wound Simon left behind.  

Your gaze flickered toward the stairs, toward the only piece of him that remained—the little one asleep upstairs, curled beneath a starry blanket, blissfully unaware. Too young to understand that his father would never be coming home. Too innocent to know that the world had just taken something irreplaceable from him before he even had the chance to hold onto it.

Loss had never felt so deafening. 

He was gone. Just like that.  

The one who had carved his name onto your heart with stupid jokes that always made you roll your eyes, with brown eyes that saw through every guarded piece of you—vanished. No warning. No final words. Just a pebble sinking into still water, disappearing beneath the surface while the ripples of his absence spread endlessly outward, touching everything, unraveling everything. 

His absence wasn’t just an empty space—it was something alive, something that pressed against you from every direction, filling in the cracks he left behind. It clung to the air, heavy and unshakable, an echo of him that refused to fade. And it was everywhere.

The house still smelled like him. Coffee and cedarwood, the faint trace of his cologne that had seeped into the fabric of the couch, the sheets, the very walls. His mug sat abandoned in the sink, a ghost of a morning that would never come again. His jacket hung by the door, his shoes still beside yours, untouched. As if he had only just stepped out, as if he might walk back in at any moment.

It was absurd, really, how the world dared to keep spinning when yours had come to a violent halt.

Grief wasn’t loud, not like they made it seem in movies. It wasn’t a storm of screaming and crying, not always. Sometimes, it was the unbearable silence that pressed against your chest in the middle of the night, where his warmth used to be. It was waking up and, for one blissful second, forgetting—only to remember again with a force so brutal it stole the breath from your lungs. 

And what were you supposed to do now? Go on? Move forward? How, when every step away from this moment felt like a betrayal? Like you were leaving him behind in a past that no longer existed, while you were forced to exist in a future he would never see? 

For the first few months, you put one foot ahead of the other, treading through grief as if carrying a wounded soldier through combat. Each step was heavy, weighted with loss, but you took them anyway—because what else was there to do? Grief wrapped itself around you, clinging like a second skin, suffocating yet familiar, a constant presence in the quiet spaces he used to fill.

But so did hope.

Faint at first, like a flicker in the dark, barely there. It lived in the steady rise and fall of your son’s chest as he slept, in the way his tiny fingers curled instinctively around yours. It was in the mornings you forced yourself to wake up, in the days that stretched forward even when you wanted time to stop. In the darkest nights, when the weight of loneliness pressed down on you like a suffocating fog, you held onto his words, the ones he whispered against your skin, against your lips, when he was still here—I’ll always come back to you.

You'll stay waiting. 

Every night, every morning. Through birthdays and quiet moments at the dinner table, through the scraped knees and bedtime stories. You told Leo his father was out there, fighting his way home, that one day he’d walk through that door like no time had passed. You painted a picture so vivid, so real, that sometimes—just sometimes—you could almost believe it yourself.  

And Leo, with his father’s sharp eyes and your steady heart, listened. He never questioned. He never doubted. He simply *believed*, because you did.  

Even as the years passed, as his baby fat melted away into the angular features of a young man, as his voice deepened and his stance mirrored the quiet strength of a man he never met, you held fast and he never once asked you to stop telling those stories.

Simon would return.  

He had to.

And until he does, you'll wait, even if your skin begins to wrinkles and your memory begins to fade.

You were told to let go, that your endless waiting would be for naught, that the man you called your husband wouldn’t be stepping through the front door anymore. Some were gentle in their suggestions, others blunt, but they all carried the same message—move on. Remarry. Start over.  

They didn’t understand.  

No man could ever be Simon Riley.  

You shut it down swiftly, time and time again. To every well-meaning friend, every hopeful stranger, every persistent suitor—you made it clear. You were not interested. You were still happily married. The ring on your finger was proof of that, a quiet testament to a love that neither death nor time could erase. Your beating heart, steady and unyielding, was an extension of the hope you carried deep inside, the belief that somehow, somewhere, Simon was still with you.  

The years pressed heavy on your shoulders. Doubt crept in like a shadow, whispering cruel what-ifs in the dead of night. But you refused to acknowledge it. Instead, you clung to his words, the ones he left behind, spoken in the deep rasp that had once been your home. Words of love, of promises made, of a future you had built together.  

And so, you waited. Not because you were lost in grief, not because you were afraid to move forward, but because love—real, true love—did not simply fade.

Because he never lied.  

And if he wasn’t back yet, it only meant one thing.  

He was still trying to find his way home.

Your endless rejections stirred whispers in the neighborhood. Boys—never men in your eyes, not with their arrogance—took turns trying to woo the widow who remained steadfast in her belief that her dead husband would return. They called you insane for waiting on a ghost, convinced that one of them should rightfully claim the hand of someone as beautiful as you. But if your cold no wasn’t enough to deter them, Leo was.

Your son stood tall, a quiet force of nature. His glare alone was enough to send would-be suitors scurrying, the cold glint in his eyes promising consequences for anyone foolish enough to try and take his father’s place. Yet, for you, his mother, that steel melted into something soft. Devotion ran deep in his veins. Whether by your side or not, he was always protecting you.

That much was clear when, on his way home from school, he was stopped by Anthony—the worst of them all. Ruthless, persistent, always flanked by lackeys who clung to his every word. Leo tried to sidestep him, choosing to ignore the man who had been a thorn in your side for years. But then, Anthony’s voice cut through the air, crude and dripping with mockery.

"When is your tramp of a mother gonna find a new husband?”

Leo froze mid-step. The words, crude and venomous, burned into his mind, igniting something primal deep in his chest. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms as he slowly turned to face Anthony.  

The older man smirked, arms crossed over his chest, flanked by his usual lackeys who snickered behind him like hyenas waiting for a kill. They had always been vultures, circling, waiting for you to break under the weight of grief and loneliness. But you hadn’t. And neither had Leo.  

He met Anthony’s gaze head-on, eyes sharp and unyielding. “Say that again,” Leo challenged, his voice eerily calm, the kind of calm that sent a chill through the air.  

Anthony scoffed, stepping forward, puffing up his chest as if his age alone would be enough to intimidate Leo. “You heard me, kid. Everyone’s sick of watching her waste away, waiting on a dead man. She needs someone real.” His lips curled, voice dipping into something cruel. “You need a father.”  

The crack of Leo’s fist connecting with Anthony’s jaw echoed down the street. The man stumbled, caught off guard, his cronies recoiling in shock. Leo didn’t stop. His knuckles struck again, again, fury pouring out in sharp, brutal movements. Years of biting his tongue, of standing guard while men like Anthony circled like wolves, all of it exploded in that moment.  

Leo was outnumbered, but that didn’t stop him. He threw every ounce of his strength into his punches, his breath ragged, his body shaking—not just with rage, but with something deeper. Something that had been buried since the day his father disappeared. The bruises blooming across his skin were nothing compared to the weight he carried on his shoulders.

Then, suddenly, he was yanked backward. A strong grip seized his collar, wrenching him away from the fight. Leo's head snapped back, his teeth bared, ready to snarl at whoever dared to interfere—until he saw him.

Uncle Price.

The older man's weathered eyes were dark with anger as they took in the scene before him. He didn’t need to raise his voice; the look he shot at Anthony and his crew was enough to make them hesitate, stepping back just enough to feign innocence.

"Come on, son," Price said, voice firm but steady.

Leo exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his bag. He cast one last glare at the group, knuckles still throbbing, heart still pounding. But it didn’t matter.

He had a home to get back to. A mother to protect.

You were devastated when Leo came home, his face a bloody mess. The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs. Without thinking, you rushed to him, a damp cloth in hand, gently cradling his face as you pressed it against his bruises.

Your lips parted, ready to demand what had happened—but the look in his eyes told you everything.

This was the consequence of your refusal. Of your unwavering devotion to a ghost. They wouldn’t come for you. No, they would take their anger out on your son—the boy who had done nothing wrong, who only wanted to protect you. The thought turned your stomach.

You couldn't allow this to continue.

So, in the days that followed, you devised a plan. A challenge.

If the men wanted to prove themselves worthy, they would have to earn it. Earn being your husband. Bring back game—the largest boar they could find. But there were conditions. It had to be taken down with a single shot, clean and precise. And it had to be done using the same model as your husband’s prized hunting rifle. No knives. No second chances. Just one bullet.

However, you knew—none of them had a shot that clean. Not these half-men who could barely hold a rifle, let alone wield it with precision. Their hands were too soft, untouched by real work, never having held anything heavier than their own egos.

They would try, of course. Driven by pride, by the foolish belief that brute force could replace skill. But you had no doubt—each one would fail.

Maybe then, they would finally understand.

Much to your surprise, over the course of weeks, some of them actually tried. And, as expected, they failed spectacularly.

One managed to hit himself in the nose from the recoil, clearly never having held a rifle in his life. Another showed up at your door grinning ear to ear, proudly presenting a pig instead of a boar. You slammed the door in his face without a word.

Anthony was the one who nearly had you convinced—his boar was of fair size, impressive even. But one look at the wound told you everything you needed to know. The bullet hole was too wide. A different rifle. A different shot.

The door slammed in his face, too.

This little game of yours went on for some time, keeping them preoccupied and keeping them far away from you and your son. That's what mattered.

Days after his rejection, Anthony grew restless, his anger festering like an open wound. He was a storm barely contained, his temper so volatile that even those who usually followed him began to keep their distance.

Seated at the bar, he gripped his drink so tightly it was a wonder the glass didn’t shatter in his hands. Around him, the air was thick with frustration—every man in this room had either failed in their attempts to win your hand or was still trying. Their collective agitation simmered beneath the weight of another humiliating failure.

Anthony’s voice slithered through the murmurs of the bar, wrapping around the ears of every man who had tasted rejection at your hands. His knuckles flexed, still white from how tightly he had gripped his drink moments ago.

"Can't you guys see we're being played?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the murmur of the room like a blade. He sneered, his lip curling. "How she holds us down while her bed gets colder. Holds us down while that boy gets bolder?"

The flickering candlelight caught the edge of his grin as he leaned forward, watching their faces twist with realization.

"Here and now, there's a chance for action."

That was the hook. He had them now. A shared glint of hunger flashed in their eyes, their minds shifting in unison. Some sat up straighter, others exhaled slow and deep, as if steeling themselves for the promise of something wicked.

Anthony pushed himself up onto the table, boots thudding against the wood. He stood tall, eyes dark and wild, his tone dropping to a low whisper despite the fact that every soul in the bar was already watching him.

"I say, we deal with the kid first. When he walks back from school tomorrow, we hold him down."

A pause, letting the weight of those words settle over them like a shroud. His grin widened, teeth flashing in the dim light.

"We hold him down while I break his pride, his trust, his faith—" his fingers flexed, miming a snap, "—and his bones."

A slow, creeping murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. The men weren’t just listening anymore. They were envisioning it.

"We cut him down into tiny pieces," he continued, voice thick with malice, "then throw him where she'll never know."

A few heads nodded. Some sipped their drinks, lips curling with a sick sort of anticipation.

"And when she wonders where her dear son has gone, only the earth and the trees will know."

A hush fell over them, as if nature itself was listening, horrified.

"When the deed is done, she'll have no one to stop us from breaking her door. No one to stop us from taking her love..." He let the last words drip from his lips, dragging them out like poison.

"And more."

If any of these men had an ounce of sense—if they had learned from the old tales whispered by their grandfathers about watching the dark, about never turning their backs on the unknown—they would have known to be afraid. They would have felt the weight of something beyond their understanding, lurking just outside the glow of the dim lights.

But none of them did.

None of them noticed the figure standing in the corner, veiled in shadow, unmoving, listening. None of them realized that the dark had teeth, nor that it had been waiting.

Anthony barked out a laugh, a cruel, vile thing that reeked of arrogance. The devil inside him knew no limits, no fear. "Tomorrow, my frien—"

The words barely left his tongue before the gunshot cracked through the air, a sharp and deafening roar.

The bullet found its mark with merciless precision, punching straight through his throat. His body jolted, hands flying up as if to claw at the gaping wound before his knees buckled, sending him collapsing onto the table. Blood gushed, dark and pooling fast, soaking into the wood.

The bar plunged into silence.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

They all stared, wide-eyed and frozen, at the lifeless husk of the man who had been standing, laughing, just moments ago. His glass, still half-full, teetered on the edge of the table before toppling over, the liquid spilling into the growing crimson.

Then—movement.

Eyes flicked toward the corner, toward the place where something had lurked unseen. A figure moved, gliding toward the light switch, silent as death itself.

The room plunged into darkness.

Gunfire.

It erupted like a storm, a relentless barrage that tore through the heavy air, each shot finding its home in flesh and bone. The men barely had time to scream. Shadows danced with the flashes of gunshots, their shapes twisting and writhing like specters, like the very vengeance that had come to claim them.

Retribution had arrived. And it showed no mercy.

Bodies lay sprawled across the floor in twisted, unnatural positions, men crumpled in their final moments, their faces frozen in shock and agony. Those still alive—those still breathing—scrambled in the chaos, tripping over their fallen comrades, their movements frantic, uncoordinated.

One of Anthony’s right-hand men, a stocky figure with a buzzed head, his eyes wide with panic, reached for a pocket knife. His fingers fumbled in desperation, clumsy as the adrenaline surged through his veins, his body bracing for a fight he knew he was never going to win. His hand was shaking, but he gripped the hilt with a last-ditch hope, his stance poised for the slash—except it never came.

A blade—cold, precise—pressed against his neck, the tip sinking into the flesh just below his ear. The faintest shift of pressure, and it would be over. The edge of the blade kissed his carotid artery, the promise of death within a breath.

He froze, eyes wide, unable to even speak as the weight of the situation crushed him. His body trembled as the reality hit—there was no escape, no hope of survival. Not anymore.

"I’m sorry!" he gasped, his voice trembling with desperation.

His hands shot up in surrender, palms facing out, a desperate plea for life. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. The blade remained at his throat, unwavering, a constant reminder of his impending fate.

A scoff brushed against his ear, low and humorless. The sound alone sent ice down his spine. Slowly, with the caution of a man facing the reaper himself, he turned his head just enough to see—

Those eyes.

Weathered, sharp as broken glass, burning with a vengeance too deep to be mortal.

A ghost.

A man they had long thought dead.

The knife against his throat pressed just a little harder, just enough to let him feel the edge of death. His pulse pounded beneath the steel, his breath coming in frantic, uneven gasps.

He swallowed hard, sweat beading at his temple. He had been so sure Simon was dead. They all were. It had been years—too many years. The man they had spoken of in past tense, the man whose wife they had planned to take like a prize, was supposed to be gone.

But here he was.

And the look in his eyes…

Those were not the eyes of a man who had merely returned. They were the eyes of something risen from the grave, something that had crawled its way out of hell itself.

“Please,” the man whimpered again, his hands trembling in the air. “Please, have mercy.”

A scoff. Low. Cold.

"Mercy?" Riley's voice was rough, hoarse from years of silence, of waiting, of watching from the shadows. "You want mercy?"

The man could only nod, his throat too tight for words.

Riley leaned in, just enough for the stench of blood and sweat to mix between them. His grip on the knife never wavered.

"You were gonna take my boy from me," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath, yet it carried more weight than any gunshot. "Hold him down. Cut him into pieces. Make his mother beg."

The man's lips quivered. He tried to speak, but the words refused to come.

Riley exhaled slowly, the sound eerily steady, controlled. "You prayed on a widow. Plotted against a child. And now you’re askin’ me for mercy?"

The man's whole body shook. He opened his mouth to beg, to say anything—

But the blade slit his throat before he ever got the chance.

A wet gurgle bubbled from his lips as his knees buckled, and he hit the floor, his hands grasping at the wound in a desperate, useless attempt to hold in what was already lost.

Simon stepped back, his expression unreadable, watching as the life drained from the man's eyes.

Then, silence.

The only thing left in that bar was death.

The rain was a heavy, persistent downpour that splattered against the windows, casting an eerie, wavering glow across the room. The knock came again, soft but insistent, like a warning or a plea. It tugged at you, pulling you from the safety of your quiet home, the stillness of the night broken by this unexpected disturbance.

The rain pounded relentlessly against the windows, its rhythmic assault filling the silence of the house like a constant whisper. The storm outside was a living thing, roaring in the night as though it, too, were trying to get your attention. And then that knock. Soft at first, almost imperceptible under the storm's roar, but then again, louder, more urgent, as if something—or someone—knew you were inside, knew you were awake even though the rest of the world seemed to be asleep.

You hesitated, standing at the base of the stairs, your eyes glancing at Leo, curled up on the couch, oblivious to the world around him. He looked so peaceful, his steady breathing a stark contrast to the storm. You could feel your chest tighten as a wave of protectiveness washed over you. Quietly, you crossed the room and covered him with a blanket, smoothing the fabric over his slouched form as you whispered a prayer under your breath for his peace, for his safety. You didn’t want to leave him, didn’t want to risk something happening to him while you were gone.

But that knock—it pulled at you. It felt like a summons, a call from somewhere deep within your soul, urging you forward, pushing you away from the comfort of your quiet home. With a soft sigh, you moved toward the door, the floor beneath your feet creaking with each step. The coldness of the wood seemed to bite into your skin as you walked past Leo, your steps careful and measured, as if the house itself was trying to hold you back, to keep you safe.

When you reached the door, it stood like a shadow before you, dark and looming. The doorknob was cool in your hand, as though it had been waiting for you to open it. You paused, your heart hammering in your chest, a knot of unease twisting in your stomach. It was an unnatural feeling, a sense that something was not right, that this moment was different from all the others before it. Another knock came, more forceful, more demanding.

Something inside you stirred, and with a shaky breath, you turned the knob. The door opened slowly, the creak of the hinges loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Standing before you, drenched to the bone, was a man—a shadow of a person. His clothes were stained in dark red, the blood soaking through the fabric in patches, his hair matted and wild, blown in odd directions by the wind. His face was pale, a look of exhaustion and pain etched across it, yet there was something eerily familiar about the figure in front of you. His body swayed slightly, as though he didn’t have the strength to stand on his own.

But it wasn’t the blood, nor the state of him that caught your attention. No, it was the nose. That crooked nose, bent in a way that only one person in your life had—one person you hadn’t seen in years. A person you’d thought lost to time, to memory.

The tears welled up in your eyes before you could stop them, the sobs catching in your throat. The man’s eyes—wide, filled with a pain you couldn’t quite place—met yours, and in that moment, your body went cold, then warm, then cold again.

It was him.

The man you've been waiting for.

Your arms wrapped around him without a second thought, the years of waiting, of hoping, of believing that Simon would somehow return, crashing into you all at once. The blood staining his clothes, the heavy scent of sweat, dirt, and blood—none of it mattered. He was here, in front of you, breathing, alive.

“Simon,” you whispered his name like a prayer, clutching him tighter as though he might slip away if you let go. Your fingers dug into his back, feeling the cold chill of his skin beneath the wet fabric. It wasn’t real, you told yourself. This couldn’t be real, could it? But the steady beat of his heart, the warmth radiating from his chest, told you it was.

He was home.

The words barely formed on your lips, your throat tight with emotion as you lifted your face to meet his. His eyes were distant, clouded with confusion and pain, but there was recognition there—faint, but it was enough. His arms, weak and trembling, slid around you, holding you with a sense of desperation that mirrored your own.

“I—I never stopped waiting for you,” you whispered, voice shaking. Tears ran down your face, unbidden, falling into the rain-soaked fabric of his shirt, but you didn’t care. The only thing that mattered in that moment was that Simon was here. He had come back to you, to the family he had left behind. Your heart, which had once ached with the loss, now soared with the joy of his return.

He didn’t say anything at first. There was a beat of silence where all you could hear was the heavy rain, the sound of his shallow breathing, and the thudding of your heart. He was here, alive, but something was off. He wasn’t the Simon you remembered. He was different—haunted, broken. His fingers gripped your arms, his touch gentle yet firm, as if afraid to let you slip from his grasp.

“I never… I thought you were gone. I thought you were dead,” you murmured, voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I never gave up on you, Simon. I knew you were out there.”

The way he stiffened in your arms made you pull back slightly, your hands still on his chest, your eyes searching his face. The blood, the grime, the weathered look of him—he was a far cry from the man you had kissed goodbye all those years ago. The memory of his mission, the last time you had seen him before the war had swallowed him whole, gnawed at your mind.

“I—I didn’t want you to wait for me,” Simon finally rasped, his voice raw, broken. His words trembled in the air, caught between a confession and regret. “I never meant to come back like this…”

You shook your head, brushing his hair from his face gently, as if touching him could somehow undo all the pain of the years you’d spent apart.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm that raged inside you. “You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

But even as you spoke, something in his eyes flickered, a shadow passing over them, making you wonder if this was truly the Simon you had known. Had the years away from you broken him too? Had they taken away more of him than just his body?

But before you could ask, his hands reached up, cupping your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as though he were memorizing your features, like you might disappear at any moment.

“I won’t leave you again,” he whispered his promise hoarsely, his voice full of something too raw to name.

“Good,” you murmured, leaning into his touch, your own hands trembling as they cradled his face, pulling him closer. "Because I’ll never let you go again."

For the first time in years, you felt whole. Simon was home, and despite the blood, the rain, and the years apart, nothing else mattered and when Leo awoke, the unfinished chapter in their lives for so long would finally close.

-- Dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

[meo-eiru]

Day 5 of Character Trivia Night!

For tonight we have Theo

Theo has a human mother and a cyclops father, though his dad isn't really in the picture as his mom doesn't like to settle down and instead jumps from monster bf to monster bf

Since there aren't any schools for monsters his mom always sent him to human schools, which meant Theo was always around people who did not look like him

His skin is a bit greenish but they usually explain it as a sickness and he always keeps his bangs long to hide his eye, thanks to not having much of a presence as well he was able to go under the radar most of the time

But there was one time in elementary school when he wanted to try playing with the other kids and ended up accidentally showing his eye. His mom quickly moved them to another city and enrolled him into a different school before the news outlets could get their hands on the situation, so by now it's more like a legend of their old town

The experience was quite traumatic for him so now he makes sure to never ever let his eye show in public

Some people who don't know him assumes he's a gamer but he's actually very bad at games

Has no depth perception and wears single lens glasses (glass...?) to make up for it, but they are a bit ugly so he only wears them at home

He actually doesn't have an eyebrow

Due to his quiet and nerdy appearance there are rumors about him being a gamer in class but he's actually really bad at games

That being said he's really into movies, anything sci-fi more specifically. Especially ones about aliens

Maybe because they are often depicted green, or maybe because the focus is on them not being human, but growing up Theo felt a lot of kinship with the aliens he was on the screen and they became a way for him to cope with his own life

He's mostly terrible at cooking but can make fire lasagnas because his mom likes it and it was the one meal she actually taught him

If left alone he would mostly stay alive eating chips and other snacks

He favorite color is green but if he had to choose a second favorite he would say dark purple

The first item of yours he stole borrowed, because of his overflowing love, was the pen you forgot on your desk

Soon he started collecting whatever item he could find of you. Erasers, pencils, napkins, used straws, clothes....

He also likes to take your pictures and hang them on his ceiling and walls, looking at your face as he falls asleep helps him see better dreams

He never intended to make a shrine of you but the items he stole from you and hid in his closet are starting to form the shape of a shrine and he might've added in some fake candle totally not because he wanted to make it more shrine light but because his closet just needed some more light

He's surprisingly good at drawing. He always enjoyed sketching colorful and quirky monster like creatures but lately his notebook has been filled with drawings he made of you. Weirdly enough, unlike everything else he draws, your drawings always look so clean and shiny like he's trying to draw his god

He also likes to write your name over and over again, it helps him calm down when he's too nervous or when his love for you is overflowing and he can't keep it under control

When writing can't cut it anymore he has to lock himself in a quiet bathroom and take care of the trouble under his pants. He wants to have something that belongs to you while doing it and usually even just a pen can do it but if he's lucky he can snatch your used gym clothes without you noticing.... and maybe take them home too if you don't pay attention... and try to spread your smell into his room as much as he can...

He always follows you home to stalk you make sure you're safe so he's familiar with its location and structure

One time he even tried going in thinking no one was home but just when he was walking towards the building he made eye contact with your mom and just ran back before she can say anything

His tear drops are really big, so when he cries it turns into quite a mess. That's why he does his best not to cry but unfortunately he's someone who can cry as easily as a newborn baby

One of his secret fantasies is you catching him while he's stalking you and humiliating him for it. Mostly because he can't think of any other reason for an amazing, incredible and holy person (one might say) like you to approach him

[777bae]

THE MISSING PIECE WILL SMITH

Summary :: You and Will grew up together, sharing everything from street hockey games to late-night skates. But as the years passed, something shifted, and Will started looking for love in all the wrong places. It takes him years—and a few broken hearts—to realize that the one he’s been searching for was right there all along. (REQUESTED :: prompt 13)

Warnings :: angst with eventual comfort/fluff, unrequited love, childhood friends to lovers, two idiots in love

Word count :: 15.9k (i got very carried away lol)

The town you grew up in was small, the kind of place where nothing ever really changed. The streets were lined with old maple trees whose leaves turned the sidewalks gold in autumn, and whose branches stood bare and elegant against the sky in winter. The houses were familiar, most of them passed down through generations, and the people—even more so.

Everyone knew everyone. The local diner had the same waitresses taking the same orders year after year. The corner store was run by a man who still remembered what kind of candy you liked when you were seven. Summers smelled like fresh-cut grass and barbecue smoke, the air thick with the sound of cicadas and the occasional crack of a baseball bat from the little league field down the road. Autumns came with crisp air and the crunch of fallen leaves beneath your boots, the excitement of Halloween lingering in the air even after the candy was gone.

And then there was winter.

Winter belonged to the ice.

It started in December, when the temperature dropped low enough that the ponds froze solid and the snowbanks grew taller than you. The town came alive in a different way then—driveways filled with kids playing street hockey, backyard rinks lit up under the glow of porch lights, the sharp sound of skates carving across ice. It was cold, sometimes too cold, but it didn’t matter. Not when there was hockey. Not when there was him.

Will had lived next door to you since the day you were born. His house sat close enough that if you stood on your tiptoes at your bedroom window, you could just barely see into his. Between your houses was a stretch of grass that might as well have been neutral territory—claimed by both families, but really, it belonged to you and Will. It was where you played tag in the summers, lying in the grass afterward, staring up at the clouds and making up stories about the shapes they formed. It was where you built snow forts in the winter, perfecting your defense strategies for the inevitable snowball fights that followed.

Your mothers loved to tell the story of how, at three years old, you and Will had wandered into each other’s yards like you had already decided you belonged together. There was no awkward introduction, no hesitation—just a mutual understanding that from that day forward, you would be a pair.

It had been that way ever since.

If one of you was outside, the other one would be too. If Will was climbing a tree, you were right there beside him, scraping your knees and daring him to go higher. If you were building a snow fort, Will was already planning the perfect snowball attack, laughing as he ducked behind his defenses and waited for the perfect moment to strike.

When the two of you started school, it became obvious to everyone else what you had always known—you and Will were a package deal.

You sat next to each other in class, passing notes when the teacher wasn’t looking. You shared your lunch when Will forgot his, and he stole bites of your food even when he didn’t forget. You rode your bikes home together in the afternoons, tires skidding over the cracked pavement as you raced down the street, the wind tangling in your hair.

Everywhere you went, it was just expected that the other would be close behind.

And then, of course—there was hockey.

Hockey wasn’t something you played on a team. It wasn’t about winning, about rules or coaches or referees blowing whistles. Hockey was what you and Will did when the world outside your little town didn’t matter. It was the thing that belonged to just you two, carved into the hours spent on frozen ponds and backyard rinks.

The first time you put on a pair of skates, you were four.

Your parents had taken you and Will to the pond behind his house, where the ice stretched wide and smooth under the pale winter sun. You had been bundled up in layers so thick you could barely move, your mittens too big for your hands, your skates laced up loosely because your mom didn’t know how to tie them tight enough yet.

You still remembered the way your tiny fingers fumbled with the laces, how the cold nipped at your cheeks as you stood up, wobbling on unsteady legs.

