#and this is still only scratching the surface

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 16

Part 1 [...] 14 15 16 17

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, violence, pregnancy, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: guys we're just gonna roll with the fact daemon knows how to braid hair realllly well ok stfu. also ASHFOASF long time no see i hope you enjoyyy!!!!!! | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching @myllovellybones

You find it hard to dress yourself for your clothes were far too heavy for you. What's more, they looked like they were eating you alive with how much weight you've lost. Your sister offered to have new dresses commissioned for you, but the moment your father caught wind of it, he made sure to send away any tailor that would fit you, insisting that you would regain your weight. You only did after Aegon was born, but as it remains, you look odd in your ill-fitting garbs.

By the time you are finished dressing yourself, you stare at your reflection. Black suited you, you think... it made the little color that remained on your face pop up.

Daemon emerges from the bathroom as you were about to fix your hair. His tresses looked tangled in its dripping state. A towel covered his belly and thighs, skin still damp. And his skin, his skin was burned. Were once you remembered both faint and deep cuts rested, now rested there was thick and textured marks.

"Dae-" you start but immediately stop when he heads straight towards his closet, hastily moving to dress himself.

You fidget with your fingers, unsure if you ought to help, approach, or even speak. You stare at him, hoping he'd acknowledge you. He doesn't.

You sigh and slowly walk to your vanity, though your eyes remain on him. He spares you a look, immediately looking away when he catches you staring. He puts on his breeches and pulls his towel off. He ties its laces, as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. It wasn't. In fact, it was not even an easy feat, as his hands were trembling.

You don't notice that exactly, but you do notice his frantic movements which were so unlike him. You wonder if it was consequence war, and you find yourself pretending not to notice in case it was the case. The last thing you wanted was to trigger him today of all days. You wanted the day you send off your children to be peaceful for the both of you.

You walk sit before your mirror, eyes on your reflection as you comb your hair. Your gaze keeps flickering back to Daemon though.

He notices, and can hardly bare it. He haphazardly puts on his dress shirt then grabs his doublet, pacing across the room. He shudders as he chucks his towel on the bed. He huffs and leans on the table where an ewer of wine laid. He chucks his top on the surface beside it and pours himself a drink.

His aim is poor. Red sputters on the table due to his shaky grip. He nearly makes the cup overflow, but manages to control himself. Quickly, the prince downs the alcohol, but it seems to do nothing for his nerves, and absolutely nothing for the maddening nightmare that was torturing him so greatly.

In truth, he did not know if he quivered out of fear or anger because of it. He did not know which part haunted him more, the fact that his subconscious thought this up, or the fact that it might be true.

He gasps when he hears his name. He sets his cup down with a thud and turns over his shoulder. He scratches his eyes as he looks at you, face shining though your brows were furrowed.

"A-are... are you-"

"It's nothing," he quips, stuffing his dress shirt into his trousers.

You shift on your chair to face him and frown, "Daemon."

He freezes, jaw clenching with an unwillingness to confess what was torturing him.

You see his steely gaze and his tensed shoulders. You knew better than to pursue an uncomfortable conversation with him right now, so you lower your gaze and slowly shake your head, "I... I simply wanted to ask if you would help braid my hair."

He freezes, "what?"

"I thought it would be good to-"

Daemon grabs his doublet and hastily wears it, nearly sprinting towards you.

"- have you..." your breath hitches. You look at him through his reflection as he comes behind you, "... do it in the fashion of your house."

His hands tremble as he reaches for your hair.

"... if... it pleases you."

"It pleases me," he blurts, stroking your hair, "thank you."

You shake my head and sigh, "I-... thank you." You lower your gaze to your hands, "might I write while you do this?"

Daemon's brows furrow as you apprehensively turn to him. He shakes his head but then nods, "o... of course."

You watch him reach for the comb.

He feels its weight before shaking his head again, "wh... to whom?"

"My twin," you say simply, opening the drawer to pull out some parchment and ink. Your eyes slowly look at his reflection as you get your quill and shut the drawer.

Daemon nods. He grips the comb and shrugs. He shakes his head before gathering your locks and brushing through it. He clenches his teeth, trying not to sound so sour as he speaks. He fails, "you write to him oft?"

You nearly tell him everyday, but you change it to: "yes."

He notices that you had two pieces of parchment on your table. He cannot help the jealousy that blooms at the idea of you writing long letters for him. "Much to say, have you?"

Your eyes flicker up to him.

Daemon does not look at you as he parts your hair and begins braiding.

"What?"

"You have two pieces of parchment."

"Oh..." you look back to the table, not thinking he'd notice, "the other is for Laenor."

He freezes.

"I do not write to him as oft," you mutter.

Daemon cannot help the sound he makes. His breath hitches as he gathers your dark hair into his fingers. He chuckles rather manically, "of course."

You decide not to reply. You simply leave him to his work as you work on your letters.

You finish writing your letters before he finishes fixing your hair. Daemon watches you fold the notes neatly and prepare wax to seal them off. Part of him wishes to enquire what you have to say to those wretched men, but another part knows he might regret it. Surely, to your brother at least, you would air out your grievances. The prince does not know if he could stomach the knowledge you'd express your hatred for him with someone else.

You melt wax over a candle and seal the letter with your stamp. He watches you do this, and as he does, he imagines all the times you did the same for his letters. He wonders if you did so with the same ease. He wonders if you paid it littler or more attention than this. He wonders if he'd ever be at the receiving end of your affections ever again.

When he gets to the last part of the last braid, he finds himself unwilling to pin it in place with the rest for your hair. He stares at his work, at the interwoven plaits going down your shoulders. He tucks some stray hair behind your ear, so badly wishing he could kiss you.

Perhaps he could, but then you'd push him away. He would not survive.

Finally, he pins the last part of your hair and slowly withdraws his hands, "it is done."

You immediately come to stand and turn to him.

Daemon watches as you look at his unbuttoned doublet. His stomach drops when you begin to fasten them.

"Shall I braid your h-"

"No," he blurts, shaking his head, "I do not want you to touch me."

You freeze, unsure if you heard him correctly. You slowly pull away, "you... you don't want me to touch you?"

"No," he shakes his head.

You knit your brows and nods slowly, "I see... why?"

"Why?" he whispers, as if he was stabbed, "why does it matter? Do you want to touch me?"

"I... I want to be civil with you."

His nostrils flare as he chuckles dryly.

"I do not want to be at war with you."

"But we are!" Daemon blurts, "love is war."

"Says who?" you knit your brows.

"Says my bleeding heart," he mutters, as he fixes his doublet himself. His eyes begin to water, so he turns away.

You feel your throat tighten. You shrug, "is this your way of saying you love me?"

"I have always loved you," he turns back to you, tears staining his cheeks.

You laugh.

He rarely hears such a sound from your lips and seems to hate it. "Mazemā nyke syt iā pirtirys?" he mutters under his breath. You take me for a liar.

You chuckle again and shake your head. You shrug, "mazeman ao syt iā mittys." I take you for a fool.

Daemon lowers his head.

You nearly reach out for him, but then you remember he does not invite your touch. You turn to the door then back to him, "let us be civil today."

"No," he lifts his gaze, walking to the vanity. He grabs a hair tie and does his hair, "I want a peace treaty."

"What?"

"The Stranger has scratched my skin in the Stepstones. I know better than to believe civility can be achieved between your enemies."

You laugh again, but this time, it is far unbearable. It is loud and anxious and broken. You clutch your chest when you begin to feel it tighten, "and I am your enemy, Daemon?"

"Daor," he says desperately. He grabs your arms and rapidly shakes his head, "dōrī ao.... yn nyke." No. Never you... but I.

You stare at him as he slowly pulls away.

"I have become your enemy whether either of us care to admit it or not," he shakes his head as he turns to his feet, "I cannot reconcile my mistakes; I can ask only for a peace treaty."

You rub your forehead as you lean on your chair, "I do not understand."

"You-" he chokes. He clears his throat, "you say look at me and see only grief and loss." He wipes his face, "I do not want it to be so."

You huff and shake your head, "it is not something you can change."

"Not if you don't let me," Daemon mutters, "kostilus..." he shakes his head, "ivestragon nyke skorkydoso olvie yno kostā mōzugon gō ao pykagon nyke hen." He scratches his eyes before looking at you. Please... tell me how much of me you can drink before you spit me out.

"Daemon."

He looks at you, violet eyes shrouded by pink.

"I..." you shake your head, "don't know."

He sighs, "plea-"

"I'm telling you, I don't know."

He sighs again, shaking his head then nodding it, "sȳz." Fine.

You watch him step back and motion to the door.

"After you."

You stare at him for a moment and grip your skirts tightly in your hands. You draw a deep breath before walking off.

When you open the door, you hear the clanking of steel. You see Arryk and Erryk stationed outside your door.

"Princess," they greet in unison.

You frown at them, "Erryk... Arryk."

Arryk's eyes rather unwillingly catch sight of Daemon walking towards you. He clenches his jaw and steps aside, not wanting to see him. Erryk ignores him altogether as he reaches a hand for you, "will we be heading for the solar to break fast?"

You shake your head and push his hands down.

Erryk's jaw feathers as Daemon comes to your side.

Daemon's gaze remains lowered. He mutters softly, "kesan bartos naejot se ripo," before slipping past you and walking off.

Erryk eyes him hotly where Arryk turns to you, giving you a wary look, "what did he say?"

You shake your head and offer a smile, "he said he'll be going to the pit."

Arryk simultaneously thinks how fortunate and cowardly it was that Daemon will be flying off. Erryk says it out loud, "so, he's leaving on Caraxes?"

You rub your belly, "we will be sending our Alaeric and Alyrie off."

The twins freeze.

"I do not know if Daemon spoke to the maesters about it already," you mutter, "would one of you go and check. I... I do not want to see them... not like that."

"I can go," Arryk nods.

You nod rapidly and offer a smile, "thank you."

Just as his brother leaves, Erryk reaches a hand out to you again, "perhaps you ought to break fast."

You shake your head, finally taking his hand, "I... I will be sick."

His brows furrow, "you must promise me you will eat something after then."

"Erryk-"

The shake of his head cuts you off.

You take a deep breath, "you know it is hard."

"Then perhaps you can eat with the prince."

Your eyes widen at the idea.

It takes a moment for Erryk to realize why and he quickly dispels the thought, "Aegon. With your nephew, the prince."

You heave and shake your head.

His jaw tightens, "I would never im-"

"I know," you raise a hand, "I just... I misunderstood. Forgive me."

His nostrils flare, "there is no world in which you could ever do something that offends me."

You come to life when you reach Aegon's quarters. The boy immediately runs towards you. You smile and lean down. He jumps into your arms and you tenderly pick him up, sealing him into a hug

"Aunt!" he beams, clutching your cheeks.

"My boy," you coo, embracing him fondly.

Aegon giggles, his little arms wrapping around you. You remain like this for a moment before he pulls away and grins, clutching your cheeks again, "play!"

You kiss his forehead, "actually, we're going to go outside today."

Aegon blinks, his silver lashes fluttering, "play?"

You rock him in your arms, "zaldrīzes." Dragon.

He gasps.

"Gaomagon jaelā naejot ūndegon iā zaldrīzes?" Do you want to see a dragon?

"KESSA. KESSA!" Aegon cheers in agreement.

With this, you head to your sister's chambers and tell her of your plans for today. Alicent offers you a solemn expression before giving you a hug. She says she will change and inform the king. You then head off to the last person you wished to invite.

"Come in," his voice is deep.

Aegon leans into you as Erryk opens the door. You step into the Hand's office and nod at your father, "hello, my lord."

Otto lifts his gaze from his desk and furrows his brows, "what's happened?"

You shake your head as he slowly comes to a stand. You rub Aegon's back, "nothing... I... I've told Daemon about the twins."

He tenses at the thought, eyes turning to Erryk, who stood just by the door.

"We will be sending them off now."