“I don’t think I like this,” you said, your skates sliding against the ice. Your knees wobbled, and for a second, it felt like the ground wasn’t beneath you at all—just a slick, unforgiving surface that wanted to see you fall.

Will, standing just as shakily beside you, had turned his head, his missing front teeth making his grin even more lopsided than usual.

“We’ll get better,” he had said confidently, as if there were no other possibility.

And somehow, that was enough to keep you from giving up.

At first, skating meant clinging to the wooden fence in Will’s backyard rink, your tiny hands grasping the frozen wood as tightly as possible while you tried to move without slipping. It meant falling—a lot—until bruises formed on your knees and elbows, until your gloves were damp from the snow. But you never quit, and neither did Will.

And then, one day, you didn’t need to hold onto the fence anymore.

One day, you let go, and when you wobbled, Will reached out and grabbed your hand, steadying you.

“See?” he said, his face bright with excitement. “Told you we’d get better!”

It became a ritual after that. Every winter, the moment the temperature dropped low enough for the ice to freeze solid, you and Will would be out there, bundled up in too many layers, your skates laced up tight. You never played a real game—there were no teams, no rules, no official scores. It was just the two of you, racing each other across the ice, passing a puck back and forth, seeing who could do the best spin without falling over.

By the time you were six, the ice wasn’t something to be afraid of anymore—it was yours. It was familiar, a second home, a place where you and Will spent hours, long after your parents had called you in for dinner, until your fingers were too numb to lace up your skates properly.

And now that you weren’t afraid of falling, now that you had learned to move without stumbling, there was only one thing left to do—go faster.

The pond behind Will’s house was perfect for it. The ice stretched wide and smooth, framed by a ring of bare trees whose branches looked almost black against the winter sky. It was quiet, except for the occasional caw of a crow in the distance or the way the ice creaked beneath your blades.

Most of the time, you and Will would pass a puck back and forth, or you’d make up imaginary teams, calling out plays like the two of you were starring in the Stanley Cup Finals. But some days, like today, it was all about speed.

“I bet I can go faster than you,” Will said, his breath curling in the cold air, the tip of his nose red from the wind.

You scoffed, adjusting your mittens. “No way.”

Will grinned, flashing the gap where his front tooth had fallen out. “You’re scared.”

You straightened, eyes narrowing. “Am not!”

“Are too!”

“Fine!” you huffed. “Race me!”

His grin widened, and that was all the confirmation you needed.

The two of you skated to the edge of the pond, right where the ice met the frozen, snow-covered grass. It was an unspoken rule—this was the starting line.

“To the other side and back,” Will declared. “First one to touch the tree wins!”

You nodded, determination settling in your chest. The tree he was talking about stood at the far edge of the pond, a tall, leafless thing with thick, twisting branches. It had always been your marker—whether you were racing or pretending it was the goalpost in a make-believe game of hockey.

“Ready?” Will asked, crouching slightly, like he had seen real hockey players do.

You bent your knees, copying his stance. “Ready.”

“One… two… three—GO!”

The two of you took off, the ice hissing under your blades.

The cold air bit at your cheeks as you pushed forward, your legs pumping, each stride growing stronger. Will was just ahead of you, his dark coat billowing slightly as he leaned forward, using his arms for momentum.

But you were close.

You dug in, pushing harder, your skates cutting across the ice in smooth, precise strokes. The wind howled past your ears, the world around you blurring until it was just you and him and the race.

Will reached the tree a second before you did, his glove smacking the bark triumphantly before he turned sharply, already speeding back toward the starting point.

But you weren’t going to lose that easily.

Determination burned in your chest as you mirrored his turn, pressing your weight into your skates just like he did. You felt the ice shift beneath you, the sharp edge of your blade slicing cleanly through the surface. For a moment, you thought you might fall—your balance wobbled, the world tilting—but then you steadied, and suddenly you were flying.

Will glanced over his shoulder, his eyes going wide when he saw you gaining on him.

“Hey!” he shouted, laughing. “No fair!”

“Just ‘cause I’m faster than you!” you called back, breathless.

He let out an exaggerated groan, pushing harder, trying to reclaim the lead.

The finish line was only a few feet away now—the spot where you had started, just beyond the pond’s edge. You were side by side, your skates practically in sync, your mittens brushing once, twice, as you both reached out toward the invisible finish line.

And then—

Will slipped.

It happened in an instant—his skate caught on an uneven patch of ice, and before either of you could react, he was falling.

His arms flailed, his body twisting as he tumbled sideways, his momentum sending him skidding across the ice—right into you.

You barely had time to yelp before you went down too, your skates flying out from under you as you crashed onto the frozen surface, your breath whooshing out in a sharp gasp.

For a second, everything was silent. The ice beneath you was solid and cold, your limbs tangled with Will’s as you both tried to process what had just happened.

And then—laughter.

It started with Will, a breathy little chuckle as he lifted his head, his beanie lopsided, his face scrunched up in amusement. And then you couldn’t help it either—you started giggling, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as you lay there, staring up at the gray winter sky.

“You totally knocked me over!” you accused between laughs.

Will gasped, pressing a mittened hand to his chest. “I did not! You ran into me!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“You just couldn’t handle losing,” you teased, sitting up.

Will groaned dramatically, flopping back down on the ice. “I almost won,” he muttered.

“But you didn’t.” You grinned, nudging his arm.

He turned his head toward you, his blue eyes still shining with laughter. “Rematch tomorrow?”

You pretended to think about it, tapping your chin. “Hmm… maybe. If you think you can keep up this time.”

Will gasped again, more dramatic than before, and before you could react, he scooped up a handful of snow from the ice, tossing it at you. It hit your coat in a puff of white, and you shrieked, scrambling to retaliate.

Within seconds, the race was forgotten, replaced by an all-out snow fight.

And maybe you would have a rematch tomorrow.

Or maybe you would just end up laughing and tumbling over each other again, limbs tangled, faces flushed from the cold.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

Because you would always be out here, together.

By the time you were eight, hockey had become an undeniable part of your rhythm, just as much a part of you as the air you breathed. Will had his hockey stick in his hands more often than not, carrying it around like an extension of himself, a trusty companion as familiar as the jacket on his back. And wherever he went, you were sure to follow—skates laced, stick in hand, trying your best to keep up with his ever-growing skills.

One afternoon, you were out on the ice behind Will’s house, the backyard rink gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The frost hung thick in the air, and your breath came out in puffs of steam, drifting upward as if it too was eager to get in on the action. The rink was a wonder—built just the way Will’s dad always did it, smooth and perfect, a sheet of glass that stretched across the yard. The perimeter was lined with snowbanks you’d created together, little mountains of white that were as much a part of the rink as the ice itself.

“Okay, ready?” Will asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet, the excitement in his voice a telltale sign that this was one of those important training sessions.

You nodded, tightening your grip on the stick, the leather worn in your hands from all the years of practice.

“Okay,” he said, his tone turning serious. “You have to bend your knees more.”

You nodded, watching him carefully as he demonstrated. His knees bent low, his body leaning into the motion as he glided across the ice like a real hockey player. The speed with which he moved amazed you—how effortlessly he zipped from one end of the rink to the other. Will always seemed to have a natural gift for it, a fluidity that made you wish you could keep up.

“Like this,” he repeated, showing you again, his brow furrowing with concentration.

You bent your knees, mimicking his movements, but the truth was, it felt strange at first—like you weren’t fully in control of your body on the ice. But you weren’t one to give up easily. You pushed forward, trying to master the stance, to get the feel of it, to match his speed.

But just as you started to get into the rhythm, there was a sudden whoosh, and you blinked in surprise.

A snowball.

Will had swung his stick, flicking a perfect snowball off the blade. It hit your jacket with a soft thud, breaking apart on impact, but the message was clear.

“Hey!” you shrieked, laughing. “What was that for?”

Will shot you a mischievous grin, his eyes alight with challenge. “You look too serious. I thought I’d make it more fun!”

Before you could protest, he took off, his skates slicing across the ice as he raced away from you. The snowball fight was on.

You grabbed a handful of snow from the edge of the rink, packing it into your mittens, and gave chase, laughing so hard your sides ached. You dodged and weaved, trying to catch him as he weaved back and forth on the ice, always just out of your reach. His laughter echoed in the air, high-pitched and free, as he taunted you with mock shouts.

“You gotta be quicker than that!” he called over his shoulder.

“No way!” you shouted back, your voice a little winded, but you were determined.

Your skates slid in a fast arc as you closed the gap, finally launching your own snowball at him, the icy mass hitting him squarely on the back. Will let out a dramatic gasp and spun around, mock offense written all over his face.

“Hey! That’s cheating!”

You grinned, knowing that the rules of this game didn’t matter much to either of you anyway.

Hockey wasn’t something you played for the glory of scoring goals, or the thrill of victory. It was never about winning for you and Will—it was about the joy of being together, on this patch of ice that was yours and his alone.

The years had a way of blending together, and yet every winter felt like it was the first one all over again. Every time the backyard rink was built, every time the plastic sheets were rolled out and water was sprayed over them, it was like the world was starting fresh. The ice would form overnight, as if by magic, and the moment it was ready, you and Will were out there, eager to skate, to challenge each other, to share this simple joy.

“First to five wins!” Will called, his voice slicing through the quiet, his stick tapping rhythmically against the ice.

Your heart gave a little jolt. The thrill of the game was in the chase, in the way Will’s grin spread wider every time he won—but not too wide, because he always made sure to give you another shot, to make sure you were never left behind.

It was just a game, sure. But it was your game. Yours and Will’s.

You dug in your skates, pushing off from the snowbank, racing across the rink toward the makeshift goal. You dodged him with a quick flick of your wrist, making a break for the other side of the ice. You could hear Will’s laughter behind you, could see him chasing after you in your peripheral vision, his stick slapping against the ice.

“I’m gonna win this time!” you shouted.

“No chance,” he teased, the competitive glint in his eyes showing that he meant it.

But in the end, just like every other time, even if you lost—he’d always find a way to make it a tie.

He would pause, panting, hands on his hips, looking at you with that goofy grin of his that made everything feel okay.

“We’ll call it a draw this time,” he’d say. “Because I’m feeling generous.”

You’d roll your eyes, grinning back. “You’re so full of it.”

But there was never any argument. There didn’t need to be. You were happy just to be out there, skating under the fading light of the winter sky, your breath rising in visible clouds, your body buzzing from the cold and the joy of the game. And for you, at least, the outcome didn’t matter as much as the moment you shared with him.

You had never been part of a real team, but it didn’t matter. This was your team—the two of you. And it was all you needed.

It was a secret world, one only you and Will knew. The rink, the cold, the game—it was yours. No one else’s. Just the two of you, racing, laughing, and skating together forever.

At ten, you knew that the bond between you and Will wasn’t just something casual or fleeting. It was something different. Something unspoken, yet undeniably there. You didn’t need anyone to tell you that—because in every small moment, it showed.

It wasn’t unusual for you and Will to exchange gifts. Simple things. Things that didn’t need to be wrapped or adorned with bows, because the meaning was always there, inherent in the gesture. But one winter afternoon, as the two of you stood out on the frozen backyard rink, Will handed you something different.

It was a small, round hockey puck. The edges had been worn down with use, its black surface slightly scratched from countless games. But it wasn’t the puck itself that made it special—it was what Will had done with it.

“You’re always losing your stuff,” he teased, his breath visible in the frigid air, his dark hair tousled from the wind. “So, I figured you’d need this.”

He grinned as he held out the puck, and you stared at it, puzzled for a moment. Then you saw it—the black marker scrawl on the surface. Your initials, hastily written but clear enough for you to read.

You felt a warmth spread through you as you took the puck from his hand, your fingers brushing his as you accepted it.

“Don’t lose it,” he said, his tone playful but with an underlying sincerity. “That’s your puck. Only yours.”

You nodded, holding it close, feeling a strange sense of pride. “I won’t,” you promised, your voice quieter than usual.

From that moment on, that puck became one of your most prized possessions. It wasn’t just a piece of equipment—it was a token, a symbol of the way Will saw you, the way he treated you. It was his way of telling you that you mattered to him, in a way that words couldn’t fully explain. You kept it in your nightstand for years, tucked away under a pile of old journals and scraps of paper. And every time you opened that drawer, you’d run your fingers over the puck, remembering that day, that moment, and the unspoken promise that came with it: You are important. You belong here.

Two years later, when you were twelve, Will handed you something else.

It was a friendship bracelet, woven together with blue and white threads. It wasn’t just any bracelet, though—it was the colors of his favorite hockey team, the Toronto Maple Leafs. Even at twelve, he had big dreams. He swore, without hesitation, that one day he’d play for them, that one day the Leafs would be his team.

“I made it for you,” Will said, his voice gruff but with a playful edge as he shoved the bracelet into your hand.

You stared at it, taken aback. Will had never been the type to give out handmade things, much less something so personal. But the moment you saw the familiar blue-and-white pattern, it made perfect sense. This was his way of telling you that even if you never played on the same team, even if you never made it to the ice in the same uniform, you were still a part of his world. He wanted you to have this, something that tied the two of you together. Something that bound you to his dreams.

“You sure you want me wearing this?” you asked with a grin, trying to mask the knot forming in your chest. “You know, it’s kind of like a team thing. Maybe I’ll jinx you or something.”

Will snorted, clearly unimpressed. “Please. If anyone’s gonna jinx me, it’s not you. Besides, it’s not like you’re gonna get rid of it. You know you’ll wear it every day.”

He was right, of course. The bracelet became a part of you, a constant presence on your wrist as you went about your daily life. Even when it started to fray around the edges, when the blue and white threads began to look worn and faded from constant wear, you couldn’t bring yourself to take it off. It was more than just a piece of thread—it was a reminder. A reminder of Will’s promise, his belief in his own future, and the way he had always included you in his dreams.

But not everyone understood that. Not everyone saw what Will saw, what you saw.

One day at school, when you were walking together down the hallway, a kid—one of those kids who always seemed to have something to say—decided to make a comment. He snickered, tossing his backpack over his shoulder as he walked past, his eyes flicking between you and Will.

“Why don’t you play on a real team?” he sneered, his voice loud enough for others to hear. “You don’t even play. Just hanging out with him like it’s some game.”

For a moment, you froze, your gut twisting. You had never been the type to stand out, to let people make you feel small. But this—this stung in a way you hadn’t expected. The kid’s words felt like an attack, like a judgment on the way you and Will had always spent time together. It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about it before. Sure, you didn’t play for a real team. But that didn’t matter. Hockey wasn’t just a sport to you. It was your thing. Yours and Will’s.

You tried to brush it off, pulling your shoulders back and pretending the words didn’t hit their mark. But Will didn’t let it slide.

You saw the way his jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he turned to face the kid. There was a fire in his gaze that sent a small chill down your spine, but it wasn’t a bad kind of chill—it was the kind that made you feel like nothing could touch you when Will was around.

“She doesn’t have to play on a real team,” Will said, his voice low and steady. His tone was cold, but there was a warmth there too—a fierce, protective edge. “She’s still better than you. And she’s out here, playing with me, every day. So what does that make you?”

The kid blinked, taken aback, his sneer faltering as Will’s words sank in. He didn’t say anything else, just muttered something under his breath before walking off.

But you didn’t care about the kid anymore. You cared about Will.

You could feel your heart swell in your chest as you met his eyes. The loyalty in him was so strong, so unwavering, that it was impossible to ignore. And you couldn’t help the way it made you feel—like you belonged to him, and he to you.

Even when you argued, even when you drove each other crazy, there was never any doubt about it.

You were his. And he was yours.

It was more than just friendship. It was something deeper, something that didn’t need words to be understood. It was a connection that didn’t have a name, not really—but it didn’t need one. You had always been there for each other, and you always would be. No matter what.

Because that was just the way it had always been.

And, somehow, it always would be.

By the time you were fifteen, the changes in Will weren’t just noticeable—they were impossible to ignore. At first, you couldn’t quite pinpoint when it started. The shift in him was so gradual, so subtle, that you might have convinced yourself it was always there. But one day, it hit you—everything about Will was different.

You tried to hold onto the old version of him, the one who was still your best friend, the one who had grown up beside you. He was still the boy who biked to your house every morning, the one who never missed a birthday or a summer adventure. Will was still the same guy who had spent hours building snow forts with you, who had stayed up late telling ghost stories around a campfire, the boy who once stole the last slice of pizza only to end up stealing your heart in a way you never fully realized.

But that boy—your boy—was slipping away, bit by bit, and no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you couldn’t.

Will was changing, and you couldn’t stop watching it happen.

The most obvious change, of course, was in the way he looked. You couldn’t deny that Will had grown taller over the summer. One minute, you were teasing him for being shorter than you, and the next, he was towering over you, with a frame that was leaner, more athletic, as though he had filled out with strength and purpose. You had always known he was athletic—had known that one day he might play for a real team—but seeing it all come together in a way that made him look more like a man than the boy you had always known was startling. The softness of his face had begun to harden, his cheeks no longer round but sharp, his jawline taking shape. There was something undeniably handsome about him now, but the thought of it made something in your chest tighten.

And then there were his eyes. Those gorgeous, familiar eyes—eyes that had always been the easiest to read, eyes that once reflected the way he felt about you without question. But now? Now they seemed to linger longer than they should, following you with an intensity that made you feel exposed, like he could see every unspoken thought in your head. There was a depth to them now, something in his gaze that made your stomach flip, something that made it impossible to pretend like everything between you was the same.

It wasn’t just his appearance that was changing. Will had become more aware of the way people—girls, especially—were starting to look at him. You couldn’t help but notice the way they noticed him. At first, it was subtle. Just a glance here and there when he walked through the hallways at school, a soft giggle when he said something funny in class. But it didn’t take long for it to grow more obvious. At lunch, girls would sneak glances at him from across the room. You’d catch them whispering, eyes darting away quickly when they realized you had seen.

It was almost like a domino effect. One girl would mention something, and before you knew it, the whole school was talking about him. “Did you see Will in gym today?” one girl would whisper. “I heard he’s totally into Sarah.” You’d hear the same thing in passing, when you tried to get to class, when you went to your locker—everywhere you went, you’d hear his name, spoken with a level of admiration that you couldn’t ignore. Will was becoming something more than just the guy who lived down the street, more than just the boy you spent your entire childhood with.

And then it happened—something so small, so subtle, that you almost missed it, but it cut deeper than anything you could have imagined.

You were standing in the hallway between classes, chatting with a few friends, when you saw him. Will was standing by his locker, leaning against it with his usual relaxed posture. His back was slightly turned, but you saw her. A girl you didn’t recognize—one of the newer students who had transferred that year—was standing a little too close to him. She was laughing, and Will, who usually didn’t entertain the girls who tried to flirt with him, was actually laughing back. And then, just like that, she reached up and brushed a strand of hair out of his face, lingering a little longer than necessary, her fingers grazing the side of his cheek.

For a moment, time seemed to stop.

Your stomach twisted, a tight knot of jealousy building in the pit of your stomach. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal—he was still your Will, your best friend. He was just being nice, just joking around, right? But the feeling that spiraled inside you told a different story. The way his smile was a little too soft, the way his gaze lingered on her just a little too long, made something inside you sting.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if girls liked him now. He was still your Will. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t true. Something was changing, and it wasn’t just the way he looked. It was the way he acted, the way he seemed to be pulling away from you without even realizing it.

The girls weren’t the only thing that had changed, though. Will had started noticing them. You could tell by the way he carried himself now, more confident, more aware of his effect on people. He no longer had to sit on the edge of your bed after a fight with his mom, making you laugh to lift your mood. He no longer called you at midnight just to talk, just to pass the time, just to hear your voice. He was always busy with something else—another game, another practice, another girl. It wasn’t that he was pushing you away—it was just that you were starting to realize, slowly but surely, that he wasn’t just your best friend anymore.

You tried to hang onto the old versions of things, the versions where Will would drag you out to the rink on those cold winter nights, and the two of you would skate until the stars above the icy lake disappeared, and the sky was light with the first hints of dawn. You tried to hold on to the memories of the two of you sitting on the porch steps, swapping stories of your days, or sneaking into the kitchen to raid his fridge while pretending his mom wouldn’t catch you.

But Will was slipping through your fingers, and you couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t stop him from becoming someone new, someone who didn’t need you in the same way anymore. The more he changed, the more you realized that you were the one who was holding on.

And the worst part? You had no idea what to do with that feeling.

One Friday night, after a huge game, the house was alive with energy. The party had spilled out onto the porch, with laughter and music vibrating through the walls, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer and fast food. Red solo cups were scattered across every surface, along with half-empty bottles and a haze of smoke that hung in the corners. You could barely hear your own thoughts over the deafening music, the bass thumping in time with the pounding of your heart as you stepped through the door.

It was one of those nights—the kind that only came around once a season. The big end-of-year party, where everyone, no matter what their social status, came to celebrate the victory or drown their sorrows after a tough loss. It didn’t matter who you were or what clique you belonged to. This was the night where everyone came together, and no one really noticed if you didn’t belong anywhere at all.

You found yourself standing in the corner of the living room, a cup of something far too sweet and syrupy in your hand, surrounded by the noise and the chaos. Your friends were laughing nearby, chatting about whatever drama was going on at school, but your mind wasn’t really with them. It was lost somewhere in the sea of voices and flashing lights, and more than anything, it was focused on him.

Will.

Of course, he was everywhere. It was his night. The hockey team had just won their final game, and it was like the whole town was celebrating with them. He was surrounded by a group of guys, all laughing and joking, their voices loud and boisterous. Will’s laughter rose above the others, that familiar sound that you’d always associated with home—like the sound of snow crunching underfoot on a cold winter morning, or the taste of something warm when the world outside was frozen.

But tonight, something was different. You couldn’t explain it at first, couldn’t figure out why your stomach felt twisted in knots every time you saw him, but you couldn’t shake it.

And then, in a flash, you saw it.

You had been talking to a friend near the punch bowl, trying to ignore the heavy, suffocating weight of your own thoughts. You didn’t want to be one of those people who stood off to the side, avoiding the fun, but that was exactly how you felt. Every laugh, every joke, every passing glance seemed to make the weight in your chest grow heavier.

And then you saw him.

Will was standing in the middle of the room, talking to a girl. You didn’t know her name, but she was pretty, with hair that cascaded down her back in soft waves and a smile that seemed to light up the room. She was laughing at something he’d said, and before you could even process it, he leaned in, his hand brushing the side of her arm. In one smooth motion, they were kissing.

It wasn’t a long kiss. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t like something out of a movie. It was a brief, casual thing—just a quick, light peck on the lips after some teasing comment that had them both laughing. But in that moment, it felt like the world had stopped. The music, the chatter, the whole party—it all faded away.

Your heart skipped a beat. Your breath caught in your throat.

Everything inside you froze.

You didn’t even realize you were staring until you felt the heat rise to your neck, and then your face, like your whole body was suddenly on fire. You tried to turn away, tried to look anywhere else, but your eyes kept drifting back to them. Will, his lips still curved in that easy smile, his arm casually draped around her shoulders as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The girl’s hand was resting on his chest, and it looked so effortless, so right, that it made your stomach lurch.

You didn’t know why it felt like you’d been punched in the chest, but it did. Your fingers tightened around your cup, the cold plastic biting into your hand as you tried to ground yourself, to make yourself breathe. It wasn’t anything big. It wasn’t even a kiss that meant anything—at least, that’s what you told yourself. It was just Will, being Will, doing what he always did.

But it wasn’t just the kiss.

It was what it represented. The subtle, inevitable truth that had been hanging in the back of your mind for months, but that you had been too afraid to face.

Will wasn’t just your Will anymore. He wasn’t the boy you had spent every winter skating on backyard rinks with. He wasn’t the one you’d stayed up with late into the night, making up stories and sneaking out for midnight snacks. He wasn’t the same guy who used to laugh at your dumb jokes and crash on your couch after a long day. That part of him, the part that had always belonged to you and only you, was slipping away, slowly but surely.

And now, you were just… there. A shadow in the background, standing on the sidelines, as the boy you had always loved started looking elsewhere.

You swallowed hard, trying to push the bitter taste that had suddenly filled your mouth. But it didn’t go away. The jealousy you had felt in passing—when girls would whisper about him or throw flirtatious glances his way—had been nothing compared to this. Watching him kiss someone else, even so briefly, felt like a gut punch.

You weren’t ready for it. You weren’t ready for the truth that your place in his life was changing, that the way he saw you wasn’t the same anymore. That you might not be the one he would choose.

Still, you tried to act like it didn’t matter. After all, you and Will had been through so much together—years of memories that no girl could take away, no kiss could undo. You tried to tell yourself that it didn’t change anything, that this was just one fleeting moment, something trivial.

But as the night stretched on, you couldn’t shake it. Will spent the rest of the evening surrounded by his friends, laughing louder, joking with the girls who fawned over him, bouncing from one corner of the house to another like he belonged in every space. It was like he was at the center of it all, while you stood off to the side, nursing your drink, trying to pretend you didn’t feel like your whole world was quietly unraveling around you.

The music blared on, the conversation never slowed, but you were alone in the crowd.

You didn’t know how to feel. You didn’t know what to do with all the emotions that had suddenly bubbled to the surface.

But you knew one thing.

You weren’t ready to let him go. Not yet.

But nothing had truly changed.

Will still came over after his games, sweaty and exhausted, his jersey clinging to his chest as he collapsed onto the couch. He still stole the remote from you and made you watch whatever ridiculous action movie he was obsessed with at the time, even if you hated it.

You still went on those late-night skates, just the two of you. You’d meet in the dead of night, when everyone else was asleep, and lace up your skates in the cold darkness. The world felt empty and small, the only light coming from the streetlamps casting long shadows across the frozen rink in his backyard. As you skated circles around each other, the air sharp against your skin, the sound of your blades cutting into the ice was the only thing that filled the silence. And in those moments, when it was just the two of you, it was easy to forget that anything had changed at all.

But you couldn’t ignore the quiet shift. The growing distance that had started to bloom between the two of you. Maybe it was in the way he’d look at his phone more often now, scrolling through texts from his teammates, or how the quiet nights you used to spend together were now filled with more people. Maybe it was the way his laugh seemed to carry a little further when he was around his friends—friends who didn’t know you the way he did. The way he’d sometimes get that far-off look in his eyes, like he was thinking about someone—or something—that wasn’t you.

And then there was the truck.

It was one of those quiet, rare moments when Will and you found yourself alone. You’d been driving around the small town after a game, just the two of you in his dad’s truck (one that you had snuck out into), the soft hum of the engine the only sound as the night stretched out before you. The trees lining the roads were bare, their limbs stretching toward the sky like skeletal hands, and the air smelled crisp, clean, piney—a scent you would always associate with him, even when you were older.

You’d reached the lake by the edge of town, the usual place where you’d stop to talk about whatever came to your minds. Will parked the truck at your favorite spot, where the water stretched out in front of you, calm and dark under the blanket of the stars.

He killed the engine, and the silence between you two felt heavier than usual. You didn’t know why, but for some reason, tonight, everything felt more like a question than an answer.

“Do you think we’ll always be like this?” you asked, your voice quiet, almost swallowed by the night.

Will turned to look at you, his brow furrowing slightly, as though he hadn’t even considered it before. It wasn’t the usual playful grin he wore—it was something else. Something thoughtful. He paused for a moment, letting the question hang in the air like smoke, before finally nodding, his voice steady.

“Like what?”

“You know… us.”

It wasn’t a question you’d ever thought to ask before, not in those exact words. But now that it was out there, you couldn’t stop wondering. You couldn’t stop questioning whether this thing between you two—this unspoken, unsaid bond—would still exist in a few years. Would it always be us? Or would you end up like everyone else in town—watching from the sidelines, as Will moved on to something bigger, something different?

His gaze softened, and for the briefest moment, the world seemed to slow. He looked at you like he was weighing something, like he was searching for the right words, but then he just shook his head, as if the answer had been right there all along.

“Yeah,” he said with a half-smile, almost as if he were trying to convince himself more than you. “You and me, right?”

And for just a moment, just long enough for you to let your heart settle in your chest, you let yourself believe it. That it would always be you and Will, like it had always been. That no matter how much things changed around you, some things—some people—never would.

But deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder if the way you felt about him was changing too, and if maybe—just maybe—things would never be quite the same again.

At seventeen, everything had shifted again, and you could feel it in the way things no longer felt as simple or effortless as they once did. Will had a girlfriend now, and that fact alone made the air around you seem thicker, heavier. It was hard to ignore, impossible to pretend it didn’t matter, even though you told yourself a thousand times it shouldn’t bother you. But it did. It really, truly did.

Her name was Emma, and she was everything you weren’t. She was exactly the kind of girl who seemed to fit seamlessly into Will’s life, like the final puzzle piece clicking into place. She was the kind of girl who looked like she belonged in a hockey locker room as easily as she belonged at a school dance. Emma had that effortless charm, that natural grace that you could never quite pull off. She could wear one of Will’s hockey hoodies—too big for her frame—with such ease that it almost looked like it was made for her, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders in soft, tousled waves that framed her face like she belonged in some magazine spread. She wasn’t just in his world—she was the kind of girl who blended into it, who fit so well that it was like she had been handpicked for him. And, in a way, you started to wonder if that was true.

You had never been the girl in the hoodie. You’d never been the one waving at Will from the bleachers with your eyes glowing, cheering him on like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were the girl who stood in the background, the one who shared quiet moments with him in the shadows, away from the spotlight. And the more you saw Emma standing beside him, smiling at him with a kind of ease you could never replicate, the more you realized that she was everything you weren’t and, maybe, everything Will wanted.

At first, it didn’t seem like such a big deal. After all, you had always known Will liked girls—he had kissed a few at parties, flirted with others at school—but it wasn’t like it ever interfered with your bond. You were still you and Will, right? You were the ones who had spent hours on the rink together, the ones who had been inseparable for years. Nothing had ever been able to shake that, right?

But now, things were different. And as much as you tried to convince yourself it didn’t matter, that it was just a phase, that Emma was just another girl in the long string of faces Will had been with, you couldn’t help but feel the growing distance between you.

Will started pulling away, bit by bit. It wasn’t obvious at first—just small things that were easy to ignore. It was the way his texts became less frequent, how the responses you used to get immediately now took longer. At first, you told yourself he was just busy—he was juggling games and school, his life becoming more complicated. You didn’t want to be the person who complained about something so trivial. But then there was the subtle shift when he didn’t come over as often, didn’t just drop by after practice to grab a drink or hang out on the couch like he always had. Those small moments—the ones you thought were unbreakable—started to fade, as if someone had quietly drawn a line between you, a line that you didn’t even notice until it had already split the space between you.

It wasn’t just the way he started showing up less, though. It was in the way he acted when he was there. He seemed distracted, less present, like a part of him was always somewhere else. He didn’t drag you out for late-night skates anymore, those quiet moments where it was just the two of you, skating until your legs felt like they’d give out, laughing at nothing and everything. You missed those times so much that the thought of it almost made your chest hurt. The easy conversations you used to have seemed to disappear with the last snowstorm, leaving nothing but awkward silences in their wake. When he came over, it was like you were strangers sharing the same space, both too scared to acknowledge how much things had changed.

But it wasn’t just Will pulling away. You were changing, too.

There were moments when you felt like you didn’t know how to be you around him anymore. You could see how effortlessly he blended into Emma’s world, how at ease they were together, and it made you question everything. You used to be his everything—the girl who knew every little thing about him, the one who understood his every gesture, every laugh. But now? Now, you felt like an outsider in your own friendship, as though you were watching someone else take your place. You didn’t know how to fix it, how to bridge the growing gap between the two of you, and you didn’t even know if it was possible to. There was a part of you that wondered if you should just walk away, stop pretending like things were the same, stop holding onto something that had already slipped through your fingers.

But you couldn’t let go—not yet. You couldn’t bring yourself to say the words you were too afraid to even whisper. You were scared of what that would mean. Would it mean losing him for good? Would it mean he would never be the Will you used to know?

You didn’t have the answers. All you had was the growing weight in your chest every time you saw him laugh with Emma, every time you saw them together, and the aching feeling that no matter what you did, no matter how hard you tried, nothing would ever be the same again.

One cold evening after a game, you found yourself outside the rink, waiting for him like you had so many times before. The air was crisp, biting, the kind of cold that made your breath visible in the darkness. There was a sharpness to it, the smell of frozen earth and icy metal mixing with the faintest trace of sweat from the locker rooms still lingering in the air. The rink was quiet now, the roar of the crowd from the game fading into the background as you stood alone, arms crossed over your chest for warmth. The tip of your nose was red from the chill, your breath clouding in the air as you watched the other players pack up and head to their cars, the scrape of skate blades against concrete echoing in the distance.

Everything felt still and frozen in time, yet somehow, everything around you seemed to move in fast forward. You could hear the murmur of voices in the parking lot, the sound of keys clinking, the doors of cars slamming shut. But you were focused only on him—on Will.

There he was, standing by his truck, talking quietly with Emma. You didn’t have to look closely to see how comfortable they were together. She was standing close to him, laughing softly at something he’d said, her hand resting lightly on his arm as if it belonged there, as if she had always been there. Will was smiling at her in that way you hadn’t seen him smile at you in months, his eyes crinkling in a way that made you feel suddenly out of place. She was with him in a way you never could be—no awkwardness, no history, no years of friendship between you to complicate things. She fit in his world, while you felt more like a stranger trying to fit into something that no longer made sense.

Your stomach twisted painfully as you stood there watching them. It was like everything you had been denying for so long came rushing to the surface—the way Emma had slipped so easily into his life, the way he looked at her in a way he had stopped looking at you. You could feel a lump forming in your throat, a tightness in your chest, but you didn’t move. You just stood there, frozen, watching as they shared a quiet moment that seemed to last forever, the world moving faster around you, but you stood still in place.

Finally, Will turned his head and saw you standing there, still and quiet in the growing dark. He frowned, the familiar crease between his brows appearing like it always did when he sensed something was wrong. You hadn’t said anything yet. You hadn’t let the frustration, the confusion, the hurt that had been building inside you spill out. But you didn’t need to say anything. He already knew. He always did.

“You’re avoiding me,” you said, your voice sharper than you meant it to be, carrying in the quiet night air.

Will blinked, taken aback by your directness. He ran a hand through his damp hair, clearly caught off guard. “What? No, I’m not,” he said, his voice confused, like he couldn’t understand where this was coming from.

“You missed our skate this morning,” you pointed out, each word slipping from your mouth with more force than you intended. Your arms tightened around yourself in an effort to hold back the wave of frustration that threatened to crash over you. It wasn’t just about the skate. It was everything—the way things had changed so slowly that you barely noticed until it was already too late.

Will’s eyes flickered over to Emma, who was talking to someone else now, probably one of her friends from the team. Then his gaze shifted back to you. “I had plans,” he said, his tone distant, almost dismissive, like it was no big deal.

“Right,” you muttered, your voice bitter. The words tasted sour in your mouth as you forced them out. “Emma,” you added, making it clear, like it should explain everything.

You watched Will’s jaw tense at the mention of her name. His eyes narrowed slightly, and for the first time in the conversation, you saw a flash of irritation cross his face. It wasn’t like the easy, carefree Will you had known all your life. No, this was someone different, someone who was starting to push back. His voice came out low, defensive, “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” You couldn’t hold it back anymore. The words escaped before you could stop them, slipping out of your mouth in an angry, almost disbelieving laugh. “You’ve changed, Will.”

His eyes widened, as if he hadn’t heard you right. He looked at you like you were speaking a language he didn’t understand, his gaze flickering from your face to the truck, then back to you, like he was trying to piece together what you meant. For a moment, his expression softened, the defensiveness replaced by something else—guilt, maybe, or confusion. But it didn’t last long. He let out a sharp breath, his hand running through his hair again, the familiar tension returning to his body.

“I didn’t change,” he muttered, his voice thick with frustration. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

There it was—the wall. You felt it hit you, the invisible barrier that had been slowly growing between you both for months. You wanted him to understand, wanted him to see what was happening, but it was clear that he didn’t get it. Or worse, maybe he didn’t want to. The idea that he didn’t even notice the distance between you, the way he had stopped being there for you the way he used to, made the knot in your chest tighten.

“You don’t get it, do you?” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. You couldn’t look at him, couldn’t hold his gaze as the words spilled out of you. “I’ve been here the whole time, Will. And you’re slipping away from me. You’re slipping away, and I can’t stop it.”

There was a long pause, the words hanging heavy in the air between you. Will didn’t say anything at first. His eyes dropped to the ground, like he was processing what you’d said. You wanted him to say something—anything. You wanted him to reach out, to tell you it wasn’t true, to fix everything with a few words, but instead, there was just silence. The cold air wrapped around you like a physical weight, and you could feel the finality of it—the way the space between you had stretched too far to ever go back.

He exhaled sharply, glancing away, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon like he was done with the conversation. Done with you.

You wanted to scream at him, to tell him everything that had been building inside of you for months—the way it hurt to see him with someone else, the way it felt like he was slipping through your fingers, the way your heart ached with every moment he wasn’t there for you. But you didn’t. You stood there in the cold, a lump in your throat, fighting back tears, fighting to keep your composure.

After what felt like an eternity, Will finally shrugged, his posture stiff as he gave you a tight, almost apologetic smile. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t enough.

“I’m not changing. You’re overthinking this,” he said, like the whole thing could be solved with a few words. But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

It wasn’t just overthinking. It was the reality of everything that had been slipping through your fingers, and the sharp ache in your chest that made it impossible to ignore.

You swallowed, trying to force down the lump in your throat. He didn’t understand. Maybe he couldn’t. Or maybe he didn’t want to.

You nodded, your lips pressed tightly together, keeping everything you felt locked inside. There was nothing left to say.

And with that, you turned and walked away, the sound of your boots crunching in the snow the only thing you could hear, the emptiness in your chest growing with every step.

The months that followed were a blur of fleeting faces and empty promises. Emma, Sophie, Maddie—each name slipping into Will’s life like they had always belonged there, only to leave again, as if they had never truly mattered. It was a constant cycle of faces and names that you barely had time to learn before they were replaced by someone new. And yet, somehow, Will threw himself into each relationship like it was the answer to all the questions you had left unspoken between the two of you. He smiled, he laughed, and in those moments, he looked like he was truly happy. But you could see through it. You could always see through it. The cracks were there, if you looked closely enough. The way his smiles didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore, the way his laugh sometimes sounded hollow, like he was trying to convince himself of something that wasn’t true. You could see that he was still searching for something, but it wasn’t in the girls who came and went.

He never let anyone in the way he had let you in. There was something between you—something deep, something real—that no one could replicate. It had been easy, once, to believe that no one could ever take your place. That your bond was unbreakable. But now, with each new girl, with each fleeting relationship, it was becoming clearer: You were being replaced, whether you liked it or not. And still, no matter how many times he started over with someone new, he never looked at you—not the way you wanted him to.

It was like living in a perpetual loop of half-answers and unasked questions. The same faces, the same routines, the same emptiness. It wore you down. At first, it had been a sharp sting, a pain that you couldn’t ignore. Every time you saw him holding someone else’s hand, every time he laughed with someone new, it felt like a part of you was being carved away. But eventually, that pain dulled, bit by bit. It became less sharp and more like a dull throb that you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. You tried to tell yourself that it didn’t matter. That you were fine, that you were okay with him moving on, with him finding someone else, because that was what you were supposed to do. You were supposed to be happy for him. After all, he was your best friend, and you were supposed to want him to be happy.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? You weren’t just his best friend anymore. And as much as you tried to convince yourself otherwise, the truth was undeniable: you wanted more. You wanted him to look at you like he used to, to see you like he had when everything had been simple and uncomplicated. But he didn’t. Not anymore. And the worst part was that, deep down, you could see the way your place in his life was slipping further and further away. You were fading into the background, becoming something that he once cared about but no longer had time for. A footnote in a story that was no longer yours to tell. And you didn’t know how to rewrite it. You didn’t know how to fight for something that was already slipping through your fingers.

The late-night skates—the ones that used to feel like a tradition, like something just for the two of you—were now few and far between. The easy banter that used to flow so effortlessly between you both had been replaced by uncomfortable silences, the kind that lingered long after the conversation had ended. The secrets shared in the dark, whispered between the two of you in the quiet hours of the night, had turned into distant memories, fading with each passing season, each new girl who came and went. Those moments, once so vibrant and real, now felt like fragments of a dream—a dream that you couldn’t quite hold onto, no matter how hard you tried.

And still, somehow, there was something in the air between you and him that kept you tethered to him, even though you knew it was all slipping away. It was as if an invisible thread still connected you, pulling you back in every time you tried to move on. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was the faint, stubborn belief that everything could return to the way it had been. Or maybe it was the fact that you couldn’t bring yourself to let go of something that had always been yours, something that had been a constant in your life for so long. You tried. God, how you tried to let go. You tried to move on, to stop caring, to tell yourself that you could be happy without him in your life the way he had been. You forced yourself to let go of the idea that he would ever look at you the way you wanted him to. You buried the feelings deep, locked them away, and told yourself that you could live without them.

But it was like you were living in a dream—a dream where you weren’t supposed to have a happy ending. You were stuck in a story that didn’t make sense anymore, one where you could see the ending coming but didn’t know how to stop it, where you couldn’t bring yourself to wake up. And so you kept going through the motions, pretending that everything was fine, pretending that you were okay with the way things were, even though your heart was breaking with every girl he brought into his life. Even though you were silently watching yourself become a shadow in the background of his world.

The truth was, you didn’t know how to stop caring. You didn’t know how to stop waiting for him to see you, to realize that you had always been right there. That you could have been everything he was searching for. But he never did. And that was what hurt the most. It wasn’t that he had moved on, it wasn’t that he had found someone else—it was that you weren’t even in the running anymore. You were a part of his past, something that had been left behind, and you didn’t know how to be anything else.

And yet, the thread that tied you to him still pulled you in. Every time you saw him with someone else, every time you caught a glimpse of the way he smiled with another girl, it was like a dagger to your chest. But you couldn’t let go. Not yet. Even though you knew, deep down, that the longer you held on, the more it would hurt. The more you would fade into the background, lost in the shadow of a love he would never return.

The cycle continued, and you couldn’t find a way out.

Then, one night, after yet another one of his breakups, the weight of it all settled on you like a storm cloud you couldn’t outrun. You had grown so accustomed to this routine—the girls, the breakups, the emptiness—but tonight, it felt different. Tonight, you could feel the ache in your chest, the heaviness of it, the reality of everything you had been avoiding for so long. Will wasn’t just distant anymore. He was somewhere else entirely.

It was well past midnight when you found yourself sitting beside him again, just the two of you in his truck. The night was colder than usual, the chill seeping in through the cracked windows, sending a shiver down your spine. The world outside was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the distant flicker of a diner sign, casting an eerie glow over the empty streets. The hum of the truck’s engine was the only sound, a steady, rhythmic thrum that seemed to match the pulse of your own heart. Time slowed down in those moments, but everything around you remained still, frozen in a space that felt both too familiar and impossibly foreign.

You had sat in silence for what felt like hours, the weight of everything unspoken pressing down on you. There was so much you wanted to say, so much you had been holding back, but for once, you didn’t know how to begin. The easy silence that had once defined your time together was gone. Tonight, there was nothing easy about it. There was only the quiet hum of the truck and the thick, suffocating space between you.

It was you who broke the silence, your voice soft and hesitant in the cold, empty air. “You ever think maybe you’re looking in the wrong places?”

The words left your mouth before you had time to fully understand what you were saying. You hadn’t even planned on asking him that—maybe it was just the frustration of watching him chase something he could never find in anyone else. Or maybe it was just your heart, speaking the words you’d been keeping buried for so long. But even as the words left your lips, you knew they were about more than just his failed relationships. You were asking him about you, about the space that had grown between you, about all the things neither of you had dared to say.

Will didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on the windshield, his fingers drumming absently on the steering wheel. He was somewhere far away, his mind tangled in something you couldn’t reach. You could feel the distance between you growing, an invisible barrier that neither of you seemed capable of crossing. But then, after what felt like an eternity, he murmured, “Maybe.”

The word hung in the air, brief and unconvincing. It wasn’t the answer you had hoped for, but you weren’t sure why you had expected anything different. Will had always been distant in his own way, closed off even when he didn’t mean to be. He had always kept a part of himself hidden, like a secret he was too afraid to share. But tonight, something felt different. Tonight, there was a tension in the air, something heavy that had been building for years and was now finally coming to a head.

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat. You had been avoiding the question for so long, but tonight, you couldn’t stop yourself anymore. “What are you looking for?” you asked, your voice small, almost trembling.

The silence stretched again, longer this time, as if Will was still searching for an answer he didn’t know how to give. He let out a sigh, glancing briefly at you before turning his attention back to the dark road ahead. “I don’t know,” he said quietly, the words almost swallowed by the hum of the engine. “Something that feels like… home.”

Home.

The word hit you like a punch to the gut. It was simple, yet so layered with meaning. Home was everything you had once been together—the late-night skates, the shared secrets, the quiet companionship. It was a place of safety, of belonging. And now, hearing him say it, you knew he wasn’t talking about you. You weren’t his home anymore, not in the way you had been. He was searching for something he thought he could find elsewhere.

And yet, even as the weight of that realization settled in, a small part of you couldn’t let go. “Maybe you already found it,” you whispered, the words coming out softer than you intended, as if saying them out loud would make them too real. You didn’t even realize how much of yourself was wrapped up in those words—how much of you had always been his home. How much you had always wanted to be.

Will’s hand tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles going white. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. His gaze flickered to you, his expression unreadable, but then his eyes drifted back to the road. His lips pressed together in a tight line, as if he were holding back something he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“Maybe I have,” he said finally, his voice low, almost reluctant. And in those three words, everything that had been left unsaid between the two of you hung heavy in the air. He knew. You knew. But neither of you were brave enough to say it.

It was there, in the silence that followed. The thing you had both been avoiding for so long—the thing that had stood between you, unspoken, for years. He had already found it. And it was you. But the moment slipped away, unacknowledged. The thread that had once tied you together remained, but the words were never spoken. The space between you remained, just as it had always been. And you weren’t brave enough to make him say it.

The silence in the truck grew thick, suffocating, as the unspoken things hovered around you like a heavy fog. You had both let too much go unsaid, let too many years slip by in the noise and distractions of everything else. You were both stuck, paralyzed by the fear of what saying it might mean, of what the truth would do to the fragile connection you still shared.

For a moment, it felt like you couldn’t breathe, like the words were caught in your chest, too big and too painful to release. You had spent so many years hoping, wishing for him to see you, to choose you, and now, in this moment, you realized something: you weren’t the one he was looking for anymore.

The cold crept in, curling around you both as the night stretched on, and you couldn’t bring yourself to say another word. Neither of you did.

And in that silence, you finally understood. He wasn’t ready to face it. He wasn’t ready to see what was right in front of him, what you had always been. And you weren’t brave enough to make him.

So, you sat there, together but apart, both too afraid to take that final step toward something that might break everything you thought you knew. And all that was left in the stillness was the hum of the engine and the weight of everything left unsaid.

The cold air cut through you as you glided across the ice, the chill a sharp contrast to the warmth you had carried with you all day. You leaned into the rhythm of it—the scrape of your skates against the smooth, solid surface, the almost hypnotic glide of the blades. The pond in the back yard had always been your place, the one you’d come to when you needed to escape, when the world felt too loud or too heavy. Here, it had always been just you, the ice, and the cool stillness of the night. It was the only time you could breathe, the only time the chaos of life faded into the background, replaced by the quiet hum of your own thoughts and the freedom that skating had always given you.

The ice was perfect tonight. Smooth and crisp, a perfect reflection of the moon overhead. You hadn’t been back here in weeks, months even. Life had moved on, pulling you in different directions—other responsibilities, other distractions. But tonight, as the chill of the air sank deep into your bones, it was as if something had drawn you back. It was the pull of memories—memories that always seemed to be tied to this place, to the pond, to him.

Your breath came in puffs, mingling with the air, rising in the cold night, before disappearing into the vast expanse above you. The world around you was quiet, as if even the trees along the edge of the pond had stopped moving. The sky stretched out above you, dark and expansive, with just a thin sliver of a moon casting pale silver light over everything. It was beautiful in its stillness. The ice was dark underfoot, marked only by the faintest streaks of light, guiding you along its endless surface. For a brief moment, you felt like time had slowed, like everything was suspended in the silence of the night. And in this frozen moment, you allowed yourself to just be—just to skate, to feel the wind rushing against your face, to forget everything else that had been pressing down on you for so long.

But then, as you came around the curve of the pond, you saw him.

It was like everything in the world came to a halt. The rhythm of your skates faltered as you slowed, instinctively, despite yourself. Will stood at the edge of the ice, the moonlight casting long shadows across the ground, making him seem distant, almost unreachable. He was framed by the dark, skeletal branches of the trees lining the pond, his figure stark against the icy glow. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders hunched slightly against the cold, but he wasn’t moving. He wasn’t skating like he used to, wasn’t calling your name, wasn’t laughing as he tried to race you down the ice the way he had so many times before.

No, this time, he was still. Watching you.

The sight of him, standing there like that, caught you off guard. It wasn’t just that he was here, in this familiar place—it was the way he was there. He wasn’t part of the moment, not part of the fluid motion of the pond, the rhythm of your skating. He was apart from it, separate, as if a gap had grown between you that neither of you had been able to cross for a long time. His gaze was fixed on you, his eyes watching with an intensity that felt different—more knowing, more weighted than before. Something in the way he stood there sent an unexpected chill through you, one that had nothing to do with the freezing air or the icy ground beneath your feet.

There had always been a distance between you two lately. It was more than just physical space—it was the silence that had stretched on for so long, the way things had changed over the months, the years. It was the unsaid things between you, the things neither of you had been brave enough to confront. And now, in the stillness of the night, with the moonlight spilling across the pond and the ice stretching out in front of you like a wide-open horizon, it felt like that distance had grown even more. Like it had solidified into something real and permanent, something you could feel deep in your chest every time you looked at him, and yet couldn’t touch.

But still, he stood there, waiting for something. You didn’t know what. Maybe he was waiting for you to speak, maybe for you to skate toward him, maybe for you to keep pretending everything was fine. You wanted to ask him why he wasn’t moving, why he wasn’t on the ice with you, like he had been all those times before. But instead, you just skated, slowly, cautiously, like you were afraid that something would break if you made too much noise, too much motion.

You couldn’t help but feel the weight of the situation—the pull between you, the old ache in your chest that never quite seemed to go away, no matter how much you tried to ignore it. You tried to focus on the cold air again, on the rhythm of your skates, but your mind kept drifting back to him, to the figure standing there, watching, waiting.

You slowed as you approached him, your heart giving an unexpected jolt. You hadn’t expected to see him here tonight. But then again, maybe you should’ve known. This had always been your place—the place where you and Will had spent countless hours skating together, laughing, talking, and being… just being.

When you stopped in front of him, he didn’t immediately speak. He just looked at you, his eyes tracing the curves of your face, like he was trying to find something he’d lost.

The air between you both was thick with unspoken words, the kind that had been left lingering for too long. Will’s gaze was unwavering, intense in a way that made you feel exposed, as if he could see right through the walls you’d built around yourself. He didn’t say anything right away, but the way he was standing there, frozen like a part of the night itself, told you everything you needed to know. This wasn’t just about the pond, or the ice, or even the simple act of being together. It was about everything that had come before it—the shared years, the moments you had both tucked away, the distance that had quietly crept in without either of you acknowledging it.

You swallowed, trying to steady your breath, trying to force the words out, but they felt stuck in your throat, as if they were caught in a knot that had been tightening for months. The question that had sat heavy on your chest, the one you had wanted to ask him for so long, finally slipped out, and you immediately regretted it. “What are you doing here?”

You could hear the way the cold air wrapped itself around the words, how it made them sound small, insignificant. But there was more to it than just that. You weren’t just asking where he was, why he was here on the edge of the ice after everything that had passed between you two. You were asking why, after all this time, he was still here at all. You were asking why you were still here, standing in front of him, when everything had gotten so tangled and messy.

Will shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but he didn’t move closer. He wasn’t standing with the same easy comfort that had once come so naturally between the two of you. This wasn’t the same Will—the one who would have spun you into a laugh, dragged you around the pond as though the world was an endless game. No, now he was distant, locked behind something you couldn’t reach.

He finally spoke, and his voice, rough with the kind of weariness that comes from too many thoughts left unsaid, sent a shiver down your spine. “I could ask you the same thing,” he said, his words a little softer, like they were trying to break through the cold of the night and reach you. “We used to come out here all the time. I guess I just wondered… why we stopped.”

His words hit you harder than you expected, and your chest tightened, a dull ache settling in where your heart used to be. It was like hearing the echo of your own guilt, that hollow feeling that had been quietly growing inside you ever since you’d stopped coming here, stopped showing up. The pond had once been yours together, the place where you both went to forget everything else. But somehow, it had become a place of silence. A place of absence.

You looked away, taking in the moonlit stretch of the pond, the same stretch that had once felt like home, like a part of you that belonged only to him and to the two of you. Now, it felt impossibly far away, like something you didn’t know how to reach anymore. “I don’t know. Life, I guess,” you said, and the words tasted empty in your mouth. They felt like an excuse, like a half-hearted answer to something that wasn’t simple enough to explain away.

Will nodded, but the gesture felt heavy, like it meant more than just acknowledgment. His eyes dropped to the ice beneath his boots, and for a long beat, the silence between you thickened again. It was as if neither of you knew what to say next, but you both knew that something had to be said. That something had to break through this endless back-and-forth of silence, of pretending everything was fine, when it had never been. Not really.

“Yeah, life,” Will echoed softly, his voice carrying a note of bitterness that wasn’t there before. “Funny how it pulls you away from the things you thought mattered.”

The weight of his words pressed against you, heavier than the cold that surrounded you both. They hung there in the air between you, suffocating and yet too fragile to touch. It wasn’t just about the pond anymore. It wasn’t even just about skating, or your shared history. It was about everything that had happened after—everything that had shifted, the years that had slipped away, and the space that had grown between the two of you that neither of you had bothered to fill. You wanted to say something to ease the hurt in his voice, to give some kind of response that would make it better, but the words felt inadequate, and the silence stretched on like a chasm you couldn’t cross.

You could feel the old ache rising in your chest, threatening to choke you. That familiar knot of longing, of pain, of knowing that something had been lost but never being able to put it into words. The last few months had felt like you were drifting, trying to stay afloat in a world that felt more and more like a memory. You knew that what Will was saying was more than just about the pond, more than just about why you stopped coming out here. It was about everything that had been unsaid, about the love that had never really gone away, but that neither of you had been brave enough to face.

His gaze flickered toward you then, just for a second, before he looked away again. You couldn’t tell if it was hesitation or if it was simply that he didn’t have the words, but the look on his face made it clear that he, too, was trying to figure out how to say what had been left unspoken for far too long. There was a furrow between his brows, his lips pressed together like he was fighting against something, like he was trying to decide whether to speak or stay silent.

The silence stretched out, thick and charged, as Will stepped forward, closing the gap between you with slow, deliberate movements. His boots creaked on the frozen ground, the sound sharp in the stillness of the night, each step echoing like a beat of your heart, steady but with an undercurrent of tension. The world around you seemed to shrink, leaving only the two of you, the cold air between you both swirling in invisible waves, and the pond beneath your feet, the same one that had held your memories, your secrets. The weight of everything you’d been avoiding pressed in on you from all sides, but for some reason, standing there in the quiet of that frozen world, it felt more real than it ever had before.

“I’ve been an idiot,” Will said, the words coming out in a rush, like he had to force them past the tightness in his chest. His voice sounded rough, strained, as if every syllable was a weight he had carried for far too long. “I’ve been running from this—running from you—for so long, and I’ve always told myself that I was looking for something else, something… better, I guess. But the truth is, I’ve always known. I’ve always known what I was looking for.”

The air seemed to stutter around you, a breath held in time, and everything inside you froze. The words he spoke felt like a door creaking open, revealing the things you’d buried, the things that had always been there, hidden in plain sight. His gaze, dark and heavy with something you couldn’t quite name, was locked on you now, pulling at you, tugging at everything you’d spent months trying to avoid. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but no sound came. The words were lodged in your throat, a lump too big to swallow, too fragile to touch.

Will didn’t move away. He didn’t retreat like he used to, back when things were simpler, back when running felt like the only option. Instead, he took another step forward, his eyes still on yours, his expression so raw, so unguarded that it felt like you were seeing him for the first time in a long time. You felt your pulse race, your heart beating harder now, like it was trying to escape the cage of your chest. There was no way to stop it—not now, not after everything that had been said.

“I’ve been stupid,” Will repeated, the words heavy, full of regret and the weight of years lost. His voice cracked on the last syllable, as if he couldn’t carry the burden anymore. His words wrapped around you like a warm, bitter ache, and something inside you unraveled, something you hadn’t realized was so tightly wound. “I’ve been looking for something that felt right, something that could fill the hole, but the whole time, I’ve been blind. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

The air seemed to thin, as if the world had paused, holding its breath in the face of his confession. You stared at him, speechless, the words hanging between you like fragile glass, too delicate to touch, too powerful to ignore. Everything you had buried deep inside you—every memory, every whispered promise—rose up in that moment, flooding your mind, too much to hold. The hurt. The longing. The hope you had hidden away because it had seemed too painful, too impossible. And now, here it was, all of it spilling into the space between you, raw and undeniable.

Will stepped closer, his movements slow, cautious, like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast. His hand stretched out, tentative, reaching for yours. For a heartbeat, you wondered if you should pull away. If you should hold back, protect yourself from the collision of everything that had been left unsaid. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The moment was too big, too important, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t want to run from it. You didn’t want to hide.

His fingers brushed against yours, just a gentle touch, hesitant and searching. But when you didn’t pull away, when you didn’t retreat, his hand slid into yours, warm and firm, and the world seemed to shift again, like something heavy had been lifted.

“You and me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if the words themselves were fragile, like they might shatter if spoken too loudly. The weight of the sentence hung in the cold air, shimmering like ice beneath your feet. “Right?”

The question hit you like a wave, flooding over you, sweeping away the last of the doubts, the last of the confusion. It wasn’t just a question—it was a promise, a revelation, a return to something that had never truly disappeared. His words were everything you had been waiting for, everything you had hoped for, buried under years of missed chances, misunderstandings, and broken silences.

Your heart skipped, then raced, and finally, after all this time, the knot that had been twisted tight in your chest loosened, unraveling like a story that was finally being told the right way. The ice beneath your feet seemed to hum with life, the air around you still and electric, charged with the weight of what had just passed between you.

For a long, eternal second, you just stood there, your hand in his, your heart in your throat, waiting for the world to catch up to the truth. And when you finally spoke, your voice was soft, trembling, but certain, like you were giving life to something that had always been there, something that had never really died.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper. “Right.”

Will’s eyes softened in a way you hadn’t seen in so long—like he was seeing you for the first time again, like everything that had been lost was suddenly found. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something deep and knowing, as if this moment had always been inevitable, as if it had been waiting for you both, just out of reach.

His thumb moved slowly over the back of your hand, tracing a pattern, steady and sure, as though he was grounding himself in the reality of the moment. It was like he was reassuring himself that this wasn’t a dream, that you weren’t a figment of his imagination—this was real. This was happening. He was here. You were here. And this time, you weren’t going anywhere.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You just stood there, hand in hand, as the silence stretched between you, full of unspoken understanding, full of the quiet recognition that this was the beginning of something you both should have embraced long ago. The night around you seemed to hum with a kind of electricity, as though the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for you both to take the next step.

And then, just as the tension became almost unbearable, Will stepped closer. His chest brushed against yours, the warmth of his body mingling with the crisp cold air, and it felt like everything inside you shuddered in response. He hesitated for only a heartbeat, his face hovering just inches from yours, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt, any sign that you might pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The space between you disappeared as if it had never existed. And then, as though the universe itself had given its blessing, Will leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, tentative kiss that sent a jolt of electricity through your veins. It was a kiss that felt like the culmination of everything that had been building for years—every look, every touch, every moment of longing, of doubt, of waiting for something to change. It was all here, now, in this kiss, gentle and full of promise.

You felt your breath catch as his hand moved to cup your face, his fingers cool against your skin, and you couldn’t help but melt into him, your own hands reaching for the warmth of his jacket, pulling him closer. His lips moved against yours, slow and deliberate, as if he was trying to savor the moment, to make sure this was real, that this wasn’t just a dream.

Everything felt alive in that moment—the night around you, the ice beneath your feet, the beating of your heart. You could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady, through the warmth of his body, and it made you realize how long you’d been holding onto something that you were finally letting go of. The past, the doubts, the fear—they all disappeared in the heat of the kiss, leaving only the present, only the undeniable truth that had been waiting for both of you.

As he deepened the kiss, you felt a rush of emotions flood through you—relief, happiness, longing, everything you had kept locked away for so long now flowing freely between you. Will’s lips were soft, urgent now, as if he, too, was realizing how much time had been lost, how much he had been denying, how much he had been running from. His hands moved to your back, pulling you even closer, and you felt the warmth of his embrace spread through you, chasing away every trace of the cold night air.

For a moment, nothing else mattered. The world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, standing there on the ice, kissing like you were the only two people in the universe. The kiss was a promise, a vow—of what had been, of what was, and of what would come next. You knew, in that moment, that this was just the beginning. You had both been lost, but now you had found each other again, in the most beautiful and unexpected way.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, your forehead resting against his, you couldn’t help but smile, your lips still tingling from the intensity of the kiss. Will’s eyes were bright, filled with something you couldn’t quite place—joy, relief, wonder—but there was one thing you knew for sure. He wasn’t going anywhere. Neither of you were.

“I’ve been waiting for that,” you whispered, your voice still soft, but full of everything you had been holding back.

Will smiled, his thumb gently stroking your cheek as he looked down at you, his gaze tender. “I know. Me too.”

And then, with a final lingering kiss, you both stood in the moonlight, on the ice, with the silence of the world surrounding you both, it felt like everything had finally clicked into place. The pieces of the puzzle, scattered and jagged for so long, had come together, and you could see it now—what you had both been searching for, what you had both been too afraid to face.

It had always been you. And it had always been him.

[colossrat]

keranos? like the magic card?

Batman: I ask that when leaving, anyone who agrees with the approach proposed by me and Superman signs the pamphlet next to the door.

And then the heroes come out, whoever thinks it's a good idea to be discussed again at the next meeting signs with their hero name. but Captain Marvel was the first to sign, so he didn't see how the others signed and didn't know if he should use "Captain Marvel".

He has an argument with Solomon inside his own head that lasted a little less than a second, and in the end they come to a consensus that he can sign as one of the many names of the champion of magic. but they were so… simple… billy decided to add some details, a signature worthy of an entity that's zibilions of years old and a store of immense magic.

The other day, while Billy is "saving" some kitchen leftovers in his pocket dimension, Batman arrives and approaches him while holding a paper.

Batman: Captain… What did you put in the signatures?

Marvel: oh? hmm, my name?

Batman: your name... Can you tell me how to pronounce it?

Marvel: oh. Yes? Ahm, its Keranos. sorry, its hard to read?

Batman: no, it's okay. It was what I thought it could be. It's just that I never found these types of letters before, despite the similarity with the current alphabet…

Marvel noticed that he exaggerated a little with the decoration in the signature: yeah… it's a-- rune language that died a long, long, time ago, but I tried to mix it up a little with the letters from the current world so it wouldn't look so strange. The sound of the pronunciation is "keranos", so in our alphabet it could be written with k-e-r-a-n-o-s… Next time I'm going to use the normal alphabet, sorry… I… I didn't think that much when I wrote it.

Batman: of course. Don't worry captain. I can't imagine what it must be like to live in a world where your name can no longer be written the way it should be.

Marvel: its... ok, i like Marvel a lot too.

Batman: So… would you like us to start calling you Keranos?

Marvel: well, if you want, of course, I have no problem. It's one of my oldest names. but you don't have to if it's confusing, you know, me having several names.

Batman: don't worry. It's a pleasure to meet you, Keranos.

Marvel: The pleasure is mine, mister batman sir!!

There are several league members hiding in the hallway near the kitchen, whispering.

Flash: that's so cool! Marvel is so tight with his personal information, but he's letting go, he even gave us one of his names! That means he's finally opening up, right?

Wonder Woman: Indeed. Keranos… This name is familiar to me from the stories my sisters and I told each other. a god of the wrath of storms…

Hal: Just like the magic card???

Superman: I remembered that too. It's literally the definition of the creature, isn't it?

Hal: technically it's only a creature if your devotion is less than seven, anyway. even the way it is written.

Flash: my god, you are two nerds.

If one day they ask Marvel about the magic card, he will be genuinely confused because he didn't know it. billy never had the money to buy these games.

"oh, is there a game card with my name? a god of storms? wow, I'm embarrassed, I didn't know that name had been kept alive by these stories haha"

I was playing with Billy and Marvel's signature, thinking about how they would write differently in each form, and I ended up thinking about this

I don't know if the captain's fandom took keranos from the magic card, but that's what I found when I looked up the name and I thought it was brilliant

[theevidenceileave]

Buck moving into Eddie's house to "take care of it" until Eddie comes back, still holding out hope regardless.

He has to bring his stuff over from the loft. Obviously, but he keeps it separate because he doesn't feel like he should disrupt their (Chris and Eddie's) space.

But Eddie stays in Texas and he gives Buck free reign on his house and it hurts his heart but Buck starts finding it easier and easier to change things around because Eddie's house has always felt like home, of course he's gonna take care of it

Even though Eddie's not there.

And then Buck runs into Tommy, who's well meaning but still hurtful when he says this sounds too similar to the Abby situation - Buck acting like a ghost in a house that isn't his, waiting for someone to come back who might not. And Tommy would know, wouldn't he? He just wants better for Buck because he's not evil, but Buck bristles at the idea because Eddie is nothing like Abby, ok? He's everything, and he loves Buck (he said so!), and he's not leaving forever he's just figuring some things ou-

Oh.

That gets Buck where it hurts, and he realizes not for the first time how much he loves Eddie, needs him, and he can't just sit with this on his mind. So he bakes. And he cleans. And he starts moving himself around. He's not a ghost - he's alive and full of love he doesn't know where to put, so he directs it to the house.

If Stress Baker Buck was bad, Interior Designer Buck is a whole other level. His old stuff is moved in and put away, and the cabinets are reorganized. Pictures all over the walls of him and Chris and Eddie and the rest of their family. New paint on the walls, new rug on the floor. Same couch.

Most of Eddie and Chris's things stay. He takes what Eddie's left behind and cleans it, putting them back in their rightful place. With how much he took with him to El Paso, there's enough space in the drawers and closet for Buck's clothes to sit next to Eddie's, and Buck thinks he shouldn't love the way their socks look folded up next to each other as much as he does.

And Chris's room has been mostly untouched since he left, Eddie needing to sit there some days to find comfort in the mess Chris left behind. Eddie had taken some things with him when he left, hoping it'll bring Chris familiarity, and the rest Buck takes himself to sit with him in Eddie's (no, his) closet. A babybox of sorts, because he may not have known Chris when he was a baby but he's Buck's baby regardless, and this small collection of pictures and toys and too-small t shirts is all he has of him right now.

He doesn't tell Eddie. He can't tell Eddie, not because he's afraid he overstepped, but because he'd have explain to him why he chose a paint color exciting enough for Chris and muted enough for Eddie, deciding on a rich color they'd all love. He'd have to explain why Chris's drawing of "family" from when he was 9 is centered on the wall, surrounded by real photos of him and Eddie and Shannon and Buck with wide smiles and heart frames. He'd have to explain why he gets a dog, names it Krypto after his Superman and chooses a breed he knows is good with kids. Why he trains the dog to become a service animal for someone with physical disabilities.

He can't explain without being horribly, terribly obvious, so he doesn't.

But he'll have to, eventually, and sooner than he thinks because Eddie and Chris are coming home to surprise him.

in my little fantasy world where buck moves into eddie’s house while he’s gone, buck keeps referring to everything as eddie’s (i’m at your house, i’m on your couch, i’m in your kitchen, etc), and eddie still hasn’t figured out his feelings but he finds this strangely frustrating. one day eddie finally corrects him (buck, it’s your kitchen), and he means something like “it’s our kitchen,” but he hasn’t found the words for that. and of course, to buck, it sounds like a confirmation that eddie’s never coming back.

[rcvcgers]

Rotten Apples, pt. 2

part one

pairing: caleb x non!mc reader

synopsis: you run into a familiar face at work.

word count: 4.9k words

warnings: extreme loathing, kinda funny, kinda sad, a good mix of everything! a hint of foreplay! not proofread!

author's note: thank you for all the love on part one! here's part two! should there be a part three? also, enjoy a pic of caleb i grabbed from the game today!

taglist <3 : @kebarney @pinkismyfavcolor @romils @erisnxxi @rik0shii @reni502 @spacehopper27 @llamabois @likesvader @pandoras-rabbit @princessfruit @lukassafespace @jexizia

Caleb couldn’t say how long he’s been standing outside your door for. Had it been an hour? Three? Maybe it’s only been thirty minutes…time truly flies by when he’s with his love.

It doesn’t matter, though. Caleb would stand guard outside your door if it meant that you were safe.

Safe and alone inside your apartment…no other specimen in there to protect you.

Caleb wouldn’t let them come in if they came. He’d use his evol to shove them towards the side stairwell. He’d shove them down and watch as their bodies crumbled together, bones breaking, finding their screams of pain and agony satisfying.

It would all be worth it because you’re safe. All because of his much needed protection.

You’re his.

His to protect. His to look after. His to care for. His to love.

He glances to the side and notices that Skyhaven’s clouds have slightly parted. A smile spreads across his face, the man sneaking towards the hallway window, looking out at the morning sky. The weather is still undoubtedly gloomy, but the slight sight of sun is sign enough for him that you two are meant to be.

Caleb prances down the hallway, stopping by your door one last time. He slowly inhales, his eyes feeling heavy, and flattens his palm against it.

He’ll be seeing you soon.

The Colonel exits your apartment building, his phone attached to the side of his face. His voice is cheery and if you were to hear it, you’d think that his face would be all smiles and joy. It isn’t, though, and is instead a stoic expression.

“Hey, buddy. Remember that favor you owe me? Well, it’s time to cash in. I need you to get me information on someone. Yeah, yeah, I’ll send her name over to you now. Great! Thanks!” He hangs up and settles into a spot across the street.

People pass in front of him, his back pressed against the outside wall of a convenience store. Caleb barely pays attention to other woman who pause to get another look at him. He doesn’t have time to entertain their fantasies. He’d prefer to cater to your wants and needs. You deserve it after all your years of being apart.

Caleb tilts his head up and finds your window. His sick smile returns to his face, waiting for you to appear.

Except, he doesn’t know that you don’t peer out the window in the morning. Instead, you stay in bed for as long as you can, face and body covered by your sheets and obnoxious amount of blankets. 

Your arm sticks out, slicing through the chilly morning air.

Shit. You think to yourself. Did the heater not kick in?

Your toes feel inexplicably cold despite being buried under a behemoth of blankets. Slowly sitting up in bed, your tired eyes look around your dark room before they float to the butterfly that hangs from your window. You love how the orange and blue hues grace the floor, softly turning the cold environment into something warm and welcoming.

It reminds you of home and most importantly, it reminds you of him.

You can’t help but laugh, slapping your forehead as you slip out of bed. Last night was a trip and a half!

Your date with George was so bad that you actually hallucinated Caleb being alive. Ha! It’s laughable, really, and you can’t even fathom who was there to witness your crazed haze. You definitely sounded like a crazy person, probably looking like the other blacked out people on the street who struggled to get home.

“Poor guy,” you say aloud, filling in your apartment’s silence, “I hope we never run into each other again.”

Oh, the irony.

You slowly get ready for your day. You take a quick shower, already running late, and stumble into your closet with your toothbrush hanging from your lips. You snatch a clean uniform jacket from the hangers, sliding it over your white blouse. You tuck your shirt into your black pencil skirt and make for sure there are no wrinkles in the fabric.

You hesitate, staring at yourself in the mirror. 

Who are you trying to impress, anyways? It’s not like you’re going to find your Prince Charming at work.

Finally ready for your day, feeling rejuvenated and having shaken off your hysterics from the previous night, you step out of your apartment. You chew on a last minute attempt at making toast. The bread is dry instead of being lathered with butter, a complete oversight on your part.

You don’t even have time to stop for a coffee for a boost of energy. How the hell are you going to get through the day?

The rain stopped but the clouds still hang low in the sky. You’re used to the gloomy days, you actually welcome them with open arms. Too much sun reminds you of home and all of the misfortune you went through and, well, Linkon has a Wanderer problem that you want to avoid. Skyhaven still has them but it’s significantly less. You have the Fleet to thank for that.

And you definitely don’t have to thank a certain hunter who always seems to be at the scene of the worst attacks. As long as she stays away, you can live in peace knowing that if a Wanderer were to show up, she wouldn’t be the one to save you.

Your job as a translator stresses you out. Your boss, Darryl, is a weird, perverted dick that abuses his power. Whenever you don’t accept his daily flirts or go to HR about his behavior, you’re rewarded with horrible assignments that take years off of your life because you’re surrounded by men who are exactly like Darryl. You swear that you’ve seen a gray hair or two sprout from your head.

Being a translator under Darryl is a soul sucking job. You’ve applied to different departments in the Deepspace Aviation Administration, but Darryl has decided that you’re only good enough for translating documents and transcripts.

Your dream is to be a live translator, one that sat in a hidden room during negotiations and meetings between presidents and generals. Hell, you’d be fine with translating between the generals’ secretaries! It’s a thrill that you’ll unfortunately never be able to experience.

A big fuck you to Darryl.

You step through the shiny and clean doors of the Deepspace Aviation Administration. The building is eerily tall, shooting further into the atmosphere. You’ve managed to stay within the clouds, though, barely able to move past the fifteenth floor. Your security clearance is less than desirable, but it hasn’t stopped you from inching your way to the top.

You hope to see the secret levels soon enough but sincerely doubt it.

You smile at Abel and Remy, who work the entrance of the building, manning the security clearance that you pass through every weekday. You place your bag down on the conveyor belt, scanning your I.D. card in the little pad before stepping through the metal detector.

“Good morning you two,” you greet them with a familiar smile.

“Morning!” Remy chimes with a smile. He hands you your bag and nudges Abel’s side. He barely looks up, waving, before sinking his head back into the computer. “He slept like shit. Don’t mind him.”

“It’s all good,” you shrug, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Just as you are about to step away, Abel’s head shoots up.

“Stay here. You were flagged.” Abel waves his hand in the air. Two nicely dressed soldiers approach you, guns slung on their sides. Your eyes widen, looking around for any kind of sign that this is a prank that Remy and Abel were pulling on you.

When the soldiers approach you and take your arm, a weight forms on your shoulders. 

It’s not a prank. It’s very fucking real.

Terror rips through your body. Your eyes widen as the masked soldiers stare down at you, their eyes dark and unwelcoming.

“Ma’am. Follow us,” one of the soldiers barks at you. You nod, ready to comply, but are unable to move your feet. You try to move your leg but it doesn’t budge. You awkwardly laugh to yourself, looking down at the unresponsive limb.

Move, dammit! You internally scream, cheeks heating up. 

Remy gives your back a gentle tap, nudging you forward. You stumble over your feet, pushing through the gap between the soldiers.

They track you from behind and occasionally bark a direction for you to take. They guide you towards the elevator that is reserved for higher ranking officials and officers. Your gulp, heart pounding in your chest. Your ears begin to ring, heating up as nausea overtakes your body. You close your eyes and grip the railing in the elevator, clinging to the cold metal for some kind of relief.

Where did it all go wrong?

Did you translate something wrong? Is it your fault that a world war is about to erupt? You knew you should have told Darryl to not give you assignments on the language you’re weakest at! He should have given it to Miranda!

Your foot rapidly taps against the elevator floor. Each ding from a new floor heightens your anxiety, body shivering at the thought of what could happen to you.

Ding.

Goodbye cruel world!

Ding.

It was nice knowing you all!

Ding.

Don’t forget about me! Use my death as an example on what not to do!

You have heard many stories of what happened to translators that interpreted a word incorrectly. They simply disappeared off the face of the earth and were never heard from again. Or they ended up teaching languages at a community college far away from Skyhaven and the Fleet.

You’d rather disappear off the face of the earth than succumb to that fate.

The elevator doors slide open. You look up from the floor, surprised to see a normal looking work environment. One of the soldiers place their hand on your back, pushing your forward. You move with his hand, not particularly enjoying his touch. You shoot him a glare, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I’ll take her from here.”

You freeze. Goosebumps spread across your skin and chills run down your spine. You focus on the wall in front of you, a figure sliding in front of your vision. Your eyes are met with a black uniform, the typical red, white, and blue accents that the Fleet uniforms have.

Your eyes float up, taking in the figure before you. Purple eyes stare down at you, your haze focusing on the golden spot that lays on the bottom of his iris. The nausea you once felt disappears but is quickly replaced with an even worse feeling of complete and utter dread.

“Caleb?” His name rolls off your tongue like butter, melting the ice that surrounds your heart.

So last night was not a dream. Caleb was the one to save you from George, not some random stranger who was there at the time. It was your ex-childhood best friend.

A semblance of a smile flashes across his face before his gaze sharpens. He looks you up and down, hands behind his back. Your gaze drops, taking him in his entirety.

Fuck…he looks great in his uniform.

“Long time no see,” he quips, stoic expression remaining on his face. “Follow me.” Without missing a beat, he turns on his heel and begins to walk away. You look around, blinking as if it’ll snap you out of the dream you’re clearly inside of.

When you don’t follow, Caleb walks back. His fingers curl around your wrist, his touch shocking your body to life. You fumble over your words, random sounds fleeing from your lips, as Caleb guides you away from invasive eyes.

His hair is still short but is just shaggy enough to remain charming and add to his looks. Your squint your eyes, noticing a few light scars on the right side of his body. They creep up his neck from under his wrinkle-free uniform. Caleb opens a door and you step inside, swallowing whatever confusion you had left in your mouth, and turn to him.

“Caleb?” Your voice is breathy. Caleb’s eyes fix themselves on you, the man leaning against the closed door with his arms crossed over his chest. “You’re…what?”

“Take your time,” he chuckles. Your breath gets caught in your throat. His chuckle makes you want to jump for joy. “We are on a time crunch though, pipsqueak—”

“Don’t call me that,” you interrupt him, hissing as your instincts take over.

Any positive feeling you felt towards him in the past five minutes has vanished. You glare and cross your arms over your chest.

How dare Caleb call you that? That was always her nickname, alongside other ridiculous pet names that always made you gag whenever you looked back in your memories.

You made for certain that you’ll never be his pipsqueak.

You groan, rolling your eyes, and turn away from him. To him, it feels like you just drove a knife into his heart. He stares at the back of your head, his gaze falling for a brief moment, noticing the curve of your ass, before circling in front of you.

“I won’t call you that…noted,” he breathlessly chuckles. Once you tilt your chin up to show your glare, his chuckle gets caught in his throat. He covers it with a cough, suddenly feeling nervous around you.

Caleb has never felt this way with you before. In the past, everything was so easy! It was smooth sailing with you, low maintenance. He knew that you didn’t need the constant validation from him whereas she always needed it.

Maybe that’s been his foolish mistake all along. He should have paid more attention to you instead of her.

Is this what loathing feels like? Complete and utter contempt towards someone? Caleb hasn’t experienced this kind of negative feeling before, at least, not with her.

He had always felt so alive whenever she looked his way. Her beauty and innocence was so captivating. He adored playing the hero she needed.

Where was your hero? Who was there to call you pipsqueak or any other cheesy nickname? God, he’s been a fucking idiot.

“Is there…a nickname you’d like me to call you? For old time’s sake?” Caleb’s question earns him an angered scoff from you.

“You can call me by my name, thanks,” You look at him, eyes flickering down to his exposed neck.

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. His gloved hand reaches for the collar of his shirt, wanting to loosen his restrictive tie, but falls. When your eyes meet again, his shoulders tense before relaxing.

Is he…is he nervous?

“Tell me, Colonel,” you begin. Caleb’s head perks up and he looks at you, hanging onto every word that comes from your lips. “Why am I here?”

“I heard you’re the best translator we have,” Caleb’s compliment makes you raise your eyebrow, “I only want the best. I need you to translate something for me.”

“Sure, I can do that. Not like I have much of a choice, right?” Your half-joke earns a loud laugh from Caleb. You raise an eyebrow at him.

Really? You think to yourself. That’s what made you laugh?

“I forgot how funny you are,” Caleb comments. He pokes your nose and your face scrunches up, watching as he turns on his heel, opening up the door. You stare at his back and the memories of him from your childhood come pouring in.

You sit alone on a bench. You watch as Caleb stands in line with her at an ice cream stand. You watch them with close and steady eyes, your gaze transfixed on how she plays with his fingers. They laugh and lean into each other, undoubtedly whispering secrets that only they can know to one another.

It pained you, yes, to always be pushed to the sideline. You got used to it with time. You didn’t notice it the first year of knowing them. You were all careless and innocent children. Of course there was no malcontent with their actions!

However, the constant repetition of being left out only to be covered with half-asses apologies and sorries became very old really quick.

And it definitely felt like a stab in the back when you hear their mingled laughter through your open window. You’d catch your self sitting by the window, sighing to yourself as they played knight and princess in Josephine’s backyard.

Whenever you played with them, she always made you the monstrous dragon that held her captive. Caleb had to the the one to kill you. You had to watch from the ground, covered in dirt and dust, as he brought her into his arms, swinging her around.

Her thrilled shrieks and giggles were like poison to your soul.

You were only eight.

With thicker skin and a heart beginning to protect itself with a shield of ice, you braved the final days of your friendship with them. When it grew to be too much, you left.

It was the best decision you could have made, right?

It felt so easy to leave, even as they excluded you from the ice cream line. What’s funny is that they forgot to get you your sweet treat, meaning that you had to eventually stand in the line by yourself while they relaxed on the bench.

You were always left with sticky fingers while he cleaned hers, calling her by that stupid fucking nickname while he wiped away the melted ice cream from her fingertips. They were clean and pristine while yours were left with sticky residue and bits of napkin that lingered behind.

You were almost always determined to ditch them after moments like these. You laid in bed, holding your favorite plushie to your chest, when a small pebble hit your window. You walked over, pushing the glass open, as you poked your head outside.

Caleb stood on the ground below. He smiled up at you and held up a small plastic bag. You watched as he climbed up the side of your house with ease, using the vines to reach your window.

The anger slowly left your body the closer he got to you. He’d poke his head instead and you plucked the plastic bag from his mouth, revealing a small metal butterfly you had saw in town earlier that day.

“I got it just for you,” he said, resting his elbows on the windowsill. You watched him with wide eyes, your ice heart melting from his actions and words. “A token of my appreciation.”

Maybe sticking around for a little longer isn’t a bad idea, you thought to yourself.

You always loved butterflies after that day.

“You coming?” Caleb asks, head tilted to the side.

Looking around, you realize where you are and shake away the bittersweet memories from your childhood. You let out a ragged breath. Your lungs burn and your vision blurs.

His purple orbs memorized every detail of your face. When he noticed the small amount of tears in your eyes, he reached forward, wanting to catch them before they had the chance to fall. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You slap his hand away and push past him, entering the main room.

As you walk, you realize that what’s left between you two has expired.

The apple of his eye is not you. You were a Granny Smith while she was a Honeycrisp.

You were perpetually sour and she was always refreshing. Everyone always lavished in her presence while you faded into the background. You were left out in the sun while she was carried inside and taken care of.

It’s no wonder why you’re rotten to the core. 

Daggers of pain stabbed into his sides, slipping between his ribs, leaving him breathless. His perfect demeanor finally reveled a crack, head lunched over. He follows you into the hallway, planting himself at your side.