Sending them off? Otto relaxes when he realizes who you actually meant. He nods and walks towards you. He places a hand on your shoulder, "I am glad."

You gulp as you look at him, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

The walk is long and quiet, save for the babbling of Aegon. He was rather fond of his grandfather's pin, and reached out to it every time Otto got close enough to.

"No," Otto would quip each time, raising a brow at the boy.

Aegon, none the wiser, would giggle, thinking it was a game.

At some point, the old man had to surrender his pin denoting his status to the boy when he managed to get pull on it. With a sigh, he hands it to his grandson.

You immediately pull it away from Aegon when he tries to eat it. You quip with a raised brow, "no."

The sight of your babies on a pyre sends a chill down your spine. The maesters and Arryk are already there, waiting for the rite to commence. The sight is too much, thus why you fix your eyes on Aegon.

Otto notices your discomfort and comes to your side, blocking your view of the pyre with his back. He turns to one of your wards, then the other. He motions with his head, wordlessly beckoning them over.

Erryk and Arryk oblige.

"It would be best if my daughter have this moment with her husband," Otto says, "stay back unless called upon."

Arryk clenches his jaw and Erryk purses his lips. Regardless, they nod and speak in unison, "my lord."

Soon, the king, the queen, and the crown princess arrive. It's rather fitting, for right after, there is a loud screech in the sky. Aegon immediately reacts, gasping as his hands fly up to cover his ears. A flash of red soars overhead.

The poor boy is overwhelmed by the sound of beating wings and begins to clamor and panic. You do your best to calm him and instinctively turn to your sister, finding her clutching her swollen belly in worry. You debate whether you should hand her Aegon, but you decide to try and calm the boy, not wanting to strain her by making her carry the boy.

You turn to my father, who wipes his grandson's cheeks and strokes his head.

You kiss Aegon's cheeks and rock him, beginning to sing, "the fishes swim in seas of blue, and dragons breath fire so red— shhh it's alright."

Caraxes soon lands before the pyre and screeches.

Aegon joins suit, screaming into you shoulder as he clings onto me for dear life.

Daemon sees this, jaw clenching at the sight. He watches Otto block Aegon's view of Caraxes, muttering something to the boy. He watches his sister come forward to calm the boy. He watches you rock him. The Hightowers are unified because of his brother's son. He unsaddles himself from Caraxes.

"DAOR!" Viserys screams, just as the blood wyrm cranes his head dangerously close to you. Rhaenyra gasps as he watches Caraxes seemingly try to attack. The king steps forward, repeating the command, making Caraxes pull his long neck back and screech back in offense.

Aegon shrieks in terror of the loud noise.

The king does not flinch, but he does turn to Daemon, "visagon aōha dyni, valonqar!" Control your beast, (younger) brother.

Daemon calls out to Caraxes, ordering him to calm and obey. He soon is on the ground, marching towards his dragon's head, "gīda ilagon!" He raises his hands, "gīda ilagon." Calm down.

Caraxes huffs through his nostrils.

Aegon wails into your shoulder.

The dragon screeches again.

Daemon grits his teeth, looking over his shoulder. He turns to you then his brother, "visagon aōha tresy." Control your son.

Upon hearing this, you glare at Daemon, "he's just a babe!"

Caraxes bleats at the sound of your voice.

"Do not be so defensive. A babe's wailing is meant to be annoying," Daemon rebuts.

"Here," Alicent mutters, taking Aegon from you.

"Ali-"

"It's alright, sister," she turns to you, kissing her boy, "I can manage." She turns to Otto, "might I have your arm, father?"

Otto obliges.

The two walk off, enough that Caraxes was not so close. You can't help but glare at the beast, though you knew any irritation you had towards him was irrational, as he was just a dragon and Aegon was just a boy.

Caraxes cranes over to you again, letting out another loud noise.

Both Daemon and Viserys call out to the beast, expecting the worst from him. Even Arryk and Erryk, who was watched from afar, grip their swords involuntarily and find themselves stepping closer as Caraxes pushes his snout into you.

Caraxes does nothing perilous but does huff. Still, it garners a corrective command from his rider, who comes in front of you

The beast makes a displeased sound, baring his teeth, frightening Aegon yet again. The sound of the boy's cries make you snap, "lyka, Caraxes," you call out, "skoros gaomā?" Quiet, Caraxes. What are you doing?

Daemon turns to you then Caraxes, calling him to obey.

Viserys watches his brother gaze upon you. He watches Daemon take your hand and reach it out towards his ride. His lips part as Caraxes leans into your joined hands. He turns back to his wife and frowns at the sight of his red faced boy. It was clear Aegon was frightened for you with how he was reached his hand in your direction.

The king sighs and comes to him, taking the boy into his arms. Rhaenyra watches his father rock his half-brother. He watches the boy sigh into his arms. She looks away, focus back to Caraxes.

Daemon leans against Caraxes. He mutters softly to him as he presses your hand into the dragon's snout. The beast is finally calm. You feel the warmth of his scales and you wonder if he'd eat you now that you were no longer carrying his rider's children.

Daemon topples back as Caraxes pushes into him, hard enough to brush against you. You gasp when he nudges your chest.

Your husband recognizes the affection and finds himself unable to bridle his own. He pulls you into his chest, pretending it was out of concern— to keep you upright. He presses his arm against yours, his palm resting on the back of your hand. He links his fingers into yours and rests your joined hands atop Caraxes, whispering, "he missed you."

You chuckle, looking over your shoulder to Daemon, "that's not possible."

Daemon leans his forehead against yours and you immediately look away. Though the sentiment hurt, he looks back at his mount and persists, "yet it's true."

Caraxes huffs and begins to curl before you. He then lies down, shaking his head as he did.

Daemon's eyes turn to the pyre, throat tightening at the sight of the two small bodies, wrapped up in cloth. It was no longer white, as time brought a brownish hue to it.

You look at him when he withdraws his hand. You watch his jaw clench as he looks to the distance. You pull away to place a hand on his rib, "do you want to go closer?"

His hand comes atop yours. For a moment, you remember how he said he didn't want your touch, but instead of pushing you away, he squeezes you. His lowers his head and licks his lips, "I am unworthy."

You face him fully. You shake your head and fix his collar, "you are their father."

You entire body seems to react when he speaks your name. Your shoulders tense. Your breath hitches. Your eyes water.

He watches you intently. He takes your hands and clutches by his chest. He frowns and leans closer, daring to press his forehead into you again.

You let him. You close your eyes and let him press against you. Tears rush down your cheeks.

"Would they have liked me?" Daemon whispers.

You chuckle bitterly, eyes opening. You see that his face is just as teary as yours. You sniffle and shake your head, "the gods only know."

Daemon wipes his nose on his sleeve.

You both walk towards the pyre. Caraxes lifts his head to look down upon you. Daemon frowns when he sees just how tiny the bodies are. He notices then they smell like the oil you put on yourself, albeit mustier. He cares little about the unpleasant undertone and presses a kiss on both their bodies.

When he pulls away, he takes deep breath and mutters, "kepa iksis kesīr, Alaeric se Alyrie... shijetra nyke... geros ilas." Father is here, Alaeric and Alyrie... forgive me... good bye.

Daemon turns to you, his hold on you tightening, "gaomagon emā mirros naejot ivestragon?" Do you have anything to say?

You step forward, biting your lips as gaze upon your babes. You release Daemon, immediately bursting into tears. You reach out to them one last time, lips trembling, "I wish you knew how much I love you."

You nearly topple back as you pull away.

Daemon reaches for you, one hand on your arm, the other on your back. He rests his head on yours, his voice is pained as he mutters, "they know," he shakes his head and presses a kiss on your ear. He whispers, "everyone knows."

You crumble. You turn to him and sob into his chest.

He wraps his arms around you, stroking your hair. He calls out your name, "I'm here now."

You whine.

"It would take sword and flame to sever me from you."

When you were calm enough, Daemon leads you off. He is vigilant of his surroundings but more importantly, you. By the time you and him stand far away enough, Caraxes inspects the pyre before him. He sniffs it and shakes his head. He cranes his neck back, looking at his master. They share a silent understanding.

Daemon has his arm around you as you continue to weep into his chest. He rubs your shoulder, looking down upon you, "would you like to give the command?"

You sniffle and look up to him, "what?"

He turns to Caraxes, who is already stood in attention rather knowingly, "I think he would obey if you commanded."

You shake your head, turning to Caraxes, "I do not want to." You face the pyre, wiping your face, "I've given them their sorrowful beginning. I do not wish to give them their sorrowful end."

Daemon clenches his jaw, "very well." He rubs your shoulders, "when you're ready."

You sigh, leaning into him, "I will never be."

He does not reply. He does, however, squeeze your shoulders.

You turn to him, a line between your brows, "when you're ready, Daemon."

He turns to you just as you look forward. He sniffles and turns to his mount, "Caraxes."

Caraxes rumbles.

The prince takes a deep breath, eyes fixed upon his children, "dracarys."

You gasp at the burn of the flames. The fire is so bright, it's like the sun stops shining for a moment. It's fitting, for that is what it felt to lose them. Warmth cascades across the ground. Caraxes screeches upon finishing his task. Aegon weeps again.

Daemon takes you back to the Keep on dragonback. He is grateful you agreed, though he knows it was more because you felt too weak to walk, rather than the fact you wanted to keep his company.

When he arrives at the pit, Caraxes squawks in recognition of the dragon that seemed to have just arrived, judging by the amount of servants and dragon keepers around.

When you land, hear a voice call for you and you look, not recognizing the voice. Daemon does, just as he recognizes the dragon.

Daemon dismounts and helps you down. You hear your name called out again, "who-"

"Princess!"

Your lips part as you turn to see the young man running towards you. You recognize him solely from his hair, "Laenor?"

Daemon eyes the boy as he bows. He eyes the flowers in his hand. Quickly, his eyes are averted back to you when you begin to weep.

Laenor is mortified. He nearly drops the bouquet as he calls out your name.

"Forgive me," you wipe your face and shake your head, "it is good to see you," you say, breaking into a soft chuckle, "to finally meet you."

Laenor gives a half-hearted smile as he nods, "it is good to meet you, though... I hear you have just come from the pyre."

You sniffle and nod, linking your hands together, "yes... I... we-" you turn to Daemon, "put our children to rest."

Laenor nods slowly, looking between the two of you, "my deepest condolences princess, prince."

You turn to him, finding he was offering you pink flowers.

"Bougainvillea," says the young lord, "I thought to bring you flowers since you wrote of picking them oft."

Your lips wobble and you sob even more.

Daemon clenches his jaw, reaching out to you.

He doesn't reach you though, as soon, you've thrown yourself into Laenor's arms.

The Velaryon yelps in surprise but naturally returns your affections.

"Thank you," you mutter, squeezing him tightly.

He chuckles, matching the intensity of your embrace, "it's nothing really, I saw some on my way. I'm glad you appreciate it."

When you pull away, Laenor catches the withering glare Daemon was shooting his way. He widens his eyes, only because he dares not to roll them, then hands you the flowers.

You gratefully take them, "thank you."

"You're welcome."

"I wrote to you just this morn."

"Did you?" his brow quirks, "you might be glad to know you needn't do anymore."

Your brows furrow.

"I..." he smiles softly, "... am promised to Princess Rhaenyra."

Daemon's brow quirks.

"Oh," you mutter, "oh..." your lips wobble, "d-does that mean you will be staying here?"

Laenor chuckles, "yes, I-"

He grunts when you embrace him again.

Daemon looks away and scoffs.

"That's wonderful!" you sob, "oh, my dear Laenor."

Laenor chuckles as he pulls away, "surely mine own company is not so much a relief from my uncle's."

"Careful, boy," Daemon snaps, eyes narrowing, "I respect you, but that doesn't mean I like you."

Laenor's eyes widen again, "of course, uncle."

"In any case," you wipe your philtrum, "I am glad to have a friend."