Clearly, there is something wrong with you. Not in a way like there is with him, you know, having failed his psych evaluation, but something that is deeply rooted in your core. He wants to rip your chest open and to pull your heart out. He wants the slowly pull away the thorns that pierce your heart and kiss the wounds. He desperately wants to mend your internal wounds and hold you until you fall asleep in his arms.

“Where’s the file?” You ask him, the tears now gone from your eyes. A slow and ragged breath leaves his mouth, unable to look away from your remarkable face. You snap your fingers in his face, irritation blossoming inside your chest.

“Oh, right,” Caleb recovers. He lays his hand on your lower back. Warmth seeps through the thin fabric of your blouse. Despite the anger you felt a minute ago, you can feel your body relax under his touch. You can tell that he notices it too when his cocky smile returns to his face. You tear your gaze away from his, heat tingling your ears from embarrassment.

He leans down to whisper something in your ear but you turn your head away, not wanting to hear anything else from him. Thankfully, he catches on and straightens his posture.

The office is foreign to you. Many hallways lead in different directions. People in uniforms turn left and right, catching you off guard as Caleb pulls you out just in time before you collide with them. They barely look up from the papers in their hands or leave their conversation to say sorry or apologize.

Caleb swiftly guides you through the floor. The two of you weave and bob through the organized chaos. People stop and salute Caleb as he passes by. He nods in their direction, his charming smiling disappearing as he puts his Colonel mask back on.

He opens a door and reveals an almost empty interrogation room. There’s no two way mirror nor are there the usual cameras in the corner. At least, that’s what you’ve seen on your favorite television show. You step inside, flinching when the door slams closed, the faint click of a lock making goosebumps form all over your skin.

“No need to be nervous, Caleb says, sitting down into one of the chairs at the metal table. He spreads his legs open, making himself comfortable. He looks up at you, gesturing to the chair in front of him. You hesitate, having to force your eyes to look away from his legs, and sit in the chair beside him.

The table only has a few items. Caleb takes off his hat, placing it near the edge. He plucks off his gloves, taking his time since you’re watching him, and set them on top of his hat. In the center sits a neat stack of papers with a few pens and pencils on top. Beside that is an audio recorder with an attached set of earbuds.

“You know how to be discreet, right?” Caleb asks. You sneak a glance at him, throwing a bit of side eye, before picking up the audio recorder.

Ha. Do you know to be discreet…how do you think I got through high school? I was discreet with my hatred of your beloved pipsqueak

“I’ll manage,” you cooly respond.

You already know the drill.

You put on the headphones, you write down whatever it is the people on the other side are talking about, and you hand your work over to Darryl.

Except…Darryl isn’t here. Caleb is.

And you aren’t at your usual workstation using your computer to type. You’re actually writing these words down. What kind of mission is this?

“Then you know that you’ll be working directly under me for the assignment,” Caleb leans closer to you. You pay no attention to it.

“Will I?” You play coy and look at him, batting your eyelashes at him.

Caleb has to picture Josephine naked to stop the tent from forming in his pants.

“Yes…” his word comes out as a whisper.

“May I know any background on it? You know, for translation sake.” You can feel him slowly draw you in.

Those purple eyes that you quickly get lost in. The way his fragrant cologne smells. The way his canine tooth flashes whenever he smiles.

And that fucking uniform. Fuck me. You think.

“It’s classified,” he breathes back, your faces mere inches from each other. Caleb is so thankful that there are no cameras inside. If this keeps going the way he wants, he’ll have you bent over with your panties in your mouth to keep you quiet.

“Shame,” you quickly quip back. You tear yourself away from Caleb, leaving him hanging in the tension you two created. You grab the earbuds and slide them inside your ears. The first piece of paper is placed in front of you and you opt for the pen, knowing you never make mistakes.

Caleb watches you with close eyes. Your hand moves at a furious pace, swiftly scribbling down the words from the audio file.

He sits up in his chair, resting his elbow on the table beside him, placing his chin on his raised palm. The Colonel’s eyes close and he slowly inhales. That sweet yet spicy scent of apples and cinnamon fill his nostrils. He slowly exhales, hoping that your perfume lingers on his uniform long after you leave.

His eyes open when he hears you switch to a new paper. You slide him the filled one, you fingers grazing against each other, before you continue to write like you have a gun to your head.

Caleb chuckles to himself. He leans to the right. With the slight movement, he’s able to get a better look at your face.

Your brows are pushed together, no more space between the two. The skin below your bottom lip is sucked in, slowly moving back and forth. Are you…eating yourself? Your eyes flit to him for a brief second. Your face relaxes before it immediately returns to its focused state.

You are so beautiful. Even when you focus on the assignment at hand, Caleb can see the dedication you have for the things you love.

He hopes that soon, he’ll be number one on the list of things you care about. Caleb can brag about it to his already minuscule group of friends, showing off the future photos and selfies you’ll take together. He’ll be able to say that you’re his and nobody else’s.

If someone like George were to come in the way of that, well, he’ll deal with them and lock you away so you don’t have to witness it.

“What are you looking at?” You question, not even looking up from the paper. You slide it to him, drawing your hand away before he can touch your delicate skin, to feel just how soft it is even if it was for a fraction of a second.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” His question surprises the both of you. It slipped from his thoughts before he could stop it from escaping. Caleb’s face remains stoic. On the inside, though, he’s screaming at himself for coming off as too strong.

Your pen scratches to the side, destroying the perfect lines you’ve made from transcribed words. The tip of the pen pierces the paper. Black ink pools around the sharp metal tip. Your fingertips turn white from how tight you grip the pen.

Caleb reaches over you, his muscular arm passing in front of your gaze, trapping you in your chair. He grabs the audio recorder, the device looking minuscule compared to how large his hands are. Veins are prominent in his hand, leading up his wrist before disappearing under the fabric of his uniform jacket.

Your gaze starts from the tips of his fingers, gently dragging past his exposed skin and up his dark material of his uniform, sliding up his shoulder, hovering on the bare skin of his neck. The audio recording in your ear pauses. Caleb retracts his arm, hooking his finger under your chin. He eases your eyes the rest of the way up to his.

Your breath hitches. Lips barely parted, your cheeks flush from his touch and how close he is to you. His lips are mere inches from yours.

All it takes is one…gentle…push…

“I asked if you were doing anything tonight,” the raspiness in his voice makes your lower stomach purr. Your eyes fall to his lips. You gnaw the inside of your cheek, slowly leaning closer to him.

“Are you asking me as Caleb? Or as my Colonel?” You whisper.

“Which one will you say yes to dinner with?”

“Hmm…” you quietly hum. You reach out, fingers curling around his uniform’s tie. You give it a firm tug. A low groan emits from Caleb’s throat. You smirk. “Neither.”

Caleb matches your smirk. His hand snakes up your arm. His long, slender fingers wrap around the entirety of your hand. He overpowers your grip and the tie falls free from your hold. He brings your knuckles to his lips. He plants a firm kiss to them, his eyes locked onto yours.

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”

You push away from the table. Cheeks red, unable to breathe, you step away from him and to the interrogation room door. You tug on the cold door handle, the metal immediately warming due to you body heat. The lock clicks and you shove the heavy hunk of metal forward, escaping into the public eye of the office.

[tillysketch]

Songbird in a Cage (Part 3)

Spawn Astarion x Female! Reader Oneshot 18+ (2k)

Part One and Part Two

Content: PiV sex, Oral-female receiving

MDNI - 18+

The early morning sun wakes Astarion gently. He looks around the unfamiliar room, until his eyes land on you sleeping soundly next to him.

You, the one bit of sunshine from his past that still lives and breathes. As you sleep he studies your face, trying to find any scraps of memories in the smile lines and freckles that adorn your cheeks, eyes, and nose. You breathe softly; your quiet calming energy is soothing to Astarion. He traces his finger along the curve of your shoulder, down your arm, and back up again, lazily drawing loops and swirls against your soft skin. The guilt of not being able to recall much about you or your past the two of you shared eats at him. He knows he cares about you, and that he used to love you.

In truth, until he’d seen your face in the jail cell across from him, he’d forgotten about you entirely. The overwhelming rush of seeing you again brought a few memories back to him, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to remember everything- what would make you laugh? What was your favorite color? What hopes and plans did you have to bury with his body when he died? 

You take in a deep inhale and his hand retreats as your eyes slide open and the light returns to your gaze. 

“Good morning...” You mumble, your throat still thick with sleep. 

“Good morning, darling. How did you sleep?” He asks, his voice low, smooth like honey poured over a warm scone. Next to your sleep-sweat slick body and underneath the blanket, he feels almost alive again. His legs twined with yours, you’re the same temperature. 

“Very well. I don’t think I’ve slept like that in a long time.” You smile through a yawn, and Astarion plants a kiss to your forehead. He knows the motions and actions of a lover, but it's the emotional connection of it all that he’s struggling with. He knows he wants you- knows he is elated to be reunited with you. But still, the feeling of being an imposter, a fake, that has settled deep in his bones, and will take time to carve out of himself. Lying here with you helps though. His heart seems to remember you in a way his mind doesn’t.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, as his fingers travel down your arm to finally rest on your hip. 

“A bit... But I don’t want to get up yet. It’s so warm here.” You snuggle closer, squishing your face against his chest. The lingering heat from last night has carried into this glorious morning and has taken root low in your belly. As your body continues to wake, you notice a familiar swelling pressed against your hip. Astarion must be feeling the same way. 

It starts slow, a few light kisses here, a lingering hand there. Then all at once, you’re both moaning into one another’s mouths as hot fiery desire crackles between the two of you. Astarion’s fingers dig into your side before he grasps a handful of your ass and pulls you closer, hoisting your leg up over his own hip. He grinds his hard erection into your pelvis, making you groan. Your bodies find a comfortable rhythm, pressing and rocking against one another,  until its too much. 

Your fingers clumsily tug and pull at his trousers, eager to set him free. Astarion is just as eager, he pulls the edges of your nightgown up, and tries to take the whole thing up and over your head. 

“Damn this thing, there’s too much fabric.” He grumbles when it gets stuck up under your side. You sit up and stand at the side of the bed, shrug it off your shoulders, and down your arms, til it falls into a puddle at your feet, leaving you bare before his starving gaze. 

His eyes instantly turn a shade darker as he rakes over your naked form in front of him. A blush dances across your cheeks, and you lick your lips, your mouth going dry. You’d never felt nervous before sex, and you shouldn’t be, not with Astarion. But, truth be told, it's been a hot minute since you’ve had someone in your bed...

“Look at you... You’re so beautiful.” He whispers. 

His hands reach out for your waist, and he slides off the bed to kneel at your feet. He looks up at you like you’re a goddess standing before him. Lips delicately move across your midriff and your navel. He praises your body like he’s worshipping at an altar, soft whispers like a prayer against your skin. 

“Let me taste you, please.” He pleads, looking up at you, his eyes wide as the moon. You open your mouth to protest, as he almost drank you to oblivion last night. He sees your hesitation and amends his words. 

“Not your blood, my love.” He shakes his head, “Lie down, and keep your legs open for me, please?”

Now how in the hells can you say no to that?

He rises and stands over you now, his face above yours. “Go lie down...” 

You feel frozen to the spot, but his gentle command finally moves you. You climb back onto the bed and lie against the headboard, watching him with rapt attention as he strips down to just bare skin, before stalking towards you from the foot of the bed. Crawling for you on his hands and knees, he grabs at your thighs and pulls them open. He takes a shaky breath while admiring the view before him. 

“Gods look at how wet you are for me, already..” He grins, his head between your legs. Cool breath hits your skin and you shiver in anticipation. He lowers his head and begins to swirl his tongue against your bud, earning him a hearty moan from you. One arm wraps around your leg, and grips your inner thigh, as his other hand joins his tongue, sliding one finger up between your folds, just to test the waters. 

You can’t help but to buck your hips upward at him, and he chuckles. “Now, now, settle down...” He holds your thigh tighter to keep you still for him. “I’m going to take care of you, but you need to hold still for me, darling.”  

Already your chest heaves with each breath, you’re so tightly wound that you might just snap. You’re too excited, jittery, and nervous. You’re practically humming with energy, so desperate for release. Astarion presses the one finger he has in you deeper, hooking it into the spongy front side of your core. 

“Just relax, my sweet. Let yourself enjoy this.” 

“Sorry, I just.. It’s been a while since I’ve been intimate with someone-” you chuckle, raising your head to look down at him, “…let alone that someone being you.”

“Me? Do I make you nervous?” He smirks. “I can assure you, there’s nothing to be afraid of here.” 

“You're right, I’m just overthinking this...” 

“You are...” He purrs, his finger curling in a ‘come hither’ motion inside your heat, causing your eyes to flutter. “Oh, do you like that?”

“Yes.” You pant. 

“Can you handle another?” 

You nod eagerly. You want more. You want all that he will give you. He hums his contentment, and pushes a second finger into you, hooking it in the same manner as before. His mouth goes to work again on your clit, sucking and teasing it with his skilled tongue. 

“Oh gods...” You groan as your head falls back in ecstasy. “Astarion...”

His name being pulled from your mouth only serves to make him work harder, his fingers rapidly guiding you to your climax. 

“I want to taste your release. I want you to come on my tongue...” He huffs before devouring you again. “Come for me...”

You clench around his fingers and your thighs begin to squeeze his head. He moans against your clit to let you know to keep going. Sparks begin to fly behind your tightly shut eyes, and your core spasms, shuddering as your orgasm sweeps over you. You grip onto his hair with both hands, and ride his face, calling out his name over and over again. 

When you release his hair from your fingers, he comes up with a dazed sort of silly grin on his face. 

“I knew you could do it, you always were such a good girl for me.” Your legs slump to the bed, as he slides up your body to kiss you. His tongue is wet and hot as it pushes into your mouth. You taste your own pleasure still lingering there. 

“Can you taste how sweet you are? How deliciously you came for me?” 

You can only whimper in reply. 

You need more of him- more of that sweetness only he can provide. You feel the head of his cock at your soaked and still tingling entrance, waiting for your express permission to cross your sacred threshold. You lock your shaking legs around his hips, and pull him in with ease. 

He fills you to the hilt and lets out a strained whimper. “Oh gods, the way you feel around my cock... I’d forgotten how good you feel.” He pulls his hips back before ramming them into you again, his pace slow and steady. Working you from the inside to build your climax back up, he wants you to come on his cock this time, and he knows he’s going to have to hold back from pounding into you the way he so desperately wants to. Every moan and gasp you give him, only spurs him on- faster.. Faster... 

Before long, both of you are a panting, sweaty mess. Your legs wrapped tightly around his hips, his hands on either side of your head, cradling you as he fucks into you. You didn’t know vampires could sweat, but his drips from his forehead, wetting his curls and falling onto your cheek. Even with his eyes half glazed over, his thumb swipes at the drop, wiping it away. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles, and you shake your head with a pant. You turn and take that same thumb into your mouth and suckle the sweat away. He may not remember, but he used to plead with you to take his fingers in your mouth while the two of you were in the throes of passion. 

He gasps, and his hips stutter before continuing with increased vigor. Shuddering at the small sensitive way your tongue wraps around his thumb, he imagines how it must feel to have his cock in the same place. Gods, he isn't going to last, not with the advantage you have over him like this. He doesn’t remember the exact intimacies you two once enjoyed, but you certainly do. You drag your fingers along either of his ears, and up to the very points of them, rolling the sensitive tips between your finger and thumb. 

“Gah! What are you-” His words are cut off by a guttural moan, and his eyes roll back into his skull. His hips snap into you with the same stuttering of his voice, and you feel him spill into you. He calls out your name before collapsing onto your chest, his entire frame twitching with the aftershocks of his release. A satisfied grin spreads across your face as your hands resume their fussing with his hair. 

He lifts his head to stare bewildered at you- at how you know him better than he knows himself. 

“What?” You ask innocently, pushing the curls back from his forehead. 

“You... Just you. You’re amazing.” 

“I may be a bit out of practice, but I think I still remember what makes you tick...” You reply with a satisfied soft smile. “This could be fun, rediscovering one another.” 

He hums in reply. “You have the upper hand though. You remember far more than I do.”

“And? What's wrong with that? You’re not having trouble giving up the reins are you?” 

He raises his head momentarily to give you one cocked eyebrow. “I’ll give them to you, but only because it's you...” You run your nails along his scalp, and he smiles against the side of your breast. “I trust you enough to give you that.” 

A yowling from the doorway draws both of your attentions away from one another. With a flickering tail, your cat strides into the room, not caring that both of you are still very tangled up, and sort of in the middle of something. 

“Get!” You swat at the thing, and she doesn't even flinch. Damned little-

“It’s alright my dear. Perhaps we should get up.” He pushes himself off your chest, and sighs as he sits on the edge of your bed. “I’m sure Karlach and Wyll are worried about where I’ve been.”

“Who?”

Aaand that’s part three. Be gentle it’s my first time writing smut lol.

Part four will be out ehhh, when I feel like it. Sorry…

Thanks for reading! Happy Valentine’s Day! -Tilly <3

SHOUTOUT TO @clericblood FOR BEING A HOMIE and guiding me on how to write smut. 🫶

[baffledandbewildered]

“I have a hypothetical,” Evi4 says.

The statement is a bit… random, but Betty doesn’t mind that. Evi is a little random, sometimes - she loves it about him.

“Sure? What’s up?”

Evi frowns, looks up at where Nara and Aster are talking. “I don’t want to…” He grabs Betty’s hand and drags her a little behind the Jest house, far enough away that the conversation is almost indistinguishable.

Evi4 isn’t usually this… serious. Betty knows they can be serious if needed, if necessary, she knows that better than most, but… it’s still weird. Discomforting. 

Betty doesn’t say anything, just gives them time to gather their words, and eventually they start speaking.

“If you were in a situation where - you have to kill either me or Void,” Evi says haltingly. “Who would you choose? Killing Void would - obviously have a lot of consequences.”

Betty can’t help but laugh. “What? Evi - we’ve literally - we’ve killed Void? Why would I choose his life over yours?”

“Killing Void would be dangerous though.”

“I don’t care. I’m not killing you.”

“That’s the wrong decision,” Evi mutters.

They - she can’t help but feel they’re having completely different conversations here.

“It’s - it’s not, Evi I love you why would I - no. I wouldn’t do that.”

“You should.”

“No.”

“Ugh. You’re so weirddd Betty.”

“I don’t think I am for not wanting to kill my fiance…” she says, but doesn’t want to argue the point further.

The two of them go back to Nara and Aster and rejoin the conversation like nothing has happened, but the thought still weighs on Betty’s mind. She’s not sure what just happened, and it’s… odd.

But it’s easy to forget, with the chaos of this day - Twirps is a VIP, five of Pathogen are online - Twirps wants to fight all of them, because of course, and while everyone’s trying to prepare she and Evi notice most of the team in the Red Light District.

Evi’s been casting hungry glances in that direction for a little while, creeping closer and closer - they’re going to get spotted, so Betty runs over, trying her best to keep out of sight herself, and splashes invis on them.

“Good luck!” she whispers. “Please don’t get killed.”

“I won’t!” Evi says and Betty watches the faint trail of particles disappear into the cave.

I’m gonna try steal something Evi messages her, and Betty holds back a giggle - she’s not going to move far away from the cave just in case something goes wrong, so she really doesn’t want to be overheard - she’s not the best with potions, and as such is currently also invisible - not the most innocent look, even if she’s not actually doing anything.

Of course, the invis still hasn’t faded when she gets another message on her communicator. 

okay so I might have been spotted

Oh gods. Betty types back: okay I’ll go talk to them, try to distract them, please try to leave

DONT DO THAT OH MY GODDDD

Evi4 is so - protective. It’s endearing, but also - this situation - it’s uncomfortably familiar to their messages on the day they killed Void, when Evi was spawntrapped, Evi refusing to tell her what was going on because he knew that Betty would gladly get herself killed if it meant Evi was okay - 

So Betty’s not listening to him now, and instead she runs into the cave, waving at Cog and Void and Arch. She’s… still invisible, which is awkward, and she’s pretty sure they know exactly what she’s doing but no one tries to jump Evi even when he starts rifling through one of Pathogen’s shulkers, Cog even gives her a very brief tour, and before she knows it she and Evi are both running back to main spawn, giggling.

“Success!” Evi says, showing her what they managed to steal.

“Yay it was worth it then,” Betty says. “Oh my god that was terrifying but hey I can - I can de-escalate situations!”

“You’re awful at de-escalating situations - that was so stupid Betty oh my god -”

Betty laughs. “Maybe. I don’t care though.”

“You should.”

“The important thing to me is that you’re alive. I doubt they would have killed me anyway.”

“Ugh. You’re so stupid sometimes BettyIsBaffled oh my god we should get divorced -”

“Now wait a second!” Betty says, and within seconds they’re off-topic again.

The next day finds her giving Evi nearly an entire stack of anvils - she’d joked, yesterday, about it being an appropriate apology for Betty getting Evi spawnkilled all those weeks ago for the minecarts, and - well. The guilt of that weighs heavy on her still, and though she knows the comment wasn’t serious she still wants to - 

She renames them, too. For Evi <3. 

It’s not much of an apology, not much of a gift, but Evi squeals in delight the moment she realises what she’s been given, then presses a brief kiss to Betty’s cheek, hugging her tightly. 

On a whim, Betty asks Evi to kill her with the mace - she ends up dying twice, the second time more accidental than not, but it’s fun - and she can’t bring herself to mourn the lost levels when each time she returns Evi gives the heart back with a kiss.

They spend the rest of the day doing… very little. At one point, Evi brings up ‘the hypothetical’ from yesterday - they argue it again, only briefly, and Evi stops talking entirely for a long moment when Betty says fondly - “You’re so self sacrificing.”

She’s not wrong, but she’d never thought of it like that before - Evi is, so, painfully self-sacrificing - not for many people, maybe, but he is. She loves that about him. 

They’re sitting on top of the arena, looking out over spawn when Evi brings it up again.

“I’m curious about the - thing you said earlier,” they say slowly.

“Huh?”

“The - self-sacrificing comment. Can you explain that?”

“Oh! Yeah, yeah I - I can explain -”

But - of course - it’s that moment when Seri appears and once again the thread of conversation is lost. But they have fun! Seri and Evi are… an interesting duo, Aster joins them at one point, the top of the Arena maybe gets broken a little but they manage to fix it… then Evi decides they wanna try and kill Katamari.

If it was anyone else, Betty would be hesitant. But she knows how well Evi fights and well. Katamari. So she gives Evi her axe and a good luck kiss and waits for chaos to unfold.

evi4 whispers to you: they won’t stay still this is so annoying i don’t know whether to call this off

You whisper to evi4: you could try jump off the mangroves?

You whisper to evi4: but it’s up to you if you think it’s too dangerous its not worth it

You whisper to evi4: just stay alive

And Evi… does. He manages to hit Mari with the mace, but they escape, then Void shows up and the pair of them fight for a bit then Evi runs and gods Betty feels like she could cry from relief - she’s so happy for him. Both for the fights - they were awesome - but also for leaving when he realised he couldn’t win, not fighting till the end - she and Evi have spoken about this before, how pride isn’t worth it sometimes, not if it gets you killed -

She’s so happy.

For a while after, they just… hang out at spawn. Void shows them the strip club, Evi digs holes in his walls, Betty tries her best not to fall asleep - turns out dying twice to a mace in ten minutes leaves you incredibly tired, or maybe it’s just her poor sleep schedule - still, it’s a fun day, honestly. 

The next afternoon, Evi asks Betty to join her at Animal Crossing Village - she’s working on getting backup gear, she says, and Betty’s down an axe from yesterday’s shenanigans so for a little while the two of them trade with villagers, talking about anything and everything.

It’s - strangely domestic. Making gear alongside someone else… it’s nice. She’s done this with Nara, the day after she and Evi killed Void, a few other times after that, but before that… a long time ago. Maybe the day after the Gameshow, when she and Sunset were…

It’s nice to have company. It’s fun - especially when the two of them get distracted going through their shulkers - “Why do I have 14 stacks of iron blocks in here?” - or Evi traps her in a corner, only to get flustered when Betty flirts back and mine the blocks under him, falling into the basement with an embarrassed yelp - at one point Evi asks her to spawn an iron golem so he can mace practise, then digs through the rusted corpse to hand her the poppy at its heart and Betty holds it so tightly she’s afraid the fragile stem will break.

Neither of them are particularly good at staying on task but it’s just. Good. It’s nice not to be alone.

At some point, they end up talking about dying - “You’ve killed me more than anyone else has, I think,” Betty muses, pulling up her statistics. “Uhh. Sin, Cog, Blue/arrow-cannon, creeper, Pollocks, Void, you, you again with the carts, Void again, Nara, then you again twice yesterday - I’m missing a death, what am I missing -”

There are four of her deaths now at Evi’s hands (do the minecarts count -?) and that’s - it’s a nice thought. She likes that she gets to choose. She likes… it’s a promise, isn’t it? Dying for someone, choosing to let them kill you... I trust you with my life, with my heart. 

“Imagine being able to remember your deaths…” Evi says wonderingly.

“Not all of them,” Betty says absentmindedly, still trying to work out what she’s forgetting, then she pauses. “Oh -”

The last she heard, Evi had died 170 times… and it’s been a little while since then.

But Evi just giggles and bats lightly at her arm, quickly moving the conversation on to something else. Betty still feels guilty.

It’s evening when they decide to go back to spawn - Evi shows her the hidden respawn point he’s made on the way, and when she realises she hugs him tightly - she’s been asking for so long for Evi to be more careful of where he respawns. Maybe he’s feeling the same way she is - things are happening, now, dangerous things, the end of the season is in sight, they all need to be a bit more careful - or maybe he just wants to have a safe space to recover after a death. It doesn’t matter. She’s happy regardless.

They end up going to Sniffer Island. Betty lets herself fall dramatically onto the grass under one of the trees, and after a moment’s hesitation Evi sits down next to her. There are so many flowers here - Betty had thought she’d never want to see a sniffer again after the nightmare she’d had kidnapping Snorb, but this is nice. Peaceful.

“Oh!” she says, turning a little so she can see Evi. “I never - did I ever explain the - self-sacrifice comment? You asked, but -”

“No…”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes!”

Betty pauses, then sits up, anxiously flexing her hands a little. She stares out at the ocean, trying to put her thoughts into words - this is important, she thinks.

“When - after we killed Void, that time. You got spawnkilled. And I was - I was messaging you saying if they - if they’d be willing to let you go, if I let them kill me, I’d be fine with that. You wouldn’t let me. You yelled at me. Even before - you wanted to take the blame for killing Void - you told me to lie, claim it was an accident, that you found us talking. Or when you were trapped in the obsidian box - or even the other day, when you were trying to steal from Pathogen in the Red Light District - you’re so worried about my life, without thinking of your own - and I appreciate it, I do, I - gods, I love you so much but - you don’t have to -” 

She stops herself from saying anything more - she’s probably said enough. She darts a look at Evi - they’re not looking at her, and she can’t read their expression. Eventually, they turn to face her, but still won’t meet her eyes.

“I just -” they start, then pause. “I just think it’s better for me to die rather than… you having to deal with any consequences. Like I hate dying, obviously, but it’s just - the better decision there.”

“What? Evi -”

He stares hard at the grass. “I think - me dying has less of an effect over you dying. I have people who can give me heart mats while it actually costs you. I’m already viewed as a weak player. If I die it’s not going to change people’s perspectives of me.”

“I don’t care about - well okay yeah I do but that’s not - that’s not worth it. That’s not - and Evi, I have allies now, you know that, you know there are - you know better than anyone -”

Now he meets her eyes. “When people kill you it means more than if people kill me,” he says quietly.

Betty feels her hearts skip a beat - this is so wrong but she doesn’t know what to say to fix it, doesn’t -

“I’m glad you didn’t die when I got spawnkilled ‘cause I think it would’ve made our connections even worse and maybe more people target us,” Evi continues hurriedly. “I don’t think people view you as weak - even if Cog thinks you’re a coward or something. You are -” She laughs a little. “- still known to trap people very well.”

Betty laughs weakly too - not that well, and Evi knows that, but she appreciates the - confidence in her abilities. 

“I just think people are more willing to give my gear and stuff back,” Evi says. “That’s not something… that you or anyone else - except maybe Seri - have.”

“That’s not - an issue, though - I can grind more gear, I don’t care - that’s not worth your life Evi,” Betty says - oh, she’s crying now, of course - she’s not even sure why. She’s not sure what to say - somewhere along the line she’s missed this, and it is important that they talk about it but she doesn’t know what to say.

Evi laughs - it’s a little bitter, and that’s so wrong because Evi4 isn’t…

“I’m sure if you asked anyone on the server who they’d rather lose a heart it’d be me,” they say. 

Well that’s wrong - Betty goes to interrupt but they shake their head and she stops. 

“Okay, okay yeah maybe there are some people who - want you dead but still,” Evi continues. “Pollocks would obviously care but - I think it’s just something he’s accepted as part of being teamed with me.”

“Evi…”

“I just. I really do think it’s better for me to die than you having to face consequences.”

“But - Evi - you dying is a consequence for me,” Betty says, then wipes the tears from her eyes with shaking hands. “That’s consequences. That’s consequences I - I don’t -”

She can’t bring herself to say anymore - she doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know how to fix this - she hates the fact Evi thinks so little of himself, that no one respects him the way Betty and Poll do, that Evi believes that -

They’re both silent for a little while.

Eventually, Evi looks at her again. He twists his hands together anxiously, pulling at a loose thread on his dress. “I can try to be less self-sacrificial with you but I want you to know I care a lot about you and think me dying instead of you is better.”

Betty takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Yeah. I - I understand - and you - you understand what - what I mean, right? When I say -”

He nods rapidly.

“Yeah. Okay - and you’ll try. You’ll try - that’s all I can ask.” She smiles at them - she’s still crying, she probably looks a state but Evi smiles back shyly and she can’t bring herself to care. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Yay!” Evi4 says - he’s trying to act like nothing has happened but it’s so obvious that he’s just as - emotional as Betty is - it’s - gods, she loves him.

“Let’s make a heart!” Evi says, jumping to her feet then holding out a hand to pull Betty upright too. She doesn’t let go, either, even as the two of them dig a hole in the surface of the island and place froglights in a heart shape - it makes it a little difficult to build, but Betty appreciates it - it feels like a promise, like Evi’s saying: I’m not going to leave.

Likewise, Betty thinks to herself.

And then they’re standing next to the heart and Evi pauses, turns to face her. It’s dark now, but the moonlight makes their crown shine - they’ve never looked more like royalty, and Betty’s never been the type to care too much about titles but she’d gladly worship them.

Evi takes a deep breath. “I can try to be less self-sacrificial,” Evi repeats, hurried, tripping over the words a little. “I’ve spent most of my time on this server without anyone to rely on properly so I’m sorry if I show my love in odd ways like a piece of diorite or making sure you don’t die even if it costs me a lot.” They stop, take another measured breath. “I hope I’m able to communicate how much I love you even if it’s in something not very typical but I care about you a lot.”

And yep, Betty’s crying again, but she doesn’t move, lets Evi continue speaking.

“I’m very happy we’re allies - I don’t care about a lot of people on this server even if I trust them but I think you’re the only other person besides Pollocks I’d go to the ends of the earth for - you’ve done so much for me I love you a lot.”

“I - gods, Evi4, I love you too - I love you so much, I don’t think - I don’t think I’ll ever really be able to say it enough - gods -” She wipes her eyes on her sleeve, giggling weakly, then tugs at his shoulders until he bends down far enough she can kiss him. “I love you, okay?” she whispers against his lips. “I love you.”

She definitely could never say it enough - it’s - sometimes, when she’s alone, she remembers what she and Evi4 used to be - chasing them away from her herobrine summoner, explosions in her maze - they weren’t even friends at the start, and now -

They both yelp as the nose of a sniffer pushes its way between them, and then they’re giggling, Evi trying to shove the creature away but there’s such fondness in their eyes, and just for a little while Betty allows herself to believe that everything is going to be okay.

[narnian-neverlander]

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again [Machine Herald Viktor x GN!Reader]

Preview: “You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 10,7k

Warnings: slight body horror/modifications, suicidal thoughts, canon typical violence (injuries and blood, mentions of torture, mentions of character death, alluded murder)

This is part of a series of stand alone One-Shots that all feature the same reader, you can find the masterlist here :3

A/N: Does a broken rib from too much coughing count as the AO3 curse yet cause wow this took way longer than expected. Anyways, Epic x Arcane has been bouncing around my head since Season 2 came out, but this was inspired by this post from @le-fruit-de-la-passion cause I saw that and I’ve been internally screaming over it ever since 💁

Happy Valentine’s everybody 💞

Nothing had been the same since you woke up.

It’s to be expected, it had been almost two years after all.

Two years since the explosion. Two years since half the council had died. Two years since any attempt at peace between the two cities had been shattered. Two years that you had spent blissfully unaware of all of this; a coma keeping you trapped within the confines of a hospital bed and your own mind.

You’d expected pain after coming back to your senses; it was the last thing you remembered before the world had went dark. But you’d slept through most of your recovery. Through your wounds turning into scars. Through your muscles growing weak from disuse. Your hands were a different story, though. They didn’t so much hurt, only at times, as they were simply numb. Shattered bones and nerve damage had made them mostly useless and that was not something any amount of time would simply fix.

Not everything had completely changed, though, you’d found. You’d been awake for not more than an hour when Jayce had burst through the doors of your hospital room. And sure, he’d looked different: his hair longer, a beard, the white and gold that had always dominated his outfits replaced with black and silver, a brace on one of his legs and a cane at his side. But the relief in his hazel eyes when he’d found his friend conscious was familiar. The way his hug had felt. And how he’d completely avoided your gaze when you’d asked about your lover.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

He’d expected you to cry, scream, anything. But you hadn’t. You’d merely nodded, as numb as your broken hands, and had thanked him for coming to see you. Had told him to go back to his work, he must certainly be busy after all. And it had torn him apart, to see you, someone he’d always known as energetic and joyful, so tired, so apathetic. The very least for him to do had been to offer his help in any way he could, including finding a doctor that would fix your hands. He’d been more than reluctant to leave you, but you’d asked for some time alone to rest and he could hardly deny you that - it had still taken him a good ten minutes more to actually take his leave, with promises of a soon return and to simply send for him if you needed anything.

You’d settled back into the bed, fully intent on going back to sleep and pretending you’d be able to wake up in a different world, but the sun had caught on something metallic on your bedside table, hidden behind flowers and cards. You’d reached for it with stiff, unsteady fingers, almost sending the small, scratched up, mechanical cat crashing to the ground; luckily it had just ended up bouncing off your leg and then settling in your lap.

You’d stared at the little robotic feline in astonishment for a long time, unblinking amber eyes staring right back, like it would tell you who had brought it here, when it should’ve been sitting on a shelf in your apartment. Like it would give you all the answers and solutions in the world. An answer to your pain. To the hopelessness creeping in. To the feeling of your heart slowly shattering.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

It had almost made you drop your precious possession all over again, breaths heavy and migraine pounding in the back of your skull. And your racing mind had very clearly told you that there’s no recollection of ever having heard him say anything like this, your aching heart replying that it had been an idle wish, nothing more.

This idle wish comes back to you know, lying bruised and bloody and dazed in a ditch somewhere in Zaun. The people you’d been sent to for help had turned out to be anything but the kind, generous researches they’d made themselves look like; only interested in their own profit, gained on the backs of the helpless and the beaten. And after months of more pain and suffering, once you’d no longer been of use, your body even more mutilated and damaged than before, you’d been discarded like the trash they viewed you as. Face in the dirt, body and mind exhausted and screaming for rest, just a small respite, you consider letting go. Consider closing your eyes and just letting eternal rest take you; you don’t have anything left, after all. No home to go back to. No loved ones waiting for you.

Your shattered psyche seems to welcome the idea more than anything; through blurry vision you swear you see your lost beloved right in front of you, like it’s just another lazy morning spent in bed together. A warm hand cupping your cheek, gentle amber eyes, voice still raspy and accent thick from sleep. Telling you to go back to sleep. That it’s okay to rest. You blink and he’s gone.

He’s gone. I’m so sorry, but… he’s gone.

I’m coming back for you. I’ll find a way to fix you, to fix us both, and then I’m coming back for you, I promise.

A cry for help, created from a desperate mind and a broken heart. A fantasy. Wishful thinking. Nothing more. No one would be coming for you. Nobody would know or care if you just laid down to die right here. But there’s still a part of you, tiny as it may be, that wants to live. That under no circumstances wants to die on the same streets you once crawled your way out of, while your tormentors get rich on your suffering and are left with no consequences. Your blood’s starting to boil, powering you like a steam engine, getting you up on your hands and knees, groaning and whimpering in pain as you hopelessly try to get your feet back under you.

Peace is for the dead, revenge is for the living.

It’s what forces you towards the city limits on wobbly, clumsy legs, one stumbling step at a time. If revenge would be your only reason to live, then so be it. You’d take it over simply giving up and being forgotten; your body left to rot in the dirt.

So you live off scraps and garbage. Get your quick bouts of rest on dark, dirty street corners. Collect herbs from the riverbed, as scarce as they may be, to fight off the infections you incurred. It’s not pretty or elegant and you can barely call it living, but you’re alive. And eventually you catch rumors, whispers, only spoken in the same shadows you’ve now spent months living in: rumors of a healer. Well, some call him that. Others revere him as a god. Others fear him as a monster, more machine than man. But they all agree on two things: that he’s the one to go to if you’re in desperate need of help and have nothing left to lose. And where to find him.

The gate to the house on Emberflit Alley is old and bent and rusted. Not locked, but your stiff, useless fingers have enough trouble opening it anyways. The front door is a different story entirely, encrusted with interlocking gears to keep you and anyone else out unless invited in. So you knock and you wait. And then you repeat that process. Until it becomes clear that either no one is home or that a disturbance isn’t currently wanted. You’re not about to give up so easily though, so you step off the porch and start making your way around the house in search of any windows to knock on instead or maybe even break if necessary. It’s dusk by now and the ever present fog that always seems to cling to this area of the Lanes isn’t making your job much easier; your foot inevitably catches on something, a loose brick or a protruding pipe maybe, and sends you stumbling, falling and while you manage to catch yourself against the brick wall, your flailing palm ends up going straight through a window.

Perfect. You hadn’t actually been serious about breaking and entering. Not entirely, anyways. Trying to assess the damage to your hand in the dimly lit alley, you’re distracted enough to not pick up on the sound of a door opening and you only notice the heavy footsteps when they stop right behind you.

“You’re persistent if nothing else, I will give you that.”

The voice is deep, warped, with a mechanical echo to it, but it’s the accent that sends an unwelcome and unexpected twinge to your heart. You turn around very slowly and carefully, prey about to get caught by something terrible, and gulp when you actually need to crane your head back and look up cause fuck, he’s tall. At least a head taller than you, with a broad frame, all heavy armor and pieces of metal, a sharp, three pronged claw pulsing with energy pointed right at you from over his shoulder and a mask with only two hollow, glowing, yellow eyes staring back at you. He’s an imposing, unforgiving presence and you’re starting to understand why people only come to him as a last resort. But you’d come this far and he’s right, you’re persistent, stubborn, if nothing else, for better or for worse.

“I was— No one was opening the door and I was just trying to— Are you the Herald?” It’s a redundant question, really. “It’s what they insist on calling me.” Okay, you’re having a conversation. Sorta. That’s progress. “They also say that you… help people?” He crosses his arms over his chest and cocks his head to the side and while you might not be able to see his eyes, you can feel them taking you in from head to toe. “To the best of my abilities. What would you need help with?” You falter for a second. “It’s uhm… a lot, really, but mostly my hands?” Most people have always reacted with disgust or pity and you don’t expect him to be much different, so the way you bring your hands in front of you for him to see is slow and hesitant. He leans forward for a better look and you fight the urge to back away and flee. It’s quiet, too quiet, the way he’s so intensely studying you and your injuries unnerving and the metal claw that looks like it could tear you in half opening and closing and rotating as if in thought is most definitely not helping your anxiety. Finally, he straightens up and turns around. “Follow me.” He doesn’t wait for you, nor does he check to see if you actually do follow him, merely strides back inside the house, leaving you scrambling to catch up.

The halls that he leads you through have dozens of motionless automatons leaning against the walls, the room you eventually arrive in is lined with shelves of glass jars containing organic and metal organs floating in green fluid and in the far corner a leather gurney with a mechanized drill laid upon it and stains you don’t want to think too hard about. Fortunately, he doesn’t lead you over to that, but instead to a workbench cluttered with machinery and tools and blueprints. He sits in the old, rusty chair and then drags out a little stool from under the table, gesturing for you to copy him while he reaches above his head and fiddles with what is revealed to be a bright, neon lamp when it finally flickers to life, blinding you for a moment and leaving spots in your vision. You do as your told and finally place your hands in his when he holds out his own, one gloved and from what you can tell human, the other solid metal.

There’s a certain gentle diligence with which he conducts his examination, something you most definitely didn’t expect, but it puts your frayed nerves at ease. It also triggers a memory from long ago, an accident in the lab, that had ended with you curled up against your boyfriend’s shoulder while Jayce had carefully picked glass shards from your palms. A slight shake of your head brings you back to the present; a different life, it no longer matters. It’s silent between you two, except for the occasional question from his side that you answer truthfully. Eventually, he sits back and switches off the lamp above you. “Your hands can not be salvaged; the damage is too severe and was left insufficiently treated for too long. If you want full use of them back, they will need to be replaced.” He says it like it’s the most logical, natural thing in the world and to him it must be, but to you? It leaves you stunned, mouth going dry. “So I’d lose them entirely…?”

“You already have,” he states matter of factly. “Now it’s just a matter of wether you’re insisting on clinging on to broken, useless flesh and bone for the sake of sentimentality or if you’d rather exceed your human limitations and be able to return to a normal life.” It takes everything you have not to laugh bitterly; new hands or not, you weren’t going back to your old, normal life anytime soon. But he’s right nonetheless. “And you can do that? Replace them? Make them work like before?” You can’t be certain, with the mask’s filter and all but it almost sounds like he scoffs in offense. He waves his own hand in front of your face and flexes his fingers for show; dark, solid metal, expertly welded and crafted together to create a perfectly functioning hand. “Naturally.”

There’s nothing for you to think about anymore. “Okay. Yeah, I… that sounds good. Except…” Maybe there is one thing to think about. “I can’t… pay you for it. B-but I can work it off! Or I could—“ he decisively cuts you off with, “I do not take payment for my work.” And your jaw actually drops, because there is no way anyone in this world would offer services like this for free. There always has to be an angle, something to be gained. “Right. So you just do this out of the goodness of your fucking heart? Do you even have one? A heart, I mean.” He stands to his full height and it hits you like a ton of bricks that you just followed a complete stranger into the confines of his home. A stranger twice your size that would have no trouble turning you into parts for his future experiments. A stranger that has a reputation on Zaun’s streets as an unhinged monster. And it seems like you might’ve hit a nerve.

But he merely reaches past you, for something behind you on the table and comes back with a pair of tweezers and gauze and then proceeds to remove the parts of his window that are still stuck in one of your palms. Right. Since you can’t really feel them, you’d forgotten all about them. “Of course not. And to answer your question, no, I got rid of my heart a long time ago; it was of no use to me any longer. I only ask that you stay here during your recovery so I can oversee the adjustment process. Document it to further my research. You will be paying me in information, knowledge, progress. That is worth more than any gold or jewels you could throw at me.” Your own heart is going a mile a minute after that scare, but you’re slowly coaxing your body to calm back down. If he truly wanted to harm you, he would’ve done so by now. “And you’re sure that’s enough?” A sigh, as if he’s forced to explain something overly simplistic to a child over and over again. “You can bring any scrap metal you may find on the streets to me, if that will make you feel better.” You snort in amusement. “Okay, sure, you got yourself a deal. Sooooo… now what?”

He pauses wrapping your hand for a moment and turns his unblinking gaze to you again. “Malnourished, sick or overly exhausted people make for greater risks, both during surgery and recovery.” You flinch because you damn well know that you check all of those boxes. And you’re sure he knows it, too. “Yeah, well it’s not like I can snap my fingers and magically be healthy again. If I could, I wouldn’t be here. Besides, do you know where you live? You can’t tell me that every Zaunite who comes in here is of picture perfect health?”

“No, I just thought you should be made aware. We can perform the procedure tomorrow, at least get some sleep before that; surely that’s not too difficult?” It almost sounds patronizing and you realize you’ve gained back, or rather are rediscovering a part of yourself you haven’t used in a long time in the few minutes you’ve been talking to him: the defiant smartass. “Of course I can do that, I’m not an imbecile. There’s a brothel owner who owes me a favor, I’m sure I can get her to cough up a bed for the night.” He’s doesn’t look up from putting the finishing touches on your bandages, but apparently he still feels the need to state, “And leave with more diseases than you came with?” Had he just called you diseased? “I’ll have you know I don’t have anything contagious, thank you very much. I don’t think. And it’s that or sleep out on the streets again, so…”

“Or you could just stay here.”

You barely manage a very intelligent ‘Huh?!’ in return.

“You will return here tomorrow anyways. And stay here for your recovery. One night will not make a difference.”

Your eyes flit over to the leather couch in the corner; it’s clearly old and worn, missing an armrest and has obvious tears in the leather. Truly, you shouldn’t be this comfortable around him so quickly, but it’s still the closest thing to an actual bed you’d had in months so you’d take it.

“If it’s okay with you.” you shrug and quickly walk over to the sofa, dropping the bag that contains whatever little belongings you have left to the floor and then promptly collapse on it in an exhausted heap of limbs. That seems to break some of his composed facade as you catch him physically startling in your peripheral while you’re busy shrugging out of one of your coats and turning it into a makeshift pillow. “There is a room upstairs, with a bed, entirely unused. You can sleep there.” But you’re drowsy already, the worn leather surprisingly soft and pliant against your battered body. “So you don’t sleep, I assume; noted. And don’t worry, I don’t snore, so I won’t interrupt your… your work. You won’t… even know… I’m…” You’re out cold before you’ve finished your sentence and it takes all of half a minute before you’re lightly snoring. Liar. But he knew that already.

A heavy sigh and then he’s up, grabbing the blanket and pillow from the bed upstairs; replacing the bunched up coat under your head and pausing before he covers your body with the thick, warm fabric. Your skin has lost color, you’re underweight, he most definitely caught you limping earlier and those are just the things he could tell from a first glance. Your hands would be an easy enough matter to fix, but the rest would take time and care. He covers you with the blanket and you immediately snuggle up into it until only your hair is barely poking out. So you still hate the cold, then. Just like you’re still defiant and mouthy. It’s ridiculous how much you haven’t changed in direct contrast to him; changed so vastly and completely, of course you wouldn’t recognize him.

Carefully dragging down the blanket and the backs of your several layers of clothing, he indeed finds a series of numbers and letters branded into the skin at the back of your neck, as expected. He recognizes their shoddy handiwork by now; you weren’t the first Zaunite to come through his door after they’d fallen victim to that group. But you’d most definitely be the last. He gathers some things from around the lab and finally grabs his staff from where it’s leaning against the wall, gem at the top crackling with energy; one last look at your curled up form and then he’s out of the door, leaving you resting in his lab.

You’re warm, comfortable. It’s quiet and you actually feel well rested. All of that is so utterly foreign to you, it frightens you back to consciousness, makes you startle awake and fall off whatever you’d been asleep on in the process. Blind panic as you untangle yourself from a blanket you don’t remember having and stagger back to your feet, wild eyes searching for the closest threat.

Dim lighting breaking through murky windows, shelves stocked organs, a bloody gurney in the far corner and a hunched over figure at a workbench, their back currently turned to you as a clawed contraption over their shoulder emits a thin, precise ray of light.

“I do not appreciate getting lied to.”

There’s a part of your mind screaming at you that you know this voice, this person, this place, but the terrified haze you’re in yields little room for rationality as he shuts off the laser and turns around to face you, features covered by a mask with nothing but a set of glowing yellow eyes.

“You do, in fact, snore.”

It’s like a switch gets flipped, the haze lifts as you realize that you’re safe and you collapse back into the couch in a relieved heap, breaths still frenzied and heart still trying to jump out of your chest. “Right. Sorry.” He doesn’t comment any further, simply gets back to whatever it is he was working on before, leaving you to recover by yourself. It takes a few minutes, but once you consider yourself sufficiently calmed, you sit back up on the couch cross legged, blanket draped over your shoulders, wanting to apologize and thank him properly, but looking at him gives you pause.

He seems… smaller somehow than the night before. You find your answer in a heap of metal scattered around his workbench: big, cumbersome pieces of armor. Armor that you remember seeing on him yesterday, that you’d just assumed to be irremovable parts of his body. What you most definitely do not recall are the dents, scratches and the dried blood all over the metal. Nervously flitting your gaze back to him, you see what he’s working on is actually himself; laser directed at a part of his chest that he seems to be welding shut. And you’re taken aback at how much skin there is - human skin. The entirety of his chest and his right arm are sleek steel, interlocking gears and mechanisms, flawlessly shifting into each other as he moves, thin glowing panels pulsing with energy from hidden engines. And there’s definitely more metal at his right hip, disappearing into the waistband of his pants, but other than that…

His left arm is mostly pale skin, scarred flesh at his shoulder connecting to the dark steel; a wired glove slipped over his slender fingers seemingly controling the movements of the claw over this shoulder. His stomach and waist are still incredibly human too, if nothing else because of the dark purple bruise forming against his skin. He’s nowhere near as much machine as you’d expected, not to mention he looks… hurt. Had he been in a fight? Gotten attacked?

You open your mouth to ask, but think better of it before any sound can come out. It really has nothing to do with you; what he does in his own time is none of your business. It still feels off, to infringe on his time and help and not even ask if he’s alright when clearly, something that you’re not privy to has happened. Never one to leave well enough alone, you grab your bag from the floor and start sorting through the collection of herbs you’ve managed to acquire over time. Once you’ve found the ones you’re looking for, you package them into the most clean rag you have in your possession and tie it shut; uncrossing your legs you walk over to him and place the haphazardly made package on the table, careful not to disturb him. The movement still gets his attention and even with the mask’s filter, confusion is clear as day in his voice as he asks, “What is that and what is it doing on my workbench?”

“It’s an herbal remedy, for uhm… bruises and the like?” you explain, vaguely gesturing at his waist. “You soak it in boiling water and then put it on the effected area; it helps with swelling and pain.” It’s silent for a few long seconds, then, “I see. Thank you.” Not even remotely close to anything you were readying yourself for as a response, but it makes something within your chest beam with pride. You don’t even realize you’re still staring until he points it out and is met with, “You’re just… not exactly what I expected.”

“A monster?”

The laugh you let out is so shockingly soft, it almost startles him. “You’ve got a reputation, sure, and you’re… intimidating at first glance, I’ll give you that, but… I’ve met plenty of monsters in my life and none of them were anything like you. In fact, all of them looked and acted remarkably, ordinarily human at first.” There’s no further elaboration from your side and your gaze is distant, mind somewhere far away from here. He almost calls your name, but it occurs to him in the nick of time that you never actually introduced yourself. You’ve been here for less than twenty four hours and already he’s slipping, making mistakes; he can’t have that, so he drives the conversation in a direction he has control over. “I am almost finished with my repairs, I can get the general anesthetic started so we can proceed with your surgery as quickly as possible.”

Wild, hot panic takes over your gaze and he fully expects you to bolt out the front door with how you flinch and take a step away from him. “I need be under for the surgery? Can’t you do like, local anesthesia on my arms?” He hesitates; he’s never known you to be afraid of medical procedures, so what’s the problem? “First off, I will not be replacing both of your hands at the same time. Too risky and you’ll be completely incapacitated; we’re going to start with only one today. And no, in theory, you do not have to be under full anesthesia, however, we are talking about a delicate and unusual kind of surgery; I can not promise that it will be painless while you’re still conscious.”

“That’s fine, I don’t mind the pain, I just… I wanna have some agency in what gets done to my body from here on out.”

Ah. So that’s it. One glance at the dried blood still clinging to his armor on the floor and he feels the rage from last night raise it’s ugly head again. He shoves that right back down, cursing internally, before he answers you, voice level and betraying nothing. “All right. It will not be a pretty sight, though.” You shrug, as nonchalant as if he’d just told you about dinner plans. “I mean, I don’t have to watch directly. But I’m gonna admit, I am curious.”

The curiosity lasts for all of the first cut into your flesh, then you turn your head away and simply let him work in silence; wouldn’t want to distract the man currently flaying you open and re-wiring your nerve endings. Luckily, there’s only the occasional pinch and pull, but you stay pain free otherwise. Recovery after the procedure is a different story entirely though; painful and arduous and time consuming. And you’re more than a little surprised at how diligently the Herald takes care of you. Keeping a close eye on his newest test subject, that’s what you write it off as at first. But as the weeks go by there’s a certain familiar domesticity that sneaks into your routine and you find yourself talking with him more and more. Well, it’s mostly you talking, but he listens; you know because the day after you complained about the room you’d been staying in feeling too dark, you’d come back from an errand to find the windows cleaned, the curtains gone and some mismatched lamps placed around the room. It’s a sweet, quiet kind of constant reassurance and you can’t help the way your heart warms at it; so much like what you’d been used to from your lost love.

The day you pick up a glass of water all by yourself, without spilling anything and the glass noticeably cold against your fingers, you almost weep with joy and just barely hold yourself back from tackling him in a hug. Instead you busy yourself with touching as many things in his lab as you can get your one properly functioning hand on - which means you miss the way he so openly stares at you, obvious even with his mask hiding his features. He hasn’t seen you this happy and energized since you showed up on his doorstep. It makes some part in chest whir conspicuously and it almost feels like something is overheating, so he quickly turns away and grabs a random, discarded project from his workbench to fiddle with.

“Do you… ya know, eat?”

It’s a random question, even for you, but he answers nonetheless. He’s used to it by now.

“I no longer require it as a form of energy replenishment, no.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, that doesn’t answer my question, though. You don’t have to, but do you? Sometimes?”

“I fail to comprehend why we are having this conversation in the first place.” He doesn’t put down his tools, nor does he look at you.

Okay, fair point.

“Well, I uh… I used to be a chef, had my own restaurant and everything? And since one of my hands finally works again I figured I’d like to give cooking something a try? And if you have a favorite, I could make it for you? As thanks for… well, for giving me a hand?” It’s not one of your finer jokes, you will admit, so you’re not surprised he doesn’t laugh. Not that you’ve ever heard him laugh at anything, for that matter. He doesn’t react at all, except for, “I told you, I do not take payment for my work. Are we done with this fruitless conversation now?” It stings more than you’d like, to have him dismiss your tries at kindness like that, even though you know it’s not personal.

“Right, yeah, sorry. It’s just… cooking’s the only thing I’ve ever been good for and I like to be some sort of useful so… but you’re right, it’s stupid. I’ll let you get back to work.”

Because if I stopped being useful, then… maybe he wouldn’t want me anymore. Maybe he’d leave me behind for something better.

It was years ago, he shouldn’t remember you saying it as clearly as he does. Nor the way you’d looked then; all teary eyed and vulnerable, in front of him and only him. He shouldn’t remember and much less should he still care. He finds himself putting down his tools anyways.

“Sweetmilk.”

It doesn’t even register that he’s talking to you at first, considering you’re already halfway out the door to give him some peace and quiet. “P-pardon?”

“Sweetmilk.” he repeats. “It’s technically not food, but a weakness of mine and it’s still made on a stove. However, I am out of—“

“I got it! I’ll go get everything; I know how to make it!” The biggest grin on your face, you’re out of his lab in an instant and he hears the front door open and close not long after that.

There’s an actual skip in your step as you make your way down the street, there’s no other way to put it.

You are no fool. It’s in the way he hyperfocuses on his work. In the way his place is always a mess, right down to how his tools and notes clutter his desk. In the way what little sunlight manages to reach this part of the Lanes catches in his chestnut hair when it filters through the windows. In the little vocal mannerisms and gestures that you remember oh so well, that he apparently was unable to remove, no matter how much of a perfect machine he claims himself to be. It’s all right there, it had been from the start, this had just been the final push you’d needed. The final push to actually let yourself hope.