Friend... I could be your friend, thinks Daemon.

Laenor nods, "as am I."

With that, Laenor walks off and you turn to the Bougainvilleas in your hands.

"You write to Laenor about flowers?"

You turn to Daemon, seeing him grind his teeth. You nod simply, "upon his request."

He opens his mouth but then shuts it. Would you have obliged himhis request if he ever wrote back to you? He banishes the thought and turns to the ground, "you should plant them."

Your brows quirk at the thought.

"Grow them in your garden," he turns around, walking back to Caraxes.

You watch him caress his dragon. You mutter to yourself, "that's not how that works."

You wait for him to finish doting on his ride. You stare at your flowers as you do so.

When Daemon turns back, he sees you gently caressing the pink buds. He imagines you doing the same to his cheeks and lips; it makes him rapidly shake his head and call your name.

You look up at him.

Daemon's lips are curved into a frown, "I do not keep you prisoner."

Your brows furrow, "what?'

He motions with his head, "go."

You turn to where he motioned, eyes immediately falling on Laenor. You look back at him, "I-"

"He's surely famished from a long ride," he slowly turns back to Caraxes, stroking his scales. The dragon huffs, lying down. "I doubt you've eaten yourself."

You stare at him, brows knitting together.

He turns back to you, "go to him. Be with your friend."

You pull your head back, "I-"

"I wish to clear my head," he pats Caraxes, "I'll do it in the sky."

Of course, what he really wanted was to find solace in your arms, but he tries to convince himself flying will be just as good. After all, that was how he calmed himself before... before you.

"I'll be back before dark," he mutters, walking off to mount Caraxes.

You watch him climb on his dragon's back. You watch him as he commands Caraxes to stand.

You nearly ask him to stay, but your memories convince you to do otherwise.

You gasp softly when Caraxes takes off.

[honeyryewhiskey]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ𝐢. 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐓

read the prologue ! story intro ! — sam and dean's search for answers to break the bond are thwarted by a call from Missouri. Another premonition like the one that lead them to you, another hunt. — warnings!! hunt-level violence, guns, etc. strong language. spooky scenery. 4.9k words

The library was a relic of another time, draped in dust and quiet resignation. Shadows pooled in the high corners, untouched by the weak fluorescent lights overhead, their uneven hum adding a ghostly edge to the stillness. The air was heavy and stale, carrying the faint, damp tang of mold that clung to the yellowed pages of forgotten books. Dust motes floated in slow, aimless patterns, disturbed only when the long, battered table received another soft thud of a tome. Its surface, marred by graffiti and deep scratches, bore the marks of restless patrons and years of neglect.

From your sagging armchair near a window in the corner—a relic as weary as the library itself—you observed the brothers. The chair groaned beneath you with every shift, its springs wheezing in protest like a creature disturbed from sleep. Dean sat at the scarred table, hunched over a pile of open books, his expression dark with frustration. The sharp, irritated rustle of his turning pages cut through the thick quiet.

Sam moved with quiet determination, his tall silhouette weaving between the densely packed shelves, disappearing into their shadowed depths and reappearing moments later with another precarious stack of books. The subtle rhythm of their movements filled the room with a sense of purpose, a stark contrast to the library’s forgotten stillness.

Your fingers absentmindedly combed through your hair, a futile gesture to calm your own simmering frustration. It radiated off you in waves, thick and tangible in the air. Dean felt it—he didn’t have to say a word. His gaze snapped to you each time you sighed too long or shifted in the noisy  chair, his eyes sharp with unspoken reproach.

If Sam noticed the tension swimming in the dust between you, he gave no sign. He buried himself in his work, his focus unwavering. Books piled around him, covering every inch between him and his brother. Their cracked spines and faded titles were the only defense against the weight of whatever they were searching for. His eyes flickered between one volume cradled in his forearm and another spread open before him, the faint scratch of his pen breaking the heavy silence as he scribbled notes.

“Hey, uh, this one’s about something called an Ailouros,” Sam murmured, his voice soft as that slight midwestern twang wrapped itself around the foreign word. He didn’t look up, his attention fixed on the page. “It says it’s a cat familiar—is this about you?”

“Ai-louros,” you corrected smoothly, the syllables rolling off your tongue with the lilting cadence of a language long buried under the sands of time. Your voice carried the faintest echo of your native tongue, a relic of a life lost to centuries of adapting, shifting, and bending to the weight of new dialects.

Sam blinked, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment as he mumbled, “Right, sorry. I took Latin instead of Ancient Greek in college—”

“What’s it say?” Dean cut in, his impatience slicing through the air.

Sam’s gaze snapped to his brother, the irritation in his expression barely concealed. He lingered there for a moment, his mouth opening as if to argue, but instead, he gave a resigned huff. His eyes flicked toward you, uncertainty flashing across his face before he lowered them back to the book in his hands.

“It says Ailouros was human once,” Sam began, his voice careful, his words feeling heavier with each passing moment. “Before Hecate turned her into a cat. She was… a love witch.”

Dean’s scoff was low, incredulous. “A love witch?”

“Punished,” you interjected before Sam could respond, your voice as steady and cold as the dark wood of the table beneath his hands. Your gaze meandering from the open window to the boys as they gave opposing looks of curiosity and mild disgust, “For her deviant use of magic. Condemned to serve as Hecate’s companion for eternity, so the biggest witch of them all could harness that love witch’s abilities for herself.”

The myth was short, a measly little testament of the reason for your existence. You’d once read it over, and over again when myths became prose. A life, a sacrifice—all wrapped up into two paragraphs in forgotten text.

Sam shifted uneasily, his grip tightening on the book as the weight of your words hung in stale air. Dean’s gaze narrowed, flicking to you with a mix of curiosity and irritation. “So, what? You’re her glorified magic lap cat?” His hands wave about as he speaks, and beneath the rough tone you catch the faintest hint of sincerity in his question.

Your lips curl into a small grin, but there was no humor in it, only a quiet, simmering defiance. “Something like that,” you murmured, tossing your head back against the chair, your focus back on the view of the dreary parking lot, the setting sun a deep blue backdrop to Dean’s impala. 

“Alright, well, it doesn’t say anything about the magic of the bond or how to break it.” Sam exhaled heavily, closing the leather-bound tome with a soft thud. His shoulders slumped under the weight of the unsolved mystery, his gaze flicking toward you. “Is there anything you can give us to go off of?”

“We could kill her,” Dean interjects, his tone casual, the way one might suggest grabbing a burger.

Sam’s head snapped toward him, disbelief etched across his face. “What?”

The older brother shrugged, leaning back in his chair like it was the most logical suggestion in the world. “Don’t look at me like that, Sammy. She dies, and poof—no more magical lady-cat bond. Problem solved.”

A dry laugh escaped your lips, the sound devoid of any real humor. “Sure, we’ll just ignore the tiny detail of immortality being stitched into my bones.”

Your eyes slip back to the brothers, a quiet stare down in hushed argument ensuing between the two as you continue, “I could write you a list of all the ways I’ve been killed in the last thirteen centuries if you’re really committed to the idea. Maybe you’ll finally be the one to make it stick.”

Dean tilted his head, his green eyes narrowing with a challenge, the smile on his lips taunting and crass. “I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed to notes.”

“Dean!” Sam’s voice cut through the tension like a whip, his exasperation palpable. You’re not sure if it’s the bickering or the lack of progress in their studies that have him on edge, but it’s certainly bubbling at the surface. “No—Dean, enough.” he ran a hand over his face before turning back to you. “Ailouros—”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, the name landing like a stone in the quiet space between you.

“Fine. Whatever you want to be called,” Sam relented, his voice calmer but no less insistent. “Just listen—both of you.” His gaze moved between you and Dean, commanding attention with his tired eyes. “No one is dying. We’ll find another way.”

The library fell into silence once again, the heat between you and Dean giving way to Sam’s demands. Though, while the younger one buried his furrowed brows in another weathered book, Dean hardly kept his focus on the task at hand. If he wasn’t watching you with a look somewhere between agitation and utter confusion, he was mindlessly flipping pages while tapping along to his humming. 

He looked entirely relieved at the faint sound of Sam’s phone buzzing in the pocket of his jeans. 

“Missouri?”

On the other end, a voice spilled out in frantic, disjointed bursts. Your heightened senses diped into the conversation with ease, the woman he called Missouri stumbled over her words in a panicked rush. “Sam? It’s happening again—another one. Another witch. I saw it. It’s going to happen tonight.”

Sam stiffened, his jaw tightening as he processed her words. “Hey, hey—slow down. What did you see?”

“A witch, Sam,” she sighed, her voice cracking under the weight of the premonition. “She’s going to die, and if you three don’t move, it’ll be too late.”

Your interest piqued at the woman’s distress. Your witch was nothing more than ash in a fire pit, but you knew all too well of the slippery tricks of divinity.

Whatever was happening, it most assuredly was Hecate’s doing. 

Sam murmured a quick assurance before hanging up, his expression grim as he looked between you and Dean. “Missouri had a vision. Another witch is going to be murdered tonight.”

Dean was already grabbing his jacket, his expression hardening into that determined, no-nonsense mask you were starting to recognize all too well. “Then let’s go.”

You stood, smoothing the fabric of your jacket as you prepared to follow. The weight of Missouri’s words hung over you like a storm cloud, a reminder of just how high the stakes of this unseemly bond had become.

The cool evening air greets you like a sharp inhale, crisp and biting against the adrenaline still thrumming in your veins. The gravel crunches beneath hurried boots as you follow the brothers, your gaze bouncing between their purposeful strides. The Impala looms ahead, dark and hulking, as if bracing itself for another wild ride. It isn’t until Dean revs the engine and peels out of the drive that you lean forward, clearing your throat to break the tense silence.

“I suppose this might be worth mentioning,” you start, your tone deliberately casual as the car rockets down the winding backroads. “You may have killed my Hecate, but she—technically—isn’t dead.”

The words barely leave your mouth before the Impala swerves violently, tires screeching as Dean jerks the wheel. Both brothers whip their heads toward you, twin masks of disbelief and alarm painted on their faces. Dean’s voice is sharp enough to cut glass.

“What did you just say?”

“My gods, do you always need to hear things twice?” you grumble, the spike in his tone scraping your nerves raw. Irritation simmers just beneath your skin, your nails digging into the worn leather of the backseat.

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam, ever the mediator, jumps in, his voice more measured but no less tense. “What do you mean she isn’t dead?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “I mean, she’s a literal fucking goddess. Did you really think she’d put all her eggs in one basket? That she wouldn’t have, oh, I don’t know, backup plans for situations like—let’s say—being murdered?”

Dean growls something low under his breath and slams his foot harder onto the gas. The Impala groans in protest as you’re thrown against the backrest, the engine roaring as the scenery blurs past in dark, shadowy streaks. His shoulders are wound tight, tension radiating off him like heat from a wildfire.

From the passenger seat, Sam shifts awkwardly, yanking a weathered leather journal from beneath a stack of maps and flipping through its brittle pages with urgent fingers. “Alright,” he mutters, his tone clipped and nervous, “maybe we should call Bobby or something. Dad doesn’t have anything in his notes about handling this.”

Dean exhales sharply, his knuckles whitening against the steering wheel. “No—I mean, yeah,” he grumbles, his frustration barely restrained, “but first, we need to figure out what the hell is going on with Missouri’s vision.”

Sam sighs, rubbing his eyes with a roughness as if he can physically push the tension away. “Right. You’re right.” He tosses the journal onto the seat, its weight landing with a muted thud, before turning his attention back to the crumpled map in his lap.

“You sure Missouri gave us the right coordinates?” Dean gruffs, his voice taut, a frustrated edge threading through his words.

Sam glances up from the map, his forehead creased in thought. “She seemed sure enough, but—”

“But nothing,” Dean snaps, his eyes narrowing against the dark road ahead. “If Hecate’s not as dead as we thought, and we’re running blind here, I don’t want to walk into a trap.”

The Impala hurtles deeper into the night, its rumble echoing like a war drum in the heavy silence. From the backseat, you watch their agitation swirl in the cramped space, a storm brewing on the horizon of their nerves. The faint scent of leather and gun oil mixes with the cool night air as you settle back into your seat, bracing yourself for whatever chaos comes next.

Sam breaks the silence without looking up, his voice a mix of irritation and focus, “The turn should be coming up. Just keep driving.” 

He clicked on a flashlight, popping it between his teeth as he used both hands to manage the map. He scans it for a second under the soft light. 

“You know,” you said idly, your voice cutting through the low hum of the engine, “this whole sneaking-around-in-the-dark thing makes a lot more sense if you actually know where you’re going.”

Dean glanced at you in the rearview mirror, one eyebrow arching in annoyance. “If you’re gonna critique the operation, maybe you could lend a hand instead of being a backseat commentator.”

You smirked, your eyes still fixed on the passing trees. “I’m just saying, if the point of all this is to stop someone from dying, the scenic route isn’t exactly helping.”

Sam sighed, lifting the map higher to block out both of you. “We’re close,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

A few minutes later, Sam pointed toward a turnoff, and Dean steered the Impala down a narrow gravel path. The headlights illuminated the overgrown edges of a driveway that seemed to vanish into darkness. Finally, the car rolled to a stop in front of a crumbling Victorian house, its crooked silhouette looming against the storm-heavy sky.

The three of you stepped out of the car, the cold air wrapping around you like a shroud. The house looked like it had been plucked from a nightmare—its windows gaping like hollow eyes, the front door whipping against it’s frame, a wicked thudding sound cutting through the night.

Sam, having ruffled through the trunk's arsenal, slams it back down, “This should be it.”

Dean adjusted his jacket, his other hand resting on the hilt of his gun. “Great. Creepy house in the middle of nowhere. Classic.”

You stepped forward, arms crossed, your gaze sweeping over the property with the kind of detached calm that unnerved them both. You tilted your head, fixed on the energy emitting from the house, “There’s a ghost in there. And a witch.”

Dean turned to you, his brow furrowing. “What? How do you know that?”

You shrugged, tucking your hands into your pockets. “I just do.”

Sam looked between you and the house, his frown deepening. “Wait—what do you mean, you just know? Are you sensing them or something?”

“Something like that. I recognize the change in frequency, the way the world around us reacts to things like ghosts and witches.” You glanced back at them, your cool expression rivaling their shared bewilderment. “These are things not of this earth, it’s gonna disrupt the natural energy around it—can you stop looking at me like that?” You huff, a slight unease crawling up your skin as you feel the words you speak setting each brother more on edge. 

Dean opened his mouth to retort, but Sam cut in, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. Let’s just figure this out. Come on.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The storm rumbled above, thunder rolling like an omen as the three of you stepped onto the warped wooden porch.

The house swallowed you whole as you stepped inside, the door’s thudding coming to a creaking halt behind you like a final warning. The air was suffocating, heavy with the scent of mildew and something acrid that clung to the back of your throat. Shadows stretched unnaturally across the peeling wallpaper, flickering in the dim glow of Sam’s flashlight as he swept it across the room.

“Not exactly Home Sweet Home,” Dean muttered, his voice low but carrying in the oppressive silence.

“It’s too quiet,” Sam said, his brows furrowing.

You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing as you scanned the room. That same, familiar pull stirred in your chest, the one that told you something wasn’t right. “It’s not quiet. It’s waiting.”

They both glanced at you, but before they could question the cryptic remark, a faint noise drew your attention. It was a whisper—no, a murmur—coming from deeper inside the decaying house.

Dean signaled for everyone to move. He led the way cautiously, his gun drawn, while Sam kept close behind, an iron bar in one hand and his flashlight in the other, cutting a narrow path through the darkness. You followed, your senses prickling with every step.

The sound grew louder as you approached the living room, where the faint glow of candles illuminated the witch. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her eyes glossing in the beam of Sam’s flashlight, nothing but the whites of her eyes showing. Her lips moving monotonously in a silent chant. Strange symbols marked the floor around her, drawn in dark, sticky strokes that gleamed faintly in the candlelight.

Dean’s grip on his gun tightened. “Looks like she’s having a one-sided chat with Casper.”

“She’s talking to the dead,” you corrected, your voice sharp and quiet. “But this isn’t dangerous magic. This is typical witch work—necromancy. Nothing that should’ve caused what Missouri saw.”

As if in answer to your words, the witch convulsed violently, her body arching as a guttural scream tore from her throat. Her head snapped up, her rolled back eyes now dark and sunken, filled with malice that didn’t belong to her. The candles around her flared and extinguished in an instant, plunging the room into darkness. A sickly screeching moan rolled out of her throat, reverberating off the walls in a lewd symphony. 

“Dean—”

Before the warning could fully leave your lips, the witch lunged—her speed unnatural, a blur of motion that barely gave Dean time to react. His gun barked, the salt round hitting her dead center in the chest, but it only staggered her for a heartbeat before she charged again, relentless.

The ringing in your ears was the first signal, a primal alarm buried deep in your being. It yanked at you like a marionette string pulled taut, instincts igniting like wildfire. Your irises burned with an otherworldly green glow, the power surging through you as you stepped between Dean and the witch without thought, without hesitation.

She struck, but your body moved faster. Nails extended into razor-sharp claws, wicked and unnatural, catching her neck in a vice-like grip. The momentum of her attack pushed you both back, but with a snarl, you twisted her around, slamming her spine into the hard ground. The impact sent a tremor through the earth, and you crouched over her like a predator caging its prey.

Her strength was monstrous, bone-deep and unyielding, matching yours blow for blow. But your heightened senses sharpened the world around you—the subtle shifts of her muscles telegraphing her next move as if time itself had slowed. You dodged, countered, and struck, every movement calculated and feral.

It wasn’t enough. Her bony fingers found their mark, clawing into the flesh of your neck with a strength that burned. Pain flared white-hot, momentarily cracking your focus. That single heartbeat of distraction was all she needed.

With a guttural roar, she surged upward, her raw power overwhelming yours. You hit the ground hard, the breath punched from your lungs as the world tilted sideways. The earth felt cold and unyielding beneath you, your vision narrowing as her shadow loomed, but the green fire in your eyes refused to dim.

Dean’s voice cuts through the chaos, “get off her!”

The witch was wrenched away as Dean grabbed her from behind, pulling her up and slamming her against the wall. At the same time, Sam dove forward, a fistful of salt in his hand. He shoved it into her mouth, forcing her to swallow it as she thrashed violently.

The ghost detached itself with a bloodcurdling scream, their opposing forms flickering in a pale light as the spirit ripped itself from the witch’s body—dissipating into the air. The witch crumpled to the floor, barely conscious, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

Dean crouched beside you, his hand on your shoulder. “You good?”

“Peachy,” you muttered, wincing as you pushed yourself upright.

Sam knelt by the witch, checking her pulse before lifting her into his arms. “She’s alive. We need to get her out of here.”

The three of you hurried back to the Impala, the thunderstorm whipping a raging wind outside. Sam laid the witch in the backseat, her eyes fluttering open as she stirred.

“What were you doing in there?” Dean demanded, his voice sharp and cutting through the tension like a blade.

The witch’s chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath, her voice rasping, “I was... I was trying to contact a spirit. For a customer.” She swallowed hard, her words trembling but steadying. “She said... she said she needed closure.”

Sam’s frown deepened, his eyes narrowing as he crouched beside her. “What spirit?”

Tears welled in her eyes, glistening in the faint moonlight slipping through gray clouds. “Evelyn,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “Evelyn Monterose. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. I’ve done this ritual a hundred times, but this... this wasn’t normal.” Her trembling hands gripped the fabric of her skirt, knuckles white as if clinging to a sense of reality slipping away.

“Hecate.” you retort dryly, each brother tossing you a sideways glance, brows furrowed. 

“What?” The woman throws out meekly. 

“Alright, it’s alright,” Sam soothed, his focus back on the shaken woman, his concern bled through his soft tone. “You’re safe now.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding audibly as his fury bubbled beneath the surface. His boots crunched on the gravel as he stepped forward, but Sam raised a hand, cutting him off.

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, his green eyes dark with frustration as he turned toward the Impala. “We gotta burn that ghost, Sammy,” he growled, already making his way to the driver’s side, his movements brisk and purposeful.

“Hold on a minute, Dean,” Sam argued, standing to his full height. “We need to get this woman to a hospital.”

Dean spun back, his expression hard as steel. “Fine,” he bit out through gritted teeth, his irritation barely contained. “Drop me and the cat off at the graveyard. We’ll find the grave. You take her.”

Sam hesitated, his gaze flicking between Dean’s stubborn resolve and the witch’s tear-streaked face. Finally, he nodded. “Yeah, okay. That works.”

The night air was thick with tension as Dean climbed into the Impala, his jaw set like granite. Sam’s worried glances kept finding you and the witch in the rearview mirror. The car rumbled to life, its low growl matching the storm brewing in Dean’s expression. As they pulled away, the headlights swept across the trees, their shadows stretching long and ominous, like specters watching them vanish into the night.

𖤐 𖤐 𖤐

The graveyard was silent save for the steady scraping of Dean’s shovel against the compact earth. The storm had subsided, leaving a thick fog in it’s wake. The mist snaked around dozens of headstones, the moonlight casting crooked shadows across the wet grass. Dean stood knee-deep in the hole he’d been digging, dirt smudged across his face and arms, his flannel rolled up to his elbows. 

“Y’know,” Dean called over his shoulder, pausing to swipe a forearm across his sweat-dampened brow, “this ain’t that bad. Good ol’ manual labor. Builds character.”

You stood at the edge of the freshly dug grave, arms crossed, the toe of your boot idly nudging a loose clump of dirt. Your unimpressed expression spoke volumes. “Says the man who looks like he lost a fight with a mud monster.”

Dean smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching as he patted the shovel against the growing mound of damp earth. ���What, scared of a little dirt? I figured you were tougher than that. Especially after watching you go after that witch like a rabid animal.”

You rolled your eyes, his teasing hitting a little too close to the rawness of instinct. “You were in danger. That sort of thing... triggers something in me. It’s not exactly flattering to be summoned into fight mode like some wild beast.”

“Flattering?” He grunted as he hefted another shovelful of dirt over his shoulder, the wet soil landing with a satisfying slap. “Nope. But it was pretty damn awesome.”

You snorted at his boyish grin, unable to suppress the laugh bubbling up from your chest. “Mhm, save the compliments, Hunter-boy. I’m still not getting in that grave.”

Dean jabbed the shovel into the ground and leaned on it, looking up at you with that familiar mix of challenge and mischief. “Oh, come on. You’ve been around for centuries. Don’t tell me this is where you draw the line.”

Your gaze locked on his, narrowing as you weighed his words. There was something disarmingly genuine in the way he stood there, dirt-smudged and grinning like a kid getting away with mischief. It was such a stark contrast to the tense chaos of the day that it gave you pause.

With an exaggerated sigh, you uncrossed your arms, letting them drop to your sides. “Fine. But only because I can’t stand the sound of your voice when you’re trying to be persuasive.”

His triumphant grin spread wide as you hopped down into the grave, your boots sinking into the freshly turned soil. You grabbed the second shovel leaning against the mound and thrust it into his waiting hand.

Dean chuckled as he took it, the lightheartedness in his tone cutting through the weight of the night. “See? Teamwork. It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you muttered, your lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “Just dig.”

Together, the two of you worked in near silence, the rhythmic crunch of shovels biting into damp earth filling the cool night air. Shadows stretched and shifted under the pale light of the moon, and the sharp scent of churned soil mingled with the distant rustle of leaves. When the coffin finally came into view, Dean wiped his brow with the back of his hand and hoisted himself out of the grave. He moved to the duffel bag lying nearby, pulling out the salt and lighter fluid.

“You want the honors?” he offers, holding up the matchbox with a casual flick of his wrist.

“Be my guest,” you step back, confirming your words to let him take the lead.

Dean poured the salt, the grains scattering over the brittle remains like sand over stone, and doused the coffin with lighter fluid, the acrid smell stinging your nose. When he struck a match, the tiny flame bloomed into life, painting his face in flickering golds and oranges. He dropped it into the grave, and the fire roared up instantly, heat pulsing against your skin as the flames devoured the remains.

The two of you stood in the glow of the fire, watching as it hissed and cracked, sending embers spiraling into the mist laced yard. For a long moment, the world around you was silent save for the blaze, the gravestones standing sentinel in the silver moonlight.

“I chose this.”

The words tumbled from your lips, breaking the quiet. Dean turned to you, his brows knitting together in surprise. “What?”

“This,” you repeated, motioning vaguely toward yourself. “The curse. Being a familiar. I chose it.”

Dean’s expression hardened, a flicker of confusion and curiosity in his green eyes. “Why the hell would you choose to live like this?”

Your gaze dropped to the fire, its reflection dancing in your irises. “I had to,” your voice carried the weight of tucked away pain. “It was either me or one of my sisters. Hecate demanded a sacrifice, and I wasn’t going to let her take any of them.” 

You swallowed hard, your tone softening, though, still laced with bitterness. “So, I volunteered. Figured I could handle it. Immortality, servitude—whatever it took to keep them safe. Let them live a full life and die when their time came.”

Dean was quiet, his face unreadable as he stared at you. His eyes bore into your face, but you couldn’t find the strength to lift your gaze from the fire. It was a confession so buried, words not a single soul ever cared to hear. Releasing the truth felt like baring your neck to hands that could snap the life from you if they wanted to. 

Finally, he spoke in a whisper, the usual bite to his husky voice slipping into a gentle ease. “Huh. Can’t argue with that.”

You shrugged, trying to shove the vulnerability away. “It’s ancient history now, another page in the book of myths. Doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” 

“Why’s that?”

He shrugged, the weight of his words hidden behind his usual nonchalance creeping back into the corners of his tone. “Maybe I had the wrong idea about you.”

The unexpected tenderness of those words made you falter, your shoulders stiffening against the strange sensation of being seen. Vulnerability clawed at your chest, small and unfamiliar. You managed the faintest tight-lipped grin, but quickly looked away, clearing your throat to break the moment. “Alright, I think I like you better when you’re glaring at me like I ruined your life. Are we done here?”

Dean nodded, a knowing smile creeping in as he stepped away from the grave now reduced to embers. “Yeah, we’re done. But next time? You’re doing all the digging.”

“Not a chance,” you shot back, brushing past him and heading toward the Impala.

Dean’s chuckle carried through the air between, his footsteps crunching softly as he followed. “We’ll see about that.”

finalllyyyy i finished chapter 1!!! and do i smell a.. a... friendship??!!

tags <3 @jollyhunter @bluemerakis @deanangel @bitchykittenconnoisseur @youdontknowe @kittycain @kaz-2y5-spn @bauilivus @scarletqueenx @floralscented @deansbeer @titsout4jackles

THANK U ALL WHO ASKED FOR TAGS IT LITERALLY MAKES MY HEART SO HAPPY

[arkaniske]

Where the Sea Awaits

AO3 Link * Chapter One: I ask for enough and no more 3300 words * SFW * Jayvik * Selkie!AU Beta read by @kitcatkim Summary: When Jayce Talis discovers a stranger cast ashore, he can't shake the feeling that the sea itself has intertwined their fates. The steady rhythm of the tides he's spent his life mastering is suddenly disrupted, and as he delves into the mystery of a man seemingly torn from the depths, an unexpected bond begins to form.

“The ocean never takes sides, son. She is not cruel, and she is not kind—she just is. Never think you have tamed her; she will never bend to your will. All you can do is ask for her to treat you fairly.”

The ocean is an entity of ancient powers, never to be tamed and never to yield. It is an odd thing how something so brutal and violent can whisper the softest praise to those who know its rhythm. How gentle the lullaby is carried on a salt-tinged breeze only to coax the unexperienced heart into a false sense of security. For beneath its surface, the weight of storms hibernates. The kind of fury that carves mountains into cliffs and swallows ships whole. Like sharp teeth it gnaws at the edges of land, the jagged scars left behind as an ominous reminder to never step near when it’s thrashing about. It has no mercy, no mind for the lives it shapes or destroys.

And yet, even then, there is nothing like witnessing the sunlight dance on waves. Glittering like broken glass, stretching so far beyond the human eye it simply becomes part of the heavens. The seafoam becomes speckled clouds on an ever-blue sky, floating and twisting as if they join on the dance. It bathes in all the colours of the world, shifting and forever changing, and the very heartbeat of the earth will echo in the waves.

The ocean is alive.

Jayce Talis had spent a lifetime learning to respect it. He knew the tides like the lines on his own palms, heard its murmurs in the sails of his boat before the winds even changed, and felt weight of a promised storm tug on his bones long before dark clouds approached. For him, the ocean was both a master and a companion, it had made him fluent in the language of tides and waves. The rhythm of the ocean was echoing through him, aligning his heartbeat to follow its whims.

He rose every morning before first light, the smell of salt and damp wood filling the cabin he'd built himself along the shore. He’d stoke what little embers were left from the night before and watch as the scruffy cat slipped out from its home in the firewood pile. Whenever the cat allowed Jayce would give it a little scratch behind its ear, almost smiling at the soft few huffs of purr before the cat demanded to be let out. He wasn’t sure when he had gained the companion through the years, but regardless, it was the only creature seeking his company out here.

By the time the sun kissed the horizon, Jayce was already at the docks. The walk from his cabin to the local village was barely half an hour, but it was enough to keep the people there at a comfortable distance. He would always make time to greet his mother as they crossed paths to their respective jobs, sometimes earning him a pouch of cookies and a sandwich. He would kiss her forehead, thank her and promise he would invite her for dinner. They both knew he was lying. They knew as night came crawling so would he to her table, to find warmth in a bowl of stew before continuing his journey home alone. He felt guilty, but not guilty enough to hold his promise.

Sometimes she would follow him to the docks, filling the silence with the latest gossips of the town. More often he would find himself at the docks in silence, the village still waking as the sky broke into dawn. It became a sanctuary during these hours, the world around him still wrapped in a sleepy haze. In these quiet moments, the ocean felt like it was his alone. The soft creak of the dock shifting with the waves, the rush of water lapping over the stony shores—it was a melody he had known his whole life, one that he happily hummed along to.

Just as the first sliver of sunlight spilled across the waves Jayce stepped into his boat. Lungs filled with the salty ocean air, the tide vibrating through the planks of his vessel—this was when Jayce truly would awaken. His shoulders rolled with yesterday’s soreness, his fingers cracking under the pressure of carrying old rope and buckets for today’s catch, and his heart beating eagerly in his chest as the first satisfying cough of the motor woke the seagulls.

Jayce guided the boat away from the docks with steady hands, leaving the village behind to become nothing more than a blur of green and grey in the distance. The open waters ahead of him stretched endlessly. It was calm and quiet, its surface a mirror of gold and blue only broken by the gentle swell of waves. It was an overwhelming freedom that settled into his chest, shoulders lowering as their tension finally released him.

The vessel’s motor slowed down as Jayce reached his usual spot, the currents whispering promises of a good haul. He let the boat drift as he moved to the stern and uncoiled the first net before pausing. Standing there with the familiar weight of rope in his hands he stared into the waters.

“Grant me a steady hand and an honest catch, Let the waters guide me, and the nets be kind To the sea, I ask for enough and no more.”

The prayer came as natural as breathing. Old words his father once had taught him when he was young and running around the same old planks he was standing on now.

“Remember,” He had said, net in one hand and his son’s shoulder in the other, “The ocean never takes sides, son. She is not cruel, and she is not kind—she just is. Never think you have tamed her; she will never bend to your will. All you can do is ask for her to treat you fairly.”

At the time Jayce had not understood the weight of his fathers’ words. But then again, he had never seen the waters claim a life. No, that came two years later when he watched the ocean drag his father to its depths, never to release him.

At the sound of his net hitting the water, Jayce started the ritual of his day. Each step, from the casting of the nets to the patient wait that follow, was ingrained in him. There was no rush, no need to chase time out here. The ocean worked at its own pace, and Jayce had long since learned to move with it. Out here he was nothing more than the foam drifting along lazy waves.

The haul of the nets was no different, he would thank the ocean for its bounty before starting the pull. The strain was familiar, almost comforting. Rope biting into his hands, muscles of his back and shoulders burning with the effort, but it was a pain he welcomed. The glint of fish breaking the surface, their scales flashing like silver in the sunlight—it bore a satisfaction he could never find elsewhere. This was honest work, the kind that left him tired but whole.

He worked quietly, the sounds of the ocean filling the spaces where words might have been. As the sun had made its course across the sky, setting fire to the heavens in reds and oranges, he started his trek back to shore. A boat full of fish, hands covered in scales and salt clinging to his hair, the familiar bite of exhaustion crept along his shoulders. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

Handing off the haul to the Dockmaster was smooth enough, a transaction done countless times. The owners of the docks, the Kirammans, had always seen that his pockets were filled fairly—whether out of sentimentality or respect for his work, Jayce was not sure.

“Good haul today?” The Dockmaster called, his voice carrying over the water.

Jayce nodded as he eased the boat into place. “Enough.” He replied, tying the boat off swiftly. It took little effort to carry the crates of fish over to the Dockmaster. After a quick and thorough inspection, the man gave him an approving nod.

“All good! Same time tomorrow?” The man asked.

“Always.” Jayce replied.

As the Dockmaster directed his workers to haul the heavy crates towards the market, Jayce retrieved a smaller bucket he’d set aside. The lesser catch wasn’t much but it would make a fine meal, his mother would make sure of that.

Jayce carried the spoils of the day carefully as he made his way from the docks. The warmth the sun had carried was starting to ebb away with the promise of nightfall. Shadows stretched long across the path leading to his mother’s home and with it the quiet of the village. It was a small place, nestled between the cliffs and the sea, its streets winding like vines between clustered houses. The mountains and dense forest laying behind keeping them all sheltered from the world beyond.

As Jayce walked an occasional villager would greet him in passing—a nod here, a wave there, a tired smile. Familiar faces offering simple pleasantries, their voices carrying warmth and kindness. Some just for greetings, others more direct requests.

“Jayce, if you have a moment this week, could have a look at my boat’s engine?” one might say, or, “The pulley systems’ been sticking again; you’re the only one who can make sense of it!”

Jayce always responded politely, his smile easy and his words brief. He knew their problems by heart and hand, having patched, repaired, and coaxed life back into more vessels than he cared to count. He didn’t mind helping, it was one of the many ways he carried on the Talis legacy. His father and grandfather before him had both been fixtures in this village, known not for only their work on the water but also for the care they offered to others. The Talis name was spoken with a kind of quiet respect—earned through years of steady hands, honest work and a willingness to lend those hands wherever they were needed.

The village mourned with him and his mother when his father was taken. Years of gratitude pouring back on the two left behind, wrapping them in a comfort only a family could provide. Jayce was forever grateful, repaying in one of the few ways he knew—continuing his father’s work with the same tools. His hands carried the same calluses, his shoulders the same weight, and when the villagers asked for his aid, he could never bring himself to say no.

Even now, as exhaustion pulled at him and the thought of his mother’s warm kitchen awaiting him, he couldn’t help but mentally sort the requests he’d received along the way. later, he’d make time. He always did.

That was for tomorrow. For now, though, he let the thought of warm food pull him in the direction of his mother. He tightened the grip on the bucket as he approached, light spilling from the windows to welcome him.

The door opened before Jayce could knock, the familiar creak of hinges followed by the scent of rosemary and wood smoke. His mother was standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, eyes narrowing slightly as he took in his appearance.

“Late again,” she said, her tone held more amusement than bite, “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten where you mamá lives.”

Jayce gave her a sheepish smile and lifted the bucket to show it off. “Caught up with work, sorry.” He replied.

“Hm-hmm.” She reached out, taking the bucket from him before stepping aside. “Thank you, mijo. Now, go sit down and we’ll have a meal before you keel over.”

Jayce didn’t argue. He stepped inside, the warmth of the house wrapping around him like a blanket. The small home was inviting as always, every corner touched with his mother’s care. Bundles of herbs hung in neat rows from the beams above, their faint earthy aroma mingling with the rich smell of whatever she had been cooking. The walls lined with shelves, jars of dried plants and tinctures neatly labelled all in her tidy handwriting.

Before he could even sink into one of the chairs his mother had placed a bowl of hearty stew in front of him. Steam rose in soft curls, carrying the aroma of herbs and rich broth. Chunks of tender fish floated among the slices of carrot, potato, and onion. It was the kind of meal that warmed from the inside out, simple but full of care.

“Go on, eat up.” Ximena said, setting down a mug of tea and a thick slice of bread next to the bowl. “You look like you’ve been dragged through the tide.”

Jayce chuckled softly, picking up the spoon and starting to eat. Every bite carried warmth that seeped into his bones, washing away the weariness of the day. His mother joining him, her voice light and easy as she shared the village’s latest happenings. How the neighbours couldn’t decide between goats or chickens, how she had an extra stubborn patch in her garden that refused to grow, how Jarle’s bones said it would be stormy tomorrow.

Jayce knew Jarle was wrong. Tomorrow would be fine.

*+*+*+*+*

By the time they had finished their meal, he felt lighter. The weight of the ocean no longer pulling on his mind but rather a gentle buzz in the back of his head. He lingered at the table, cradling the mug of tea between his hands. His mother cleaning off the table swiftly, giving him a look when he tried to offer his help. “You could stay the night,” she said, her tone casual but eyes soft with concern. She settled across from him again, hands folding in front of her. “It is getting late, and the walk back isn’t getting any shorter.” Jayce smiled faintly, shaking his head. “I need to feed the cat.” He replied. Her brow lifted, lips curving into a wry smile, her affection pulling on her teasing tone. “The one you’ve yet to name after two years?” Jayce let out a quiet chuckle, taking another sip of tea to avoid answering directly. It was a poor excuse, but it was one that seemed to work. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her—he did, fiercely. The warmth of her kitchen, the sound of her voice, and the way she always seemed to know what he needed before he did—it was a comfort the cherished. But staying meant lingering, and lingering meant facing the silence that came when her stories ran dry and the quiet of the night that crept it. It was in those moments, he felt like a boy again, sitting at the same table with a hollow space where his father used to be. The walls seemed closer then, the air heavier, filled with unspoken memories he wasn’t ready to face. He didn’t realise he had let his thoughts wander until his mother placed a smaller pot with leftovers and a cloth filled with bread in front of him. She gave him a soft smile and reached out to pet his cheek. “For tomorrow.” She explained and Jayce felt the warmth in his own smile as he nodded. “Thank you, mamá.” He took the pot under one hand and tucked the bread away in the pocket of his coat. He lingered for a moment, filling his lungs with a final inhale of comfort before heading to the door. “You be safe now, Jayce.” “Always.” He leaned down and placed a kiss to her forehead, the gesture warm and familiar before taking his leave. The night air greeted him as he stepped outside, cool and crisp against his skin. The lanterns along the houses of the village creating small pools of golden light on the cobblestone. He adjusted his coat and leftovers before making his way towards home.

*+*+*+*+*

As the glow of the village lights disappeared behind him, the sound of the ocean grew stronger. The tide a constant rhythm that echoed somewhere in his chest. The walk back home felt longer than the one he had in the morning, his steps heavy with sleep. Overhead, the moon hung large and low, its silver light spilling over the road ahead, casting the world in soft and muted hues. The shadows of trees swaying gently with the whispers of wind that danced over the forest. Soon the hum of the village fell into silence too, to be replaced by the symphony of the night. The steady crash of waves against the shore, the soft chirp of insects and the far-off hoot from an owl wove together in a melody Jayce so often found himself searching for. His cabin finally came into view, a modest silhouette against the vast expanse of the forest behind it. But that was nothing compared to the endless ocean it was facing. The fat moon hanging above the sea, mirroring itself in the small waves as if it were falling in love with its own reflection. The sight tugged at something in Jayce’s chest, a quiet ache he couldn’t quite name. For a moment, he simply stood there, letting the night embrace him. A cold chill of wind pushed him along, reminding him that the sun would rise whether he slept or not. He adjusted the pot under his arm, gaze sweeping across the water one final time before he made his way to the door. Even the driftwood by the shore seemed to bask in the moon’s light. He made a mental note to haul it up in the morning and carve something out of it—perhaps a trinket or a tool handle, or even a simple decoration for his mother’s home. His eyes lingered on the log before he turned to let himself inside the cabin. Then it moved. Not by the gentle push and pull of the tide but a slow, deliberate twist. Like something dragging itself across the sand. Jayce stopped. Eyes narrowing as he tried to make out the shape, the moonlight suddenly wasn’t enough to illuminate the scene in front of him. An injured animal, perhaps? Or a seal caught too close to shore? God, he hoped he wasn’t about to adopt a dog—or worse, be eaten by a wolf. He hesitated, torn between the pull of his warm cabin and the growing worry tightening in his chest. With a quiet sigh, he turned and headed towards the beach. If it was an animal he could perhaps help, either by putting it out of its misery or giving it a gentle nudge towards the water. With every step closer the shape of the creature became cleared. It became obvious it wasn’t a piece of driftwood nor was it an animal—not the kind he was used to seeing at least. He walked quietly across the sand; he could feel himself hold his breath as tension rose in his body. Was it a beached shark? A small dugong, maybe? He quickly started thinking through all the ocean creatures he normally came across, but nothing fit what was in front of him. That was when a heart-wrenching sob echoed from it—no, not it, them. Jayce stopped in his tracks, his breath catching when the moonlight revealed pale skin glinting faintly under a mess of dark, tangled hair. It spilled over the figure’s back and shoulders, damp and matted, trailing down where thin limbs disappeared into the sand. The longer Jayce stared the less animalistic they looked, as if they were someone dragged up from the depths of the ocean itself, caught somewhere between its cruelty and grace. Jayce’s chest tightened as the realisation crashed down on him. This wasn’t an animal. It was a man.

[teddiee]

Into Each Life: Chapter 13

Summary:

The bed creaks softly as the room falls into silence. The hum of the radiator is the only sound, but it does little to fill the quiet that stretches between them. Tony focuses on the ceiling, the dim outlines of the cracked paint and faint water stains visible even in the darkness. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. For a long time, he wonders if Bucky’s fallen asleep, his breathing steady and measured behind him.

Tony closes his eyes. He tries to swallow the lump rising in his throat, tries to press down the aching, clawing feeling that’s threatening to tear him apart. But it’s too much—too big, too heavy, and before he can stop himself, the words slip free, so soft they barely leave his lips.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Words: 9,914

Tony scribbles feverishly into his notebook, the faint scratch of pencil on paper filling the quiet room. His Art and Duty of Childrearing textbook lies abandoned on the floor beside him, pages bent and cover askew.

A casualty of negligence.

Propped up in bed, he leans against his and Arnie’s thin, mismatched pillows. The faint yellow glow of his bedside lamp casts long shadows across the cluttered surface of his nightstand, highlighting the smudges of graphite staining his fingers.

He nibbles on the end of his pencil as his eyes flick between messy calculations and intricate sketches.

The thing is, he had sworn off this nonsense weeks ago.

It had been a fucking headache, if anything. A dead end, something better left to time and the patience he didn’t possess.

Besides, the memory was still fresh—sharp words, sharper fists, and an ugly, lingering threat that Tony couldn’t dismiss, no matter how hard he tried to shove it into a deeper crevice of his mind.

And yet, here he was, defying all logic and better judgment, pencil in hand, letting curiosity pull him back in.

Because, like all bad ideas, this one had resurfaced with a vengeance.

(And had been sparked, no doubt, by both the mind-numbing drudgery of his current coursework and the glaring absence of a certain Alpha to distract him.)

His notebook is a chaotic sprawl of equations and diagrams, the pages covered in his usual chicken scratch, lines overlapping in a barely organized frenzy.

At the center of his muddled, distracted focus was the concept of a crystalline core—a theoretical medium to focus and amplify the radiation. Around it, he had scrawled potential materials, rough calculations, and the faint outline of a containment chamber: lead-lined walls to shield against leaks, an observation window made of reinforced glass, and a rudimentary control panel. The dials for adjusting intensity and duration are painstakingly labeled, though their precision remains theoretical at best.

In the margins, as if shouting at him from the page, he had scrawled the words “BIG RED BUTTON” in blocky letters, a failsafe to terminate the process in case of catastrophic failure.

The numbers sprawled across the page are rough, a messy mix of intuition and rapid estimations, but they start to form a picture.

He jots down an energy output estimate of 12.7 kJ/kg, scribbling question marks beside it, and notes that such an output might just activate Erskine’s super secret magic serum. The challenge, he knows, will be distributing the radiation evenly across a six-foot frame.

As he flips back through earlier pages, more questions fill the margins: What’s the long-term stress tolerance of synthetic quartz? What happens if the subject’s heart rate spikes? Could sub-threshold pulses mitigate the worst of the unintended effects?

He bites harder on his pencil, splintering the wood further as his scowl deepens. The textbook he’s supposed to be “studying”—yeah, right—mocks him from the floor, its neatly printed title a sharp contrast to the chaos of his thoughts.

At the bottom of the page, beneath the last hurried calculations, he underlines a phrase he’s written in bold, steady handwriting—a mantra that’s guided him through countless inventions and disasters alike: "Stark Rule #1: Always build it twice. The first one’s for the mistakes.”

He stares at it for a beat longer than necessary, then lets out a guttural groan, the kind that could rattle the hinges off the lab door. With a flick of his wrist, the notebook sails across the room, slamming into the wall before hitting the floor with an unimpressive thud.

“Brilliant,” he says. “Very mature.”

Fingers rake through his hair, tugging at strands as if loosening them might untangle the chaos in his head. He doesn’t even notice the caffeine buzz anymore—too much shitty dining room coffee, not enough food, and exactly zero good ideas.

“Some mastermind you are, huh?” He laughs, short and humorless. “Mastermind of digging your own grave, maybe. Idiot.”

A mastermind who will inevitably end up disowned, or worse, a victim of casual manslaughter, for this brilliant little detour.

He drops onto the bed like a marionette with its strings cut. The mattress groans beneath him in solidarity—or maybe protest. Above, the ceiling stares back, its cracks and water stains sprawling like some ancient, forgotten map. He traces the imaginary continents with his eyes, trying not to notice how the edges seem to blur.

"This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done," he announces to the empty room. His voice sounds small, swallowed by the radiator’s low, steady hum.

Hopelessly foolish endeavor or not, the itch won’t leave. It burrows deeper, demanding attention, like a stubborn splinter lodged under his skin.

The crystalline core. The perfect medium. The impossible dance of energy and matter, balanced on the razor’s edge of genius and disaster. It taunts him like an ancient spell, daring him to solve its riddle or perish painfully trying.

He turns his head toward the notebook lying facedown on the floor, pages splayed like a wounded bird. The edges flutter slightly in the breeze from the cracked window. For a second, he considers leaving it there—letting it rot alongside the other half-finished ideas that litter his life.

But a stronger, more reckless impulse wins out.

Tony rolls off the bed with a graceless grunt, landing in a crouch on the floor. He snatches up the notebook, ignoring the torn page at the corner, and flips it open to the most recent entry. His eyes scan the scrawled notes, his brain already working to untangle the mess of ideas.

"Okay," he mutters, dragging the pencil back to his mouth for another absent nibble. This is what happens when he skips supper—he starts eating his stationery. "What’s the play here, Stark? You need power—stable, scalable, non-lethal power. Sure. That’s easy. No problem at all. Just rewrite the laws of physics while you’re at it.”

He grabs a fresh sheet of paper from the nightstand, smoothing it out against the uneven surface of the bed.

"Step one," he says aloud, sketching a rudimentary diagram of the core’s containment unit. "Figure out the heat dissipation. No point in building a glorified bomb. Step two..." He pauses, pencil poised mid-air. "Find someone stupidly altruistic enough to let me test it on them.”

That thought makes him pause, his posture deflating as his expression twists into something sour. The shadows in the room seem to deepen, and for a moment, his hand hovers uncertainly over the page. He knows better than most what unchecked ambition can lead to. The wrong hands, the wrong intentions, the wrong test subject—it could all go sideways so quickly.

He sets the pencil down and exhales, his breath shaky.

"Stark Rule #2," he says quietly, repeating another mantra he’s lived by since childhood. He thinks of flying cars. Stolen glances at classified files on his father’s desk—nuclear bombs. "Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.”

The words linger in the air, heavy with meaning. But even as they settle, his eyes wander back to the notebook. The diagrams. The equations. The tiny, insistent kernel of possibility that won’t let him walk away.

Tony knows himself too well to believe he’ll leave it unfinished. He never does.

He lies sprawled on the cold linoleum floor, the growing ache in his neck a distant afterthought. His mind hums with restless energy as he conjures equations from nothing, the numbers unfurling like spectral ribbons. They stretch toward the ceiling, forming intricate patterns—floating variables that shimmer and shift, like constellations only he can decipher.

The ceiling becomes a canvas for his imagination, an infinite expanse where equations morph into possibilities. Variables twist and curve, dancing in a chaotic ballet as he tries to tease meaning from the mess. His lips move silently, murmuring numbers and theoretical principles, the words barely audible over the soft creak of the radiator.

A sharp knock breaks his reverie.

“Go away,” Tony grunts, rolling onto his side and sliding his notebook under his bed with a sharp shove.

The knock comes again, louder this time, insistent. Tony scowls, sitting up on his elbows and glancing warily at the door.

It’s past curfew. Room checks were hours ago.

It’s clearly not enough to stop Tompkins and his pathological need to catch Tony in some imagined act of delinquency and debauchery.

Well, maybe not so imagined, not anymore. To the trained, prying nose, his sheets most definitely still smell like Bucky.

Tony had been writhing in his lap only twenty-four hours earlier, after all, before Bucky had so graciously flipped him around and pinned him to the mattress, spread Tony’s hips with his thighs, sucked a bruise to his collarbone, and rocked him to a swift, messy orgasm before Tony could even unbutton his pants.

“So easy, doll,” Bucky had laughed into Tony’s throat, squeezing Tony’s hip as Tony’s pleasured aftershocks ebbed into a more heated type of mortification.

“Gonna have to hand wash these, you animal,” Tony groaned, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow and hiccuping weakly as Bucky punished him with another slow drag of his hips, relishing in Tony’s overstimulation.

“Not my fault you’re on a hairpin trigger, kid.”

“Don’t call me ‘kid’ when you just made me blow a load into my pants, Barnes, gross.”

It’s too late now for Tony’s sheets. Besides, until Tompkins catches Tony ‘in the act,’ so to speak, Tony has just been heavily relying on his best friend—plausible deniability.

Straightening his tie (askew since breakfast) and brushing graphite smudges from his hands, Tony clears his throat. "I'm studying," he says, loud enough for the words to carry through the door. “You know, like a model student.”

There’s no response—no impatient drawl, no snide comment about Omegas needing discipline. Just a muffled sound that sends a prickle of unease down his spine.

“Byron?” he tries again, this time more cautiously. His hand hovers over the doorknob. “If this is another surprise ‘search and seizure’, you’re too late, sir. My harem’s already disbanded for the night.”

Still nothing. He presses his ear to the door, straining to catch even the faintest sound. Then, almost imperceptibly, a sniffle.

Tony freezes.

He finally swings the door open, the sight on the other side rooting him to the spot.

Becca Barnes’s shoulders tremble under a plain uniform sweater, her face blotchy and streaked with tears. Her hands tremble as she clutches a crumpled telegram to her chest, fingers gripping it like it’s the only thing holding her together.

“Tony,” she whispers, her voice cracked and broken. Her red-rimmed eyes lock onto his, filled with a grief so deep it takes him a moment to find his voice.

“Becca? What—” He stops short, stepping aside to let her in. She sways slightly as she crosses the threshold, and Tony catches her elbow, guiding her to sit on the edge of his bed.

Her shoulders shake with barely suppressed sobs, and Tony drops to his knees in front of her, uncertain, his mind racing.

Tony, historically, doesn’t do well with tears. Other people’s or his own. He doesn’t know how to handle them—what to say or where to start—but something about the way she trembles makes his stomach twist.

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stares down at the telegram clutched in her lap, her knuckles white and trembling.

“It’s Joey,” she finally chokes out, barely managing the words before her voice breaks.

Tony’s brain stalls, caught between relief that it’s not Bucky—it’s not Bucky, he hasn’t gotten his orders yet—and a sharp pang of guilt for the thought. His eyes flick to the telegram in her hands, and though he doesn’t ask for it, she thrusts it toward him like it’s burning her.

With hesitant hands, Tony unfolds the paper. The words hit him all at once, stark and clinical against the cheap yellow stock.

“We regret to inform you that Private Joseph Proctor is missing in action. Further updates will follow as they become available.”

Missing in action. The phrase lingers in his mind, carrying with it the weight of all its implications. Not dead, not confirmed—but not safe, either. Not home.

“Becca,” he says carefully, setting the telegram down on the bed beside her. “I—” His voice falters, and he rubs the back of his neck, trying to find the right words. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth.

Her shoulders shake harder, and before he can figure out what to do, she collapses forward into him.

Tony freezes. She’s clutching at his shirt now, sobbing into his shoulder, and he’s absolutely, completely out of his depth. He sits stiffly, his arms hovering awkwardly in the air, panic rising in his chest.

What is he supposed to do? Hug her? Say something? He glances around the room as if the peeling wallpaper might offer some guidance.

“Uh, hey,” he tries, his voice thin. “It’s—uh—okay?”

She doesn’t stop crying. If anything, she sobs harder, her entire frame trembling against his. Tony’s heart hammers in his chest, and finally—finally—he manages to drape one arm around her shoulders in the most awkward, tentative hug imaginable.

“There, uh… ” He clears his throat, patting her back stiffly. “There, there?”

She doesn’t respond with words, just cries harder, and Tony’s awkward pats slow until he’s holding her in a loose, uncertain embrace. The position feels strange, foreign, like wearing a suit two sizes too big.

He doesn’t... comfort people. He’s not good at it. But Becca is falling apart in his arms, and for once, he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“It’s… it’s not over yet,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, less stilted. “They said he’s missing, right? That means there’s still a chance. He’s probably out there thinking about you. About how much he wants to get back home to you.”

Becca hiccups, her tears slowing enough for her to look up at him, her red-rimmed eyes searching his. “What if… what if he doesn’t come back?”

Tony’s throat tightens, and his own breathing suddenly feels constricted in his chest. He forces himself to hold her gaze as he says, “Then… you’ll deal with it when you know for sure. Until then, don’t let yourself lose hope, okay? John wouldn’t want you to.”

“Joey.”

“Joey wouldn’t want you to.”

Tony’s grip on Becca spasms momentarily, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of her cardigan, before he loosens his hold again, uncertain. She doesn’t pull away, just leans into him, her weight anchoring him to the moment. Her breathing hitches, soft hiccups breaking through the stillness, and Tony focuses on those tiny sounds because they’re easier to manage than the chaotic storm brewing in his own head.

He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to do this. Comforting people, sitting with their pain—it’s all alien to him. It feels like trying to hold water in his hands, everything spilling through the cracks no matter how tightly he tries to hold on.

He’s failing, isn’t he? He must be. Becca’s still crying. His words hadn’t helped. His presence hadn’t helped. He’s just a placeholder—just here because she needed someone, anyone, and he happened to open the door.

She’s trembling in his arms, hiccupping breaths that shake her small frame, and he doesn’t know what to do with it—with her grief, with her fear.

Because it isn’t just her fear anymore, is it? It’s his, too.

The thought twists something sharp and bitter in Tony’s chest.

He’s spent months shoving it down, locking the fear away behind the endless buzz of equations and ideas and the warmth of Bucky’s grin, the way his voice drops when he teases Tony, the way his hands linger like they never want to leave.

Tony had told himself that was enough. That as long as Bucky was still here, still with him, the rest of the world didn’t matter.

“Do you ever think about the war?”

The crumpled telegram sits on the bed beside them, the stark, clinical language burned into Tony’s mind.

Missing in action.

It’s Joseph Proctor's name on the paper, not Bucky’s, but for the first time, Tony lets himself consider—really consider—that it could be.

That one day, some faceless messenger could knock on his door, hand him the same slip of paper, and tear his entire world apart in one word.

He swallows hard, his throat tight and dry. The thought feels too big, too heavy to hold in his chest, and yet it’s there, pressing down on him all the same. He’s spent weeks pretending the war was something far away, something that happened to other people.

Other Alphas. Not Bucky.

Not his Bucky.

But the war isn’t far away anymore. It’s here, in his room, in Becca’s shaking hands and tear-streaked face. It’s in her sobs, and the weight of the paper she’d handed him like it was burning her alive.

It’s in the question he’s been too afraid to ask himself: What if?

Becca shifts slightly against him, and her words pull him out of his spiraling thoughts. “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers, her voice breaking again. “I don’t know how to… to sit here and not know.”

Tony closes his eyes, gripping Becca a little tighter. His breath feels too fast, too shallow, and he forces himself to focus on her instead of the spiral pulling at him. She’s here, crying, looking to him for something—comfort, answers, anything—and he has nothing to give. Nothing that doesn’t sound empty or wrong or too much like a lie.

“You just… keep going,” he mutters, his voice thin, shaky. The words feel foreign in his mouth, like they belong to someone else. “You block it out. You don’t think too much. And you hold onto…” He trails off, his grip loosening as he glances at the telegram again. His throat tightens as the words hang in the air between them.

Because he doesn’t want to imagine the empty days and nights Becca will have to face, the silence stretching on without answers. He doesn’t want to imagine himself sitting in this same position, staring at a piece of paper with Bucky’s name on it.

Don’t think about it. Don’t let it in. That’s how he’s survived so far, isn’t it? By not letting it in?

Becca pulls back slightly, just enough to look up at him, her red-rimmed eyes full of a quiet kind of devastation. “Is that what you do?” she asks, her voice soft, hesitant, like she already knows the answer and doesn’t want to hear it.

Tony’s breath catches, and for a moment, he can’t meet her gaze.

The truth sits bitter and heavy in his chest, impossible to spit out. He’s been doing exactly that—blocking it out, refusing to think about the letters piling up in mailboxes, the names of boys shipped off to fight wars they might not come back from.

Refusing to think about Bucky and the unspoken inevitability hovering over them both. Because once he lets himself think about it, there’s no turning back.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs finally, his voice quiet and strained. “Maybe.”

Becca’s hand brushes against his, tentative but steady, and it jolts him like a live wire. He glances down, startled, as her fingers curl lightly over his. “Tony,” she says softly, her voice still trembling, “Bucky’s not going anywhere. Not yet.”

The words hit him square in the chest, a mix of comfort and something sharper. Not yet. It feels like a countdown, like the moment the other shoe will drop. And yet, it’s also true. Bucky hasn’t left. He’s still here, sneaking through Tony’s window, teasing him, stealing kisses when no one’s looking. He’s still here.

Tony nods slowly, forcing himself to meet Becca’s gaze even as the weight of everything presses harder against his chest. “Yeah,” he says, the word barely audible. “Not yet.”

Before Tony can fully process the weight of his own words, the air shifts around him, subtle but inescapable. He feels it before he understands it—a presence folding into the room, slipping between the stale heat of the radiator and the sharp tang of Becca’s distress.

And then, it’s there. Firewood and snowfall.

It wraps around him in a way that’s both grounding and unbearable, soothing and terrible all at once. It floods his senses, pulling him from the moment even as it tethers him more tightly to it. Tony’s breath catches, his pulse stumbling over itself as the scent settles deep in his chest, heavy and unshakable.

The window creaks.

Tony stiffens, his heart kicking hard against his ribs—equal parts anticipation and dread—as Bucky hauls himself through the narrow opening. He moves with the same practiced ease as always, his boots landing softly on the floor, his shoulders rolling loose as though the weight of the world has never once touched him. His hair’s mussed, wild from the wind, and his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing arms dusted faintly with soot. And then there’s the grin.

Lopsided, easy, and warm, like the night is his to command.

Tony can only watch, frozen in place, as Bucky brushes dust from his shirt and casts a glance around the room, oblivious to the weight pressing down on it. “Evening, sweetheart,” Bucky greets, his voice rich with its usual warmth as he runs a hand through his windswept hair. “Didn’t think you’d still be up. Know I wasn’t supposed t’stop by tonight, but…” He shrugs, his grin widening. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

For a moment, Tony feels like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point, every part of him stretched thin under the collision of two worlds. Bucky, carefree and teasing, full of life and ease. Becca, trembling in his arms, her grief still a raw, open wound. The contrast is jarring, the shift too sudden to reconcile, and it leaves Tony paralyzed under the weight of it.

Bucky doesn’t notice. Not at first. He’s still unwinding his tie, pulling it loose with a casual flick of his wrist. “Miss me?” he teases, stepping further into the room.

Then he sees her.

Bucky’s steps falter, the grin freezing halfway across his face before it dissolves completely. His gaze sharpens as it locks onto the bed, his brow furrowing deeply as he takes in the scene: Becca, curled tightly against Tony’s chest, her face blotchy and red; Tony, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, his body wound so tight it might snap.

“Becks?” Bucky’s voice cuts through the silence, sharper now, tinged with alarm. He steps forward, his movements slow but purposeful, his steel-grey eyes darting between Becca and Tony. “What’s going on? Why is she—” He stops, his jaw tightening as his gaze lingers on Becca’s trembling frame. “Why is she crying?”

Tony tries to respond, but the words catch in his throat, jagged and unsteady. “It’s…” His voice falters. He swallows hard, forcing the words out. “It’s Johnny.”

“J-Joey,” Becca corrects between hiccupping sobs.

Bucky freezes, his entire body going rigid. The name seems to hang in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. Slowly, his expression shifts, the confusion melting into something darker. “Joey?” he repeats, his voice quieter now, lined with a growing edge of dread. “What about Joey?”

Becca doesn’t answer. She doesn’t lift her head, doesn’t even look at him. Instead, she presses her face harder against Tony’s shoulder, her sobs rising again, fractured and uneven.

Tony swallows thickly, his gaze darting between the siblings as he wordlessly gestures to the crumpled telegram on the bed.

Bucky’s eyes follow the motion, narrowing as he steps closer. His hand trembles faintly as he picks up the telegram, unfolding it with a deliberate precision that belies the storm gathering behind his gaze. Tony watches the exact moment the words hit him. Bucky’s face tightens, his jaw clenching as his eyes dart across the text.

Missing in action.

The words seem to knock the air from his lungs, leaving him standing there, silent and still, his jaw working silently as though trying to chew through the implications.

“Goddammit,” Bucky mutters under his breath, his voice low and rough as he rakes a hand through his hair.

He doesn’t move immediately, doesn’t turn to Becca right away. Instead, his gaze flicks to Tony.

His expression is unfamiliar. Raw, unguarded—emotions that Tony isn’t sure he’s meant to see, and it makes his chest feel too tight, like the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.

Tony meets his eyes, the breath catching in his throat as the unspoken passes between them. He feels the weight of it settle in his chest, as heavy as the telegram.

Bucky sighs, sets the paper down on Tony’s nightstand, and takes a cautious step closer. His hand moves before his words can, reaching out to settle lightly on Tony’s back. The touch is brief, almost fleeting, and Tony flounders under the weight of it—his own nerves fraying at the edges.

For just a moment, the world seems to still. Bucky’s thumb brushes against the edge of Tony’s neck, the faintest, almost imperceptible movement—and Tony’s breath hitches, his gaze flicking to Bucky’s face. There’s something uninhibited in the way Bucky looks at him that makes the knot in Tony’s chest loosen, if only slightly.

Tony swallows, nodding once in acknowledgment, though his heart feels like it’s clawing its way out of his ribcage. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t trust himself to.

Bucky’s hand twitches but lingers for another heartbeat before he pulls it away, his movements deliberate as he shifts his attention to Becca.

He moves quietly, his boots barely scuffing the floor as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed beside her. The mattress dips under his weight, and for a moment, Becca doesn’t react. Her small frame remains hunched over, curled against Tony’s chest, her fingers clinging tightly to his shirt.

“Becks,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and gentle as he leans toward her. He reaches out, his hand hovering near her back before settling lightly against her shoulder. His touch is cautious, careful, as though afraid she might break beneath the weight of it. “It’s me. I’m here.”

Becca hiccups softly, her sobs catching in her throat as her head shifts slightly, her cheek brushing against Tony’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Bucky soothes, his other hand sliding under hers with practiced ease, his fingers curling lightly around her trembling grip. “C’mere, Becks. I’ve got you.”

Tony feels the moment her hold on him falters, her hands slipping from his shirt as Bucky gently coaxes her away. There’s no resistance, only a quiet surrender as she turns toward her brother. Her movements are slow, almost hesitant, but when she finally collapses into his arms, it’s with the full weight of her grief.

Bucky pulls her close, his arms wrapping tightly around her as she buries her face against his shoulder. He leans his cheek against the top of her head, murmuring soft reassurances that Tony can’t quite make out. His hands move in soothing circles across her back, anchoring her to him.

Tony exhales, the sound shaky and uneven, as he sits back on his heels.

He should leave; he knows this, but he feels rooted to the spot.

The quiet of the room feels oppressive, broken only by Becca’s uneven breaths and the faint creak of the wind pushing through open window. Tony’s fingers twitch against his knee, the urge to do something—anything—gnawing at him. But there’s nothing to do, no easy fix, no clever quip that could make this moment any less harrowing.

His eyes drift toward the window, the cold air seeping in from its slightly warped frame. He tells himself he should get up, close it, climb out it—do anything to give them some privacy. But he doesn’t move.

Because Bucky’s eyes keep finding him.

Over Becca’s shoulder, Bucky looks at him with something unspoken, something open and unguarded that Tony doesn’t know how to interpret. It’s not an invitation, exactly, but it’s not dismissal, either. It’s something in between, a thread pulling Tony back every time his thoughts stray toward leaving.

Becca shifts slightly in Bucky’s arms, her quiet sobs giving way to hiccups as exhaustion begins to weigh her down. Her fingers clutch at Bucky’s shirt, trembling as her breaths stutter unevenly. Tony watches as Bucky presses his cheek against the top of her head, murmuring something so low that Tony can’t catch the words. But the cadence of it—the quiet, steady rhythm of Bucky’s voice—settles something fragile in the air.

Tony swallows hard, looking away to give them some semblance of privacy, though there’s nowhere else for his gaze to land. The room feels smaller than ever, the three of them compressed into this tiny, suffocating space. He lets his gaze trail back up to the ceiling. Wishing he could find answers instead of constellations full of equations and improbable variables.

Tony shifts his weight, his knees protesting the hard floor, and eventually leans back onto his palms, his body folding into the silence.

The stillness stretches, minutes bleeding into what could be hours, until Bucky’s voice finally cuts through the quiet.

“She fell asleep,” Bucky says eventually, his voice breaking through the quiet.

Tony’s head snaps back down, his gaze darting to Becca. Sure enough, her breathing has evened out, her face slack against Bucky’s chest. She looks younger somehow, smaller, and the sight makes something twist sharply in Tony’s ribcage.

Tony swallows audibly, his mouth opening and closing a few times before his gaze darts across the room.

“Yeah, no,” he says, shaking his head and blinking as his mind catches on the words. “Sure. You two take the bed. I’ll crash on Arnie’s. No big deal.”

Bucky’s expression softens. “Tony,” he says quietly. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

“It’s fine,” Tony says quickly, pushing himself up onto his feet and wincing as the feeling comes back into his legs. I have extra sheets… somewhere. Probably. And I’ve been stealing Roth’s pillow, anyway. Seems silly to drag Becca back to her room—”

“Tony.”

Tony freezes, mouth tense, a hand tugging through the messy strands on the back of his head. He looks at the Alpha.

The Bucky that Tony knows is… effortless. All easy grins and self-assured confidence.

But now, sitting on the edge of Tony’s shitty, too-small twin bed with his little sister cradled in his arms, Bucky looks different.

Tired. Resigned, maybe, or weighed down by something Tony can’t quite decipher. The lines at the corners of his eyes seem deeper, Tony’s usual favorite crooked grin replaced by a faint downturn of his lips. His broad shoulders, always so solid and unyielding, slump just slightly.

It’s disarming, Tony realizes, seeing him like this.

There’s no bravado, no easy grin to shield the cracks in his armor. He looks unpolished. Vulnerable in a way that makes Tony’s chest ache and his breath hitch.

The realization pulls something sharp and uneasy through him, and Tony’s gaze flickers away, but there’s no escape from the weight of it—or from Bucky’s scent, which hangs thick in the air now, impossible to ignore.

It’s still familiar in its warmth, still steadying in the way it grounds Tony when everything else feels too loud. But now there’s a bitter undertone curling beneath it, subtle but unmistakable—a quiet sorrow that lingers like the first sharp bite of frost before a snowstorm. It seeps into every corner of the room, clinging to Tony’s senses and wrapping around him in a way that makes his stomach twist and his throat tighten.

He inhales without meaning to, the scent pulling at something deep and instinctive, something he doesn’t want to name but can’t shove down any longer. It presses against his ribcage, heavy and unrelenting, and he feels himself teetering between the urge to offer comfort and the impossible desire to fix it, even though he knows he can’t. Not this. Not tonight.

“Tony.”

The quiet rumble of Bucky’s voice slices through the haze, steady but laced with a softness that catches Tony off guard. When he glances up, Bucky’s sharp, perceptive eyes are already locked on him, and there’s something in his gaze that makes Tony want to squirm. Concern, sure—but also something deeper, something Tony’s not ready to face.

“Stop scentin’ me,” Bucky murmurs, though the words carry no real command, only quiet insistence. His jaw tightens as he glances away, his fingers flexing gently against Becca’s back. “Didn’t mean for it to get to you. Just…” He trails off, his voice lowering as he nods slightly. “Hold on.”

Tony flinches, heat crawling up his neck. He folds his arms tightly across his chest, digging his nails into his palms. “It’s fine,” he says, too quickly, his voice sharp with defense.

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. His gaze lingers for a beat longer before he shifts his attention back to Becca. Moving with a quiet deliberateness, he adjusts her until she’s lying on the mattress, her head propped against the pillow and her small frame tucked carefully against the wall.

Tony watches in silence as Bucky leans down to slip her shoes off, his movements careful and precise, as though the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile peace they’ve built. Once Becca is settled, Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, tugging off his own boots with slow, deliberate motions.

Still, Tony doesn’t move. His feet feel like lead, his body rooted