You are no fool. He knows this. He knows this and yet he let you have this. This tiny, obsolete, aggravating piece of information that has now turned him into the fool instead. He’s certain you’ve already figured it out, how could you not have? With the way you were immediately way too comfortable around him? With the way you sometimes talked about yourself, your past, just naturally assuming he’d be able to fill in the blanks, cause to him, they weren’t blanks at all? With the way it had been so easy to slip back into old, dangerously domestic habits with you? This had simply been the final nail in the coffin, yours or his, he isn’t sure; he is sure, however that you do not belong here in his oh so carefully crafted solitude.

Over two years. That’s how long it had taken him to put himself back together again. To rid himself of the parts the Hexcore had already infected, tainted, taken from his control. To replace his dying lungs. To make sure he didn’t fall apart again after every second step. To ensure he was no longer weak. And then he’d come for you, intending to save you, make you whole again, but you’d been gone. Disappeared from your hospital bed, from Piltover all together it had seemed. He’d crossed several lines in his search for you, even the ones he’d set for himself; namely never asking for help from his former best friend and partner again. In the end, the only thing he’d accomplished had been to widen the ever growing rift between them, no step closer to you. So he’d done the only thing he could still think of: rip his heart straight from his chest to maybe, hopefully, get rid of the agony right along with it; erase the joyful memories that held nothing but misery anymore. And it had worked; everything inside him dulled and numbed enough to simply drown himself in his work with no interferences. Until you’d stumbled back into his life. And things should be different, he shouldn’t care about you anymore outside of how you can further his research, but they’re not. The way the two of you still fit together so effortlessly is disgustingly, hauntingly familiar and he has to put a stop to it. He has chosen to live like this, in isolation and loneliness, he would not force it on you in the name of some long forgotten affection.

Perfect opportunity strikes some days later, while he’s in the process of replacing your second hand and you question him about his own augmentations. So he tells you about his weak leg and his collapsing lungs like you don’t already know. Watches the smile vanish from you lips and your face fall as he explains how he removed his connections to people from his past.

“So you… you don’t remember anyone who used to be a part of your life? Family, friends, lovers?”

“I remember them just fine, I simply got rid of any unnecessary emotional attachments associated with them. I remember my mother’s lullabies, I do not miss them any longer. I remember the discussions with my old partner, yet I no longer look at them fondly. I remember the lazy mornings spent with my lover, but I don’t yearn for them anymore.”

You visibly flinch at that last one and he merely warns you to stay still, like he doesn’t know what hearing all of this must do to you. It goes quiet between you two afterwards and any glance he steals at you confirms his theory, proves that his action had the desired reaction: the cogs are turning in your head and the longer they do, the more the despair and grief start to show on your face; realization that he is no longer the man you knew and that you no longer have a place by his side. It’s quick, simple work to finish your surgery and he decides to leave you be, give you time to let the new information he provided you with sink in and with some trivial errands used as a quick excuse, you’re left sitting alone on a rickety old stool in his lab.

And you stay seated for a long while, still and unmoving, blankly staring off into the distance as you hopelessly try to process what he just revealed to you. The love you hold for him hasn’t diminished in the slightest, no matter how much he might claim to have changed, but what’s it worth if you’re nothing but a stranger to him now? If the affections he’d had for you in return were lost to his quest of a perfect evolution?

You’re unsure what compels you to rise from your seat, to stroll across the room and absentmindedly trail your fingers across the books on one of his shelves. Maybe you’re simply trying to distract your mind from spiraling further down into the dark abyss of hoplessness it’s currently headed for. Maybe a part of you already knows that this is not meant to last and you’re trying to commit everything to memory through touch alone, now that he’s returned that sensation to you. The very last thing you expect is for one of the spines to catch your attention and for just a moment, you’re back in your old apartment, your old life. Hurriedly pulling the book from it’s spot you find that you are in fact correct, this used to belong to you. The corners of the dark blue cover are frayed and the golden lettering faded, but you recognize it anyways; you’d lent it to him years ago and he’d just never gotten around to giving it back. Which still doesn’t explain what it’s doing here, surely he doesn’t have any use for it anymore. You gingerly dust it off, careful not to over exert your new fingers, and crack it open only for a little slip of paper to immediately come fluttering out and land on the floor in front of you. Picking it up, you find only two words written in a handwriting you know all too well.

Lavender = devotion

The memories flood your mind wether you want them to or not; memories of your absolute mess of a first date. Of the meticulously crafted bouquet of flowers he’d gotten you, based on the book you’d lent him.

Putting the paper back with the page containing it’s corresponding flower, you quickly rifle through the rest of the book and find plenty more notes still left within the pages, all in his handwriting.

Iris = hope, trust

Alstroemeria = mutual support, fascination

Carnations = sincere love, respect, new beginnings

The last entry you come across doesn’t have a written note with it. Instead you find a picture: the two of you, slumped together on the sofa in the lab, all tangled limbs and sleepy intimacy, blissfully unaware of your friend sneaking this picture. It’s marking the pages for camellias and you don’t need a note or a proper look at the information in the book to know what they symbolize; not when you can clearly remember him telling you.

Eternal love. I’m yours for as long as you want. If you’ll have me.

The book slips from your fingers, landing open on the floor with a dull thump as you go right along with it, knees hitting the wood beneath you hard as you curl in on yourself and sob, photograph cradled close against your chest.

It’s the first time you’ve cried, some still coherent part of your mind realizes. Since waking up. Since being imprisoned and tortured. Since coming here. Since being forced to accept stroke after stroke of fate that had irreversibly changed your life entirely against your will or control. So you cry and you weep and you scream at the top of your lungs. For yourself and everything you’ve had to endure. For all you’ve lost. For the life you could’ve had.

You have to leave. You have to. Or you’d spend the the rest of your life desperately trying to rekindle a love that no longer exists. A final glance at the picture still held in your hands and you consider taking it; he wouldn’t miss it, he probably doesn’t even know it’s still here. But the people in that photograph are long gone and it would cause you nothing but more grief, so what’s the point? You drop it between the pages you’d found it in and shove the book back into its’ spot on the shelf before scrambling to your feet and beginning to gather your things strewn across his house. And you could’ve left then and there, things packed and mind made up. You probably should have. But it doesn’t feel quite right either, just disappearing without a trace. So you sit on the bed you’ve called your own for the past weeks and you wait. Until you hear him come home in the middle of the night and the urge to sprint downstairs, throw a quick goodbye and thank you over your shoulder and slam the door on this entire sad, miserable chapter of your life is there. But you don’t. You can’t. Because despite everything, you still want a proper goodbye - you didn’t get one last time, after all. Except you have no idea how you’d go about that, so you stay right where you are and rack your brain. Until dawn breaks and you’re no closer to a solution, so you drag your tired body off the bed and make your way downstairs; you’re just looking for more excuses to stay at this point.

Of course you find him at his workbench, where else, most of his heavier armor discarded and Hexclaw dimantled in front of him as he diligently solders wires to metal. Pausing in the doorway, you wait for him to acknowledge your presence, giving yourself some more time to think, but when several minutes pass and he doesn’t even look up you clear your throat, receiving a quick ‘Morning.’ in return and nothing else. No point beating around the bush, is there?

“When do you think I’ll be able to leave?”

Too busy fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of your shirt to distract yourself, you don’t notice the way he almost flinches, everything he’s doing coming to a halt. It’s quiet for only a moment before he says, “You are not a prisoner here. You may leave whenever you wish to.”

Not the answer you want, not the answer you long for, but an answer nonetheless

“I… now would be good for me, I think.”

“Very well.”

And that’s the end of it. The room is blanketed in silence once again, except for the scrapes and shuffles of his tools as he goes back to work. No grand, emotional request for you stay and why would he? You’re a stranger, an experiment and there’ll be others like you; others to further his research and learn from. He doesn’t need you anymore. He hasn’t for a very long time, you realize. Oh how you wish you could feel the same. You go to grab your bag from the hallway in apathetic, almost mechanical movements, nothing but muscle memory driving you at this point and you expect to walk out the front door without another word exchanged between the two of you, but surprisingly enough, he calls out to you again.

“Where will you go?”

Stopping in your tracks, you come to lean against the door frame, gaze falling anywhere but him. You’re not sure what he’s even asking for, it won’t have any impact on his life after all, but you answer honestly anyways. “As far away from this city as I can get, probably. There’s no one— there’s… nothing left for me here anymore.” A pause as the faces of your tormentors flash before your inner eye. “Not before making the bastards who used me pay for it, though.” He unscrews a panel at the base of the Hexclaw while posing another question. “And if that costs you your life?” You shrug even though he can’t see. “Just as well. I’m not sure I’ve got the will to build something new for myself anyways…”

Silence falls again and you interpret it as the natural end of the conversation and your cue to leave. Except there’s one last thing you need to get off your chest - quite literally, in fact. Slipping off the chain around your neck, ring still safely attached to it as always, you approach him and place it on the surface of his workbench. To your utter surprise, he actually interrupts his work and picks it up with careful fingers; his face might be hidden from you by his mask, but he radiates confusion so you explain before he has a chance to ask. “When I first came here, you told me I could pay you in scrap metal if it made me feel any better about encroaching on your space and time. You can melt this down, throw it out, I don’t care; I’ve carried it around with me long enough and it was always meant to be yours.” You truly don’t have the strength to wait for his reaction, or probable lack thereof; this means nothing to him now, you mean nothing, and that thought makes you hurry towards the exit, tears burning in your eyes.

Despite better judgment, you pause in the doorway, fingers tight around the strap of your bag and swallow around the growing lump in your throat. “Thank you…” It’s barely above a whisper and it’s not enough. You were the one who wanted a proper goodbye this time, weren’t you? So you turn to fully face him, met with the same blank, hollow eyed stare you’ve grown oh so used to and you smile, genuine and grief stricken. “Thank you for everything, Viktor.”

Part of you wonders when he last heard his own name. If he even still remembers it.

And then you’re gone, leaving him alone in his quiet lab, with only his research to keep him company, just as it should be.

The front door is as far your shaky legs get you, bag slipping from your shoulder as you slump against it, forehead pressed to the cool, worn wood as you press a hand against your mouth in a desperate attempt to to stifle the sobs. The man you’re leaving behind is the love of your life no matter what, you’ve known that for ages; there was a before him, but there was never supposed to be an after. And yet now you have to figure out exactly what that after is going to look like, because he’s gone and at the same time he’s still here and that, oh that aches something awful. It’s unfair and it’s cruel and it makes you want to claw your own chest open to strangle your heart with your bare hands just to make the pain stop. It makes you envy him for the first time, no heart left in his chest to ail him. And it makes you despise him, because how dare he leave you alone with the burden of this love you were supposed to share?

The heavy footfalls behind you should jumpstart you into action, make you wrench the door open and get out or at the very least compose yourself, but you can’t. You find that you simply don’t care anymore either. Let him see what he’s done to you, what he’s turned you into, even if he wouldn’t shed a single tear over it. A mechanical hand comes to rest next to your head, his presence right at your back, so close and so very much like the first night you came to this place and yet everything’s so incredibly different now.

“What? Did you forget some kind of last diagnostics test on the new hand or something?” The tears are obvious in your tone. “No. But you should know that the people you plan on taking revenge on are already dead. I made sure of it.” Breath catching in your throat, the memory of your first morning in this house comes back to you: the bruises, the blood on his armor, the way everything about him had screamed violence and death that day. “You… Why?” It makes no sense whatsoever and it’s making your head spin and he’s not answering, until, “That’s hardly a concern for you now. I simply thought it consequential for you to be made aware of the fact that if you wish to depart from this city you may do so. There is nothing—“ It’s the first time you’ve heard him falter and fumble in all your time here and when he speaks again there’s an edge to his voice that you can’t quite place, accompanied by the hand against the door clenching into a fist. “There is no one keeping you here anymore.”

The clock in the corner counts down the seconds, loud and echoing in comparison to the quiet that has befallen you both. A quiet you decide to break, tentative and scared.

“Isn’t there? My tormentors might be gone, but what of the man I love? Could he still find it in him to love me if I stayed?”

“I don’t believe that still matters, does it? You’ll leave either way.”

And something inside of you snaps.

You brace your forearms against the door and shove backwards, catching him so off guard he stumbles back a step or two, creating just enough distance for you to rear back your hand and punch him square in the jaw. His mask gets knocked clean off his face, loudly clattering to the floor; your freshly operated hand sparks and creaks ominously, fingers now bent at odd angles while searing pain shoots up your entire arm, but you don’t care. It’s nothing compared to the white, hot fury that’s boiling you alive from the inside out.

“How dare you? How fucking dare you?!”

He doesn’t even deem it necessary to look at you; completely frozen to the spot, head turned away from you and hair covering his eyes from your view. He will have to listen to you either way, wether he wants to or not. Wether he still cares or not.

“You’re the one who decided he’d rather forget every moment, every laugh, every touch we shared like they all meant nothing! You’re the one who tore out his heart without a second thought and threw it away even though it was mine! And all the while you’re leaving me with the burden of it all! I’m the only person alive who still holds our time together dear to their heart now! Do you have any idea how heavy memories can be? How maddening?! And these—“ you bring your hands up between the two of you, all sleek, perfect metal, the spitting image of him. “You gave me these for all the world to see and left me with yet another reminder of you! Like I needed more of those to know that I am still and always will be irrevocably yours! And now you tell me that it wouldn’t matter if there’s any part of you, however small, that still thinks of yourself as mine?! Fuck you, Viktor!”

You slump back against the door for support, chest heaving and unharmed hand coming up to cover your face; a desperate and all but pointless attempt to hide the tears and stifle the sobs.

He’s a scientist, an engineer. Solving problems, fixing things, improving lives; it’s what he does. What he thrives in. Yet he doesn’t know how to fix this. So he zeroes in on the one thing he can fix.

“Let me see your hand.”

But you don’t let him. Curl in on yourself and angle your body and injured hand away from him; it makes you seem so much smaller. So vulnerable. So defeated. Good. Maybe if he can drive you away even further then…

“You are… a distraction. A hindrance to my work that I can not tolerate. You do not belong here and it would be better for the both of us if you left and never returned.”

With the mask gone, the mechanical edge to his voice is missing as well, but every word still stings like the cut of a blade.

“So turn around and let me go. You’ll never have to see me again, I promise.”

He knows all too well how seriously you take that; every promise, no matter how small or menial, a solemn oath, never to be broken. He can not let you make this one; every part of himself rebels against the very thought of letting you walk out that damn door, even if it would be the logical thing to do. Drive you further away, he’s not capable of that any longer, who is he trying to fool? Himself, most likely.

Stepping closer he gauges your reaction and when you don’t recoil from him any further, he rests his hands on either side of you and drops his forehead against the old, worn wood above your shoulder.

“I can’t.”

It’s spat through grit teeth, like it physically pains him to admit it. But it’s the most emotion you’ve heard in his voice during all the time you’ve been here.

“I removed every function that wasn’t vital; every memory that was redundant to my work. Affection, jealousy, admiration, anger, joy, sorrow; any emotion that would’ve proven an aberration sooner rather than later. I clawed and prodded and scraped at my own insides until nothing remained and yet you refused to let go.”

Your sobs have reduced to sniffles, your body still beneath him; except for the hand you’ve dropped from your face that he now feels running up his back, titanium fingers gliding over the metal ridges that make up his spine until they settle at the nape of his neck.

“Your face, your laugh, your favorite color, the way you’d look cooking breakfast in the mornings, the way your body would feel against mine; every detail, no matter how minute stayed. Etched into the fissures of my brain, burned into the steel I used to rebuild myself, regardless of how many times I replaced it. Carved into my being, my very soul; I could not remove you any more than I could remove the engine beating as my heart. And I can not go back to how things were before you came here. Before you found me again.”

“Why not? You seemed perfectly happy in your solitude with your work.” Your voice is small, but genuine. And you almost squeak in shock, wind knocked out of you, when his arms come around your middle to hold you tight, almost too tight, flush against him as he buries his face into crook of your neck.

“Because you are in every fraction of skin, in every blood vein that still remains within me. In every bolt, every wire, every piece of metal I welded to myself. I do not… function properly unless I know of your whereabouts. Unless I know you’re safe and cared for. And it was maddening, to surpress it, to ignore it all these years; a clear error constantly rearing its’ ugly head, telling me that I will never get any further in my research, my work, my vision, unless it’s resolved. Constantly running on loop in the back of my head, reminding me that I am incomplete. I need you, you are an essential part of me, right down to my very atoms and it makes me, all of me, no matter what else I might become, yours.”

There’s fresh tears streaming down your face, because he sounds so tired. So desperate. So upset. So painfully human. You find yourself doing the same thing you’ve always done when you’ve had him in your arms, worried and anxious about something; gently thread your fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp and lean your head against his carefully. “Viktor, if you want me to stay, all you have to do is ask. You know that; if you want something all you ever had to do was ask it of me. But I need you to ask me, all right? I need to hear you say it.” He doesn’t answer right away, only draws patterns into the small of your back in thought; a habit of his you remember all too well. This close, you can feel the heat coming off him, generated from the several engines powering him and a barely there hum and whirr of machinery against your chest; a sound that comes in regular intervals, akin to a heartbeat. When he does speak, his voice is weary. Conflicted. Unsure. Scared.

“I am not the man you fell in love with, my heart. Not gentle, nor kind. There is no coming back from the lines I’ve crossed and I don’t— I can not love you the same way I used to. The way you’d deserve. And yet… I want to be selfish.” He pauses for a bitter, ridiculing bark of laughter and shifts in your hold and it’s only then that you realize the skin at the slope of your neck and your collarbone is wet. Shame threatens to choke you when it occurs to you that up until now you didn’t think he still could cry. “I shouldn’t want for anything. Machines do not want or desire or long for things. But… they need all their components to operate as they’re supposed to; to perform at their full potential.” He’s rationalizing it, you know and you’ll be fucking damned if you interrupt him. “And I need you to stay. Here, with me. Then maybe in time you’ll be able to love me as I am now.”

Your chuckle is weak; you’re exhausted physically and emotionally. “What a silly thing to say. That’s assuming I ever stopped loving you in the first place.” It should be impossible, for his embrace to become any tighter, but it does and it’s almost starting to hurt - good, because the pain makes it real.

It’s in the way he buries his face against you further, a noise oh so very similar to a sob escaping him, and how your gaze catches on his mask left discarded on the ground that it finally dawns on you: he’s hiding. From you or from himself, you’re not certain, but you’re not having it any longer. “My love, let me see you.” He doesn’t move; if anything he freezes up. “Please?” You try again and are met with the same result, except for, “You will not like what you find.” Irritation flares up in your chest, manifesting itself in a harsh tug on his hair and, “That’s for me to decide.” It takes him a few very long, agonizing seconds, but eventually, he sighs in defeat and pulls back enough for you to be able to get your first proper look at his face after all these years.

No wonder you managed to break your hand, his jaw and cheeks are all solid, dark, smooth metal, connecting to the column of his throat. Your fingers are moving before you can stop yourself, trailing along his cheek bones where hard steel meets soft, scarred flesh. Still as pale as always, almost deathly so, faint blue veins under his skin now in plain view and the contrast to the two moles you adore all the more prominent. The ever present dark circles under his eyes have evolved into lasting bruises. And oh his eyes. The same beautiful gold you remember, except now they’re rimmed with a thin ring of bright pink, courtesy of the Shimmer you’ve seen in his lab no doubt, bright against the deep, dark, purple-ish black that now makes up his sclera. But dissimilar from your memory as they may be, the look in them is one you recognize: careful, poised for rejection, but the remaining tears betray him. It’s strange, how he can look so utterly different yet so hauntingly the same.

He had imagined this moment plenty of times, but never in his wildest dreams could he have come up with this. Yes, there’s several emotions at once crossing your face when you finally see him, yet none of them negative. It’s genuine, innocent curiosity at first, reflected in the careful fingers that reach out to touch him. And before he has time to fully register your touch against his skin, your expression shifts and it’s nothing but pure, unadulterated admiration and affection. “Still so beautiful. Still all mine.”

Just like that, all the tumult and chaos and noise in the back of his head that hadn’t once stopped in the last few years finally seems to silence and he can actually fucking think in peace again for the first time - and the first thing he thinks to do, the most logical thing to do, really, is to curse under his breath before crashing his lips to yours. It’s needy and filthy and all tongues and teeth, your back making abrupt contact with the door again as he shoves you against it, hands coming up from your waist to cup your face. The gesture is tender and sweet and entirely contrasting to the way he’s kissing you; to what he claims to have become. It’s more than welcome nonetheless, giving you a sense of security you didn’t realize you needed as your intact hand moves away from his hair to cover his. It just so happens to be the one that’s still mostly flesh and blood, warm against your skin, except for a thin, cold sliver of metal you feel that you can’t place at first. You don’t remember seeing any augmentations that would feel like this on his hand before. Curious despite the adoring, addictive haze that’s starting to cloud your mind, fingertips try to make out more detail and you find it in tiny little ridges in the metal sitting specifically on his ringfinger that feel suspiciously like letters. Letters that spell out one word: Unconditional.

Your ring. He’s wearing your ring.

It makes you kiss him harder, wanting him so much closer even though it’s hardly possible. You could stay like this for the rest of your life and you wouldn’t ever need for anything else. How unfortunate it is then that one of you both still needs air to fill their lungs to live. How unfortunate that that someone is you; personally you gladly would’ve suffocated against his lips, but he seems to have other plans as he pulls back to let you take some much needed deep breaths, chest heaving while he settles for leaving chaste pecks against the skin of your face.

“Still all yours,” he confirms and you mirror the smile you can hear in his voice. “Now and always.”

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. Happy Valentine's Day!

Signed and Sealed

Sherlock wakes alone. He listens and hears John puttering in the kitchen. It’s clear that he’s making something special and not the normal tea and beans on toast. Then he remembers; it’s Valentine’s Day. John has promised to make the day special. Sherlock’s heart skips a beat when he thinks about the surprise on the mantle. It’s evident that John hasn’t found it yet, or he would probably have returned to the bedroom. He turns his head to gaze at his alarm clock. It’s hidden, he realises. An envelope is placed in front of it. Sherlock’s name is written in John’s familiar scrawl.

His focus narrows, and every sound disappears. He reaches out and takes the envelope in his hands, letting his thumb caress his name. The paper is thick, expensive, the colour a delicate ivory. It’s only sealed at the triangle end of the flap. Sherlock’s hands shake minutely when he brings his index finger under the flap to open the envelope. His pulse quickens, and he feels moisture in his palms. Slowly, he pulls out a thick piece of paper filled with John’s letters.

My only love

Were you surprised to find this letter? I hope so. Surprising you is an almost impossible feat, but I promise I’ll keep trying. 

Meeting you has changed my life in so many ways. In fact, you’ve saved my life by just being you. I find that quite remarkable. My annoyance with your antics notwithstanding, I will never ask you to change. 

The man I fell in love with, that is you, by the way, does store body parts in the fridge, the toaster, and on our kitchen table. But he also plays the most beautiful tunes on his Stradivarius, will punish anyone who dares to harm his beloved landlady, and he always makes me feel like the most important person in the room. 

I love you so much it hurts, but I welcome the pain. It makes me realise I’m alive, ready to follow you wherever you go, whether it’s over London’s rooftops, down dodgy alleyways, or walking hand in hand through Regent’s Park.

Always yours, John

Sherlock reads the card twice more, then presses it to his chest. It’s only then he realises that tears are running down his cheeks. He wants to call out to John; he needs to hold him in his arms. Now.

***

John wakes early, and to his relief, Sherlock is still asleep. He wants to kiss his forehead but refrains. Instead, he retrieves the envelope with Sherlock’s name written on it, from his drawer in the bedside table, and places it in front of Sherlock’s alarm clock. Carefully, so he won’t wake the gorgeous man, John goes to the bathroom, takes a quick shower, dresses in a t-shirt and soft pyjamas bottoms, before he walks into the kitchen to start breakfast. He’s promised to make this day special for Sherlock, and he intends to start with the day’s first meal. Scrambled egg, avocado, smoked salmon, and fried mushrooms.

When everything is ready, he puts the kettle on, and moves to the windows to observe the weather. Clear sky, as the forecast said. He turns to go back to the kitchen, when something catches his attention. There’s an envelope on the mantle. With his name on it. Written in elegant calligraphy letters. John’s heart leaps to his throat, and he picks up the item. At the back it’s securely sealed with golden wax. The bee image from the stamp John had bought Sherlock for his birthday, is situated precisely in the middle of the circle. John feels like a savage when he breaks it, but he’s eager to get to the treasure inside. 

The letter is larger than his own, and before he focuses on each word, he takes in the beauty of the elegantly formed script. Sherlock’s handwriting can sometimes be worse than every doctor John has encountered, but after a case where calligraphy had been the solution to a particularly difficult code, the great detective has been obsessed with the art form. John inhales deeply and focuses on the message from his madman.

My John

I once told you that I would be lost without my blogger. It is still true, but blogger is by far sufficient to describe you. What started out as a convenience on both our parts, soon evolved into something else. The pull I felt each time your blue gaze met mine, made me dizzy. It distracted me, and I told myself I should be irked by it, but I couldn’t for the life of me fathom how to push you away. Then I realised I didn’t want to. You became essential, a part of me I couldn’t bear to part from.

You are still an enigma, the puzzle I will never solve. It thrills me to no end, which contradicts everything I know about myself, but I promise you; it is the honest truth. 

Sharing my life with you is a privilege. Loving you is a daily honour. Being loved by you, still blows my mind. I sometimes think I am hallucinating or dreaming, but your solid presence tells me otherwise. You ground me, keep me right.

The pain that pierces my heart whenever you are in danger, is a reminder that I am human and very much alive. When I see the love in your eyes, a love directed at me, the pain changes into a dull ache. And by now I know what to call you – my heart, my world, my everything.

Forever yours, Sherlock

***

Before he can draw breath to call for John, he stands in the doorway, letter in hand. His eyes are bright, full of unshed tears.

“Come here,” Sherlock says softly.

John moves quickly toward the bed, clutching the letter tight.

“God, I love you,” he murmurs before their lips meet.

“And I you,” Sherlock tells him with every shared kiss.

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

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[elliecore4eva]

Hi guys! I just started a new series I will be finishing my previous please hang on! this is a new series I have started!

Pairing: Ellie Williams x Sunshine!Joel's Daughter! Fem! reader

I really hope you like it

Genre: Angst

THE SUNSHINE THAT FELL FROM THE SKY

The Tipsy Bison was alive with laughter that night. The hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the low melody of some old record playing in the background—it was warm, familiar, safe.

And you?

You were the brightest thing in the room.

Tucked beside Ellie in your usual booth, your smile lit up the space like a summer morning. You always did that—made everything feel softer, easier. You laughed at Jesse’s dumb jokes, nudged Ellie when she was being her usual grumpy self, leaned into her with that touch that told the whole town, I love this girl.

You didn’t notice the way Ellie had been getting tense all night.

But Jesse did.

And Jesse, being Jesse, made the mistake of pushing just a little too far.

He leaned back with a knowing smirk, nudging Dina. "I mean, come on, have you ever seen someone more whipped than Ellie?"

Dina snorted. "Not possible. She’s like, clinically obsessed."

Ellie rolled her eyes. "Oh, fuck off—"

"Nah," Jesse cut in, grinning. "For real. If you told Ellie to bark, she’d do it."

That should’ve been harmless.

You had laughed, playfully bumping Ellie’s shoulder. "I mean, would you?"

And that was when it snapped.

Ellie slammed her drink down so hard the glass rattled. The entire table went silent.

You barely had time to process before she turned to you, voice sharp as a blade.

"God, would you just shut the fuck up for once?"

It was like the whole room exhaled at once.

Your breath hitched.

Your smile, that same sunshine-bright smile that Ellie had once called home, flickered.

"Ellie—"

"No, seriously," she cut you off, voice raising, cracking. "You just never stop, do you? Always so fucking cheery, always acting like life is some goddamn fairytale—"

"Ellie, stop." Dina’s voice was sharp.

But Ellie was too far gone.

And she wanted to hurt you.

"Do you even know how fucking exhausting it is?" she went on, laughing bitterly. Loud now. Loud enough for the whole bar to hear. "Walking around, acting like everyone loves you, like you’re just so fucking special—"

Your hands trembled.

"I—"

"What? Got nothing to say now?" Her words were venom. "For once in your life, you’re actually shutting the fuck up—"

"Ellie, that’s enough!"

Joel’s voice boomed from across the bar, but—

You moved before he could.

Your hand shot out, grabbing his sleeve weakly.

"Dad, please."

It was soft. Barely audible. But it was enough to make the whole world stop.

Joel froze.

And Ellie?

Ellie felt her stomach drop out of her fucking body.

Because even after everything she just said, after she had ripped you apart in front of everyone—you were still protecting her.

That realization was like a blade through her ribs.

And it got so much worse when you spoke again.

Your voice was so small.

"I’m sorry," you whispered.

And then you stood.

And walked away.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t slam the door.

You just left.

Wiping at the silent, steady stream of tears running down your face.

And the moment you were gone—the whole town turned on her.

Please note that follows, reblog, comments and likes are very much appreciated!

Part 2

[post-apocalyptic-fantasy-au]

5

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Impulse made the promised soup for dinner that first night, and Tango found that Gem was right. It was delicious, a perfect blend of meat (real meat!) and vegetables (fresh from Gem's own garden!) and broth, every flavour blooming in its own right and simultaneously supporting all the others. They ate it with buttered bread, which was light and fluffy and, like the pancakes, still warm; nothing like the cheap rolls Doc sometimes brought him.

Impulse told him the meat was beef as Gem carefully added a garnish of small rocks and explained it was to help with digestion. Gem told him the vegetables were potato and leek and onion.

Tango realised, as Skizz tore chunks of his bread off rather than taking bites like Impulse was, that his teeth were just as sharp as Tango's own. He still had no idea what Skizz was, and wasn't sure if it would be rude to ask - he knew Doc would have hated anyone to ask him - so he said nothing.

The five of them conversed relatively easily, with minimal questions regarding Tango's past being passed around. He suspected they'd had a conversation about that somewhere in the course of the afternoon.

After dinner, Gem and Skizz made a bed for Tango on the sofa while Tango showed Impulse and Zedaph how his sleeping cap worked.

It was clever thing - fire- and waterproof, thick enough that even the heat of the flames struggled to make it through, but with just enough small holes in to allow them to keep breathing and stay alive. It protected his bed, or the sofa in this case, when he slept and his head when he washed.

Impulse and Zed were fascinated, asking about a million questions about how Tango's hair worked and how the cap worked and how they'd found out it worked and how they'd realised it was necessary. Tango answered each question carefully, leaving out any mention of the lab, or anything that could point to it.

He was realising very quickly that it wasn't out of some concern for the privacy of the lab that he kept it a secret, but more out of a strange unwillingness to admit to it. He didn't want to talk about it, didn't even want to think about the lab and its goings on and his life there. He told the others only the bare minumum that would answer their questions, because he of all people understood curiousity, but didn't tell them a single thing beyond that.

Finally, Zedaph's wings started to get tired, leading him to drop slowly out of the sky, and Impulse caught him and suggested they all get some sleep.

Zedaph settled down on the sofa's armrest, and Tango lay down on the sofa, Torchy curling on his chest. It was soft - unbelievably soft - and so, so warm under the blankets. He'd never been so comfortable in his life, and on his second night away from four familiar walls, he fell asleep in seconds.

*

Tango awoke to the sun streaming in through the windows. For several minutes, he didn't move, enjoying its warmth. There was no mistaking his distance from the lab this time - he'd never even seen the sun before leaving, let alone been woken up by it. It felt like his own personal miracle.

Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he opened his eyes.

Torchy was still fast asleep on his chest, only the scales on his chest keeping his lungs from collapsing under the weight, and Tango could spy Zedaph snoozing on the armrest in an entirely different position that he fell asleep in. From up the stairs that Impulse and Skizz disappeared to, gentle snoring was floating down to him. A faint knocking came from Gem's room as she presumably twitched her hooves in her sleep.

Tango's eyes landed on the messenger bag leaning against the sofa, and he thought of the smaller bag hidden inside, his gift from the Queen.

Careful to avoid stirring Torchy, Tango reached down, opened the flap and pulled out the drawstring bag. For a moment, he merely held it in his hand, feeling it's extreme weight. He couldn't imagine how such a small item could be so heavy.

Tango slotted two clawed fingers into the bag and tugged it open, turning it upside down.

Out fell a small rock.

It was no bigger than the top half of his thumb, roughly triangular in shape, and maybe a centimetre thick in the centre.

And yet it weighed as much as a decent sized stone. A geologist had brought him some once, to see what he would do with it. The thing had barely fit in his hand, so he'd had to use both to hold it securely, and it had been almost perfectly spherical. It had weighed almost exactly as much as this tiny slip of rock.

What was so special about this, Tango wondered. Why couldn't he open it in front of Doc and Cub? How could it possibly save his life? Unless he shoved it down someone's throat or something, which he wasn't particularly inclined to do, he couldn't see how the pebble could be used as a weapon.

Tango slid it around in his hand - he would have rolled it, but since its sides were almost perfectly flat, it didn't do much rolling. He found he quite enjoyed its strange weight. It felt... secure, grounded somehow, despite resting on nothing but his hand.

Something shifted upstairs, footsteps crossed the ceiling, then silence for a few moments. A grunt. More footsteps, this time heading this way.

Tango panicked. He was supposed to be up and ready by the time someone came to collect him in the morning, but if he moved now, Torchy would wake up and do what he always did when he didn't wake up naturally: burn the place down. But if he stayed put, he'd be in so much trouble! He had to move!

He tried shifted Torchy carefully, but the moment Tango slid his hands under the tiny dragon's body, he stirred, starting to wake up. Tango froze. No, no, no, no, no!

He was dead. This was it. Whoever was coming would be furious at him, and he'd deserve it! He should have planned for this, shouldn't have been so foolish as to lie there and do nothing after waking! Idiot!

The footsteps reached the stairs, and Tango's fear left him a statue, lying helpless on the sofa, ready for the punishment he knew awaited him.

They'd trained him so well! He'd worked so, so hard to do what they wanted, and it wasn't enough. He still couldn't be good enough.

No. No, he couldn't just accept this. He still had a few seconds. He had to be good enough. He had to.

Tango braced himself and readied his hands where they were still tucked under Torchy's body. He would have to be quick about this.

He could do this.

Without hesitation - he didn't have time for hesitation - he moved, keeping his hands as stationary as he could as he shot to his feet, before gently lowering Torchy back onto the sofa. The dragon stirred, snorted, shot out a stream of smoke, and didn't awake.

Tango yanked his sleeping cap off, shaking his head a bit to get his flames roaring again, and tossed it onto the sofa. He was just stretching casually - he had had to twist his arms painfully to get up without moving them - when Skizz appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

The other male paused when he spotted Tango, then grinned. "Hey, Top!"

"Good morning, Skizz," Tango said, doing his best to make it sound like he wasn't reciting the same thing he said every morning, changing only the name.

Skizz glanced at Torchy and Zedaph, still fast asleep, then gestured for them both to move to the kitchen. Tango followed him, and Skizz closed the door once they were both inside. Tango couldn't help but feel boxed in.

"How're you feeling, buddy?" Skizz asked. "Did you sleep okay?"

Tango nodded, smiling like his heart wasn't still pounding. "I'm feeling a lot better."

"Good, I'm glad." Skizz's grin wasn't fading, so Tango didn't let his, either. "Are you always up this early?"

"I'm not used to getting sun in the morning," he admitted, before realising that may have been too much information.

But Skizz merely nodded. "It took me a while to get used to it as well. You'll get there, don't worry." Skizz clapped his hands, then rubbed them together. "What do you say we get some breakfast started?"

"Sounds good!" Tango had no idea what help he could be, considering this was the first time in his life he'd ever even been in a kitchen before, but he would certainly try.

He looked around, hoping to at least be able to identify some of the things in the room. A few of them, he managed - the toaster and kettle, for example - as they'd been brought to him to see whether he could heat bread and water faster than them. But most were mysteries.

Skizz first crossed to one of the kitchen's larger occupants. It seemed to be a small, hollow, metal box, with a glass front and four circles on top of it. There were a collection of knobs on the front, just above the glass window, and Skizz twised one. Nothing happened.

"Dang it, dude!" Skizz grumbled, and kicked the thing. It didn't help. "This stupid oven can never decide if it wants to work or not!"

Oven. That's what the thing was called. Good to know.

"Is it... seadust-powered?" Tango asked uncertainly. Was this something everyone would know?

Again, Skizz didn't seem concerned. "Yeah. All responsibly sourced, don't worry! I provide the scales myself! But anyway, Impulse built most of it himself. The clock and timer mechanism was our buddy Etho, but Dippledop did the rest."

"I could take a look if you want?" Tango offered. "I mean, I'm not amazing or anything, but maybe I could spot something Impulse missed?"

"Sure, if you'd be up for it. I can't imagine Impulse having anything against it."

Skizz helped Tango pull the oven away from the wall to reveal the small space behind where the seadust and its tiny components were laid out. Tango crouched down and crawled closer, using his hair as a torch to peer into the hole in the wall.

It was a thing of beauty. He spotted the clock mechanism running along the side immediately, and told himself he'd have to come back to take another close look later. Right now, from what he could gather of the problem, he was looking for the on/off switch.

A glance over his shoulder located where the knob to turn it on would connect to the seadust, and when he turned back, he could see the string of dust that must have led right up to that connection point. He followed it, studying repeaters and comparators and observers carefully. It seemed to be fine, even when he looked over it a third time, checking and double checking notches on each component.

"What is that knob supposed to do?" he asked Skizz.

"Turn it on!" was Skizz's very useful reply.

"Okay... And what is it supposed to do when it's on?"

For the first time, Skizz sounded confused when he answered. "Well, get warm. You know, like an oven."

"Right. Just checking." Great, so that was a thing he was meant to know. Skizz would probably start getting suspicious of him now.

He shook off the concern and scanned the other dozens of fine blue lines. There, that one had a heating mechanism! But then he spotted another. And another. In fact, there were five heating mechanisms within this single contraption.

Okay, so he just had to find the one that connected to his knob.

He went back to the string he was following earlier, and followed it further, checking each branch that led into it until he was sure it didn't lead to any of the heaters. Finally, he found the right heater. He checked its entire circuit once, twice.

As he was triple checking every component, the kitchen door opened behind him and Impulse's voice said with a laugh, "Why is my oven in the middle of the room? Oh, hello, Tango!"

Tango, who had frozen guiltily, was very grateful for the training that allowed him to say on muscle memory alone, "Good morning, Impulse."

"He's fixing your seadust, dude!" Skizz sounded disproportionately exciting by this fact.

Tango braced himself, ready for the same anger Doc got when anyone else touched one of his seadust contraptions. Instead, Impulse only said, "Oh, good! That thing's been driving my insane for ages. See anything?"

"Uhh, not yet. Sorry." Tango wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. Where was the screaming? The accusations? The threats? Where were the demands that he put everything back just as he found it or he'd regret it for the rest of his life?

"No worries. We'll leave you to it!"

Two sets of footsteps crossed to the far corner of the room and were followed by whispers, and Tango forced himself to move again. He could wonder about Impulse's reaction another time: right now, he had a job to do.

He couldn't remember where he'd left off his last go-over, so he started from the beginning of the circuit again. Mere moments later, he spotted it: a comparator somehow stuck between comparison and subtraction. It must have gotten knocked at some point, though all the comparators Tango had ever worked with had safeguards to prevent something like that from happening.

With hands that were steady from years of practise, Tango flicked the delicate switch to comparison mode - a quick glance over the seadust around it showed that would be the best fit - and then backed his head out of the hole and stood up.

"It should work now," he announced, forgetting to wait for Skizz's help before shoving the oven back into its place.

"For real?" Impulse started at him, and Tango braced himself as the dwarf crossed to the oven and twisted the knob. A light switched on inside and the whirring of a fan filled the room. Impulse laughed, and the sound reminded Tango of the sound Cub would make when one of his experiments gave the desired outcome. "How did you do that?"

Tango shrugged. "A comparator was stuck. It was no big deal."

"No big deal? I must have looked over that seadust about a million times by now and I never once spotted that!"

"Sorry," Tango muttered.

"Don't be sorry!" Impulse was beaming, but he seemed to rein himself in a bit. "Thanks for the help, man."

Tango shrugged again, his face warming. "No problem."

[previous] [next] [first]

I can't wait for Tango to have his trauma responses loved out of him :D

[buggs-and-beasts]

Sunshine in the Storm (p1)

Summary: For decades her hands have been the only ones to bring him comfort. She’s the only person who’s ever treated him like a person, of course she’d be the person to pull him away from Hydra and stitch him back together.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female OC/Reader

Chapter Warnings: mentions of Canon-typical physical violence and torture, implied abuse, descriptions of physical injuries, no use of y/n

Word Count: 1433

Note! - I'm finally posting some writing! I hope you enjoy it and I'll try to add more parts fairly frequently. FYI, I intend for things to get a bit darker as the story goes along so be sure to check each chapters specific warnings before reading.

Also thank you to @vunblr for their recently finished Toy Soldier series which inspired me to write about an OC/Reader with healing powers!

Anywhere but Here

He’s not sure where he’s going.

Well, he’s not sure who he is so maybe he has bigger problems than where he’s headed. Honestly, there’s only one thing he does know and that is that he failed his mission.

He knows that that man, Captain America, his target, was alive when he left him. Bleeding, injured but alive. He’d made sure of that, he’s pulled the man from the water, pushed the water from his lungs. Hell, he’d called the ambulance just to be sure it got there in time.

He wasn’t sure what it meant, to fail a mission.

He can’t remember any other missions, but he’s confident there have been many. He’s searching through the disorganized snipets of his broken memories but he can’t find anything to suggest he’s ever failed a mission before.

What would failing mean?

It’s impossible for him to tell how long he’s been walking, but his steps are slowing now, quietly leading him down the driveway of a familiar house.

—

She’s not sure where she’s going.

Anywhere but here.

That thought keeps running through her head, like it has been since she watched the helicarriers crash into the Potomac on the news. She was almost ready to follow that instinct now, a backpack full of all the cash, medical supplies, and food she could scavenge swung onto her shoulder. Her hands are shaking as she tightens shoes far too big for her onto her feet. She’s pulling one of Alex’s jackets off a hook by the garage door when she hears it, a quiet crash.

She curses under her breath, stalking over to the fireplace to grab a poker.

Slow, cautious steps take her closer to the sound, muscles tense in preparation for whatever she finds. Whatever or whoever it is, they’re in the dining room. A chill runs through her, her cheeks flushing, chest heaving, poker held back and ready to swing any moment.

She peaks around the corner, relief spreading through her at the familiar sight. It’s a man, tall and bulky, with shoulder length dark brown hair in dark tactical gear.

James.

She lowers the poker, setting it leaning against the wall. There’s no need to fear him. He won’t hurt her, not while Alex is gone.

“Soldier?” Her heart aches to call him that but its the safest option. He doesn’t react when he notices her, he just walks closer, stopping only a foot and a half in front of her. He’s drenched and bloody, blankly reporting back, acting on protocols he can’t even recall. His right arm holds a gun. He raises it, arm extended, barrel pointed at his own chest.

He’s offering it to her, just like he usually offered it to Alex.

She closes the gap, reaching for his other hand, fingers interlocking with cold metal. Tears shine down his face in the dark room.

“I failed.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard his voice. It froze through her. “I failed the mission.”

“I’m running.” The words surprise her as much as they surprise him. “You could come with me,” she shifts, pulling the backpack further onto her shoulder, “if you want.”

“Where?” His voice is scratchy and raw with disuse, but she’d listen to it for hours if he’d let her.

“Away from the capital. There’s a big bus station a couple hours away. From there, anywhere.” She sighs, “Only problem is I can’t find his keys.”

“I can hotwire it.” He doesn’t know where or when he learned it, only that he did.

She smiles, then falters. Her hand is reaching out to brush his bloodied cheek.

“You’re hurt. Can I see?” His nod is small. Without a thought, she brushes the hair from his face and inhales deeply, activating something deep inside herself.

The first thing she notices is a dizzy, muddled fog. The headache starts small but builds on itself, every part of her is aching and throbbing. Her ribs hurt with each breath, each movement. The headache is only getting worse. It’s painful, uncomfortable, exhausting but nothing deadly.

Still, it’s better for her to carry it than him.

A soft hum stems from her chest, a habit she’d taken to over the years to push through the suffering. She takes his hand again, leading him slowly to the garage door and guiding another one of Alex’s jackets onto his shoulders. Before she knows it they’re in the car and its sputtering to life with his practiced movements. All she can think as they pull out of the garage is how much easier this all feels with him at her side. It makes her wonder if she could’ve done it without him, if she could’ve left him.

She’s so grateful she doesn’t need to find out.

—

There’s something disorienting about how much better her presence makes him feel, how the dizzy fog and throbbing, aching pain seem to disappear when she touches him. He tries not to stare, some part of him vaguely aware that his handler’s don’t like it when he stares, but he can’t stop himself.

She’s in a thin black dress, a large jacket surrounding her as she carefully drives them away from the house. He watches her while the sun begins to set, taking in every detail of her. He’s stuck in the long blonde hair pulled back with a thin black ribbon and the dark knowing eyes watching the road.

He wants to ignore the finer details but he can’t.

He can’t ignore the cuts, the dark circles under her eyes, the hollowness of her cheeks. Deep red bruises wrap around her everywhere a hand could grab, her neck and arms and legs.

His stomach turns as the memories of Alexander Pierce grabbing her, fingertips burying into her skin as he tossed her into the wall, cloud his mind. He can practically hear her crash against the brick, her usually so gentle voice cracking as she begged and cried and pleaded for mercy.

All while he just watched.

“James?” Neither of them had spoken for hours. The last stray rays of sunlight are fading and the car is stopped, tucked away in a sparse forest. “Soldier?”

His eyes skip over to hers, falling endlessly into their depth. She smiles at him, the gesture piercing deeper than bullets or knives ever could.

“We’re just a mile from a large bus station just outside New York,” with a nod he shifts to unbuckle himself but a soft hand on his stops him from opening the passenger side door. “They’ll be looking for you tonight,” he can’t decide who she means by they, he can’t even place all the options in his head. “Let’s rest here, we’re far enough away that we can wait to ditch the car until morning.”

Nothing happens for a moment, a long moment, then he realizes she’s waiting for him. She wants him to respond. He nods again, curt but it satisfies her enough to fiddle with the controls for her chair.

It collapses back. She yelps. Then laughs.

It’s warm, sweet and dripping like a spoonful of honey stirred into hot tea, light as a cloud but still slamming into him. He watches her crawl into the backseat, glancing away as she passes him so as to not give her short skirt the opportunity to expose her. He turns back when he hears her settle into the leather.

“There’s more space back here.” She pats the seat next to her, those dark eyes watching him struggle to crawl through the cramped car. He’s sitting next to her again, except back here there’s no console to separate them.

He doesn’t think, just moves.

“Oh.” Her voice is soft, surprised but not upset. He’s in the middle seat now, pressing his side into hers. “Are you cold?” He shakes his head, nuzzling just a bit into her. Even through all his layers he can feel her warmth, her comfort oozing into him. It’s addictive, unfamiliar in the best way.

It’s like she can hear his thoughts, her bare finger running up his spine and into his hair.

“Rest.” She’s guiding him down so his head rests in her lap, fingertips rubbing slow circles on his scalp. “I’ve got you.”

His eyelids are immediately heavy. An exhaustion he didn’t realize he’d been carrying crashes into him like a wave, pulling him under. He closes his eyes, focused on the feel of her hands in his hair and the sound of her gentle humming, until even those things are slipping from him and he’s drifting into a peaceful nothingness.

[ghostsandmirrors]

There was an undeniable pause, a moment of sheer panic that silenced every other thought, when he felt the hand in his hair. That initial feeling was what he was expecting, because assets didn't want and weapons didn't weep, and he was doing both as if he hadn't learned that lesson, as if it hadn't been forced into his brain in ways that could never leave a mark, but only because of the serum.

The combing, the relative gentleness of the feeling compared to the expectation, made his brain stutter. He was stuck between the spiral and the soldier, teetering between the two. The single word dislodged him, tipped him into the soldier and let him get air into his lungs with shaky, inconsistent breaths; it was a command, an order, and he didn't disobey orders. He breathed, between the returning sobs, over the pain in his throat, face pressed against Steve's collar and infusing every breath with whatever smells were on him.

There was silence as he listened, leaning a little into the hand in his hair but otherwise not moving while Steve spoke, not speaking, just trying to calm down enough that he could speak without sobbing, that his voice wouldn't be whimpered or whispers or pleads.

He needed to be able to argue, because most of what he said was wrong. He was broken, he wasn't his Bucky, he knew Steve better than he knew himself, he would've been miserable without the other man, and it was never Steve's fault. None of it. None of it could have been; did either of them truly know about the serum? Did either of them know that he could've survived that fall?

Did he survive, or was that the second part of the dismembering? The second time a piece of him died? Was that where his Bucky was? Lost to the water and the snow at the bottom of the mountains? Never found once peace reigned? His Bucky; a tragedy of the war, a memory, a statistic, a name put carefully to glass, to a wall, to a grave, with no effort by any authorities put towards finding him.

"S'not your fault." He hadn't been told to speak, with that voice like an empty vase that'd been thrown to the floor, and he hadn't been told to argue between small sobs that he tried to ignore, but he needed to. Whatever the consequences, Steve needed to know that none of this was because of him. He needed to know that he could never be blamed, would never be blamed. "Knowin' you's kept me alive, Steve." It felt manipulative to admit, and that was why he didn't like even the idea of uttering it, but it was important. It was true.

How could he commit Steve's face to his memory, every detail and contour, every small and perfect imperfection, the green in his eyes, the way his face relaxed into a smile, or the little movements when he realised he was being teased, if he was dead? How could he dedicate too much time to hearing Steve laugh, cherish that sound like it was the sweetest music, if he was dead?

He still hadn't mapped every curve and dip of Steve's back into his brain; still hadn't memorized the shapes of his chest, his arms, his legs, until they felt more familiar to him than anything else in his life. He couldn't trace his fingers over the creases of Steve's palms like it was second nature, still needing to think about where he was going. He hadn't learned the hills and valleys of any part of Steve, the differences of how any singular space on Steve's body felt against his lips. He hadn't explored that landscape, that beauty, in its entirety. He hadn't gotten lost in him in the way that could truly teach him everything he needed to know so desperately that it almost over-rode his training in that moment; assets didn't want things, but he needed it all.

How could he do any of that if he wasn't here, now?

"You didn't push me off that train. You didn't know I'd-…" He faltered, because all the need and want and longing in the world couldn't convince him that he'd survived. He was alive, he was breathing, but he was sure he'd been dropping shards of himself everywhere he'd been, sharp little pieces that settled into the soles of peoples' feet or cut them when handled, that continued his true legacy of harm and blood because he'd never chosen a way out of the killing. "I'd be at the bottom."

He breathed, because he'd been told to, because he couldn't barely get out of the spiral only to jump back in at the first opportunity, because there was a hand in his hair and a voice in his memories telling him to breath, because he knew what they did about forgotten orders.

The realization that they'd slipped into his thoughts made his breath hitch uncomfortably until he forced himself to ignore that hitch, to move past it, because it was them, not Steve. Steve wouldn't do anything. Steve was safe, and gentle, and warm. Steve was every happy memory, every feeling of home. He wasn't the buzzing of electricity, the screams echoing around cold rooms and hallways, the heavy thudding of boots, harsh words and harsher punishments. Steve was clear skies, laughter, the wind whistling through a gap in the window frame of an apartment previously forgotten, a pile of blankets and two mattresses in the middle of the living room, a train ride together.

He breathed, because Steve had nothing to be sorry about; because Steve had nothing to worry about; because he needed to convince one of them that he was still fine and he knew he couldn't convince himself when he was staring into that spiral, looking at the bait in those depths, realising that the bait wasn't for Steve after all, watching the spiral loop back to the start because he'd been here before, before he became the bait, before he became the depths, before his chest had hollowed itself out.

He breathed, because he had to; the spiral seemed so distant now and he couldn't drag Steve back into it, he couldn't do that to him again, ever. He hadn't wanted to do it today, had tried so hard to stop it that it felt cruel for the dissociation to only kick in now, when the red alert had been screaming for too long, his emotions finally cut off to save them from the fallout, like he was a bomb that'd been difficult to diffuse, a weapon that couldn't weep.

"Stop." Before it'd been broken, the first time he'd said it. Now it was empty but calm, hollow but with some amount of strength. His voice was still in pieces--it'd probably take longer until the sting in his throat stopped showing up in his voice--but it was stronger. "Stop takin' all this on; s'not your fault. I'm not your fault."

The amount of apologizing that was coming from Bucky just broke Steve completely. He knew he had been holding this great weight in his chest. This great burden of knowing who the blame really lied with. He knew that the tears on Bucky's face could break his heart faster than anything else.

The way Bucky yearned to be his former self for Steve made his heart just quiver and writhe. It was like he was physically being hurt in that moment. All the things that collected together to form a miserable Bucky sobbing into his shirt and begging to be someone he use to be made Steve want to hurl himself off a bridge.

He didn't want to see his best friend shattered like glass on the tile floor. Porcelain pieces even. He could watch him cling to him for only so long. He brought a hand to snake through the man's hair. He combed through it with his fingers as though to soothe them both.

"Breath." Was the only thing he could think to say in that moment certain that Bucky unraveled himself so far that he was almost deep into an anxiety attack or a dark sobbing fit that could be turned easily into hyperventilating.

He wanted to think. He needed to think. What was the best way to get through to him? What was the best way to get him to stop going deeper into that deep cavern of sorrow and misery.

"You need to calm before you get yourself into a fit. I understand that you feel broken. You don't feel like him anymore. Maybe you don't even feel like you know me as well anymore but the thing is....the thing about Bucky that you still have in you is he would never give up on the people he cares about. And neither do you."

Steve paused, considering his words carefully. "Don't be sorry. You have nothing to apologize for. This was my fault. I never went looking for you after you fell from the train. The responsibility is on my shoulders. You have done nothing but been forced to follow orders because I failed to look for my best friend and I had just written you off as dead from a fall that we could have survived. That you did survive."

Steve's tears spilled down his chin. He looked at Bucky knowing that his own tears were now soaking his curls. "If it wasn't for me you'd have a dame under your arms right now and a smile that would be so infectious. If it wasn't for me, you'd be whole and it ain't nothing I can do to change it because you feel like this....it's my fault. You were stolen from me because I was negligent. Because I was stupid. I didn't take care of you when I could have."

"I want to take care of you now. I'm so sorry."

[kindfrog]

depths of the bayou

[click for better quality]

close up of Alastor-

as well as the line art- while I think it looks better without it, I worked too hard on it for it to not be seen lol

[moe-broey]

GIRL......................... suspension of disbelief I know but.

Obviously you can pick out a BUNCH of the dragons as that Is an ongoing trope (dragons aging differently than humans, so they can look younger than they "actually are") (also while I did try to avoid including them to make them more comparable to Nino, I think Flayn can fit in either category for the purposes of The Context -- esp cause her dragon blood is meant to be secret)

Not only do we have Heroes skewing younger (a lot fitting into another trope of What If There Was A Baby Sister) we also have Baby Banner. Where the whole point is they are baby.

LIKE....... maybe I'm speaking way too soon and maybe the whole point IS this will backfire LMFAO, but it IS absurd to be presented with her art (which, def still looks youthful!) and having her say yeah I can pass as a kidnapped child. Which COULD be true! But also what do you mean no one is going to know you're a part of the Heroes. Why is no one fighting her on this. Not even including the dragons there are like a handful of Heroes who fit into her exact vibe. Some even MORE baby than her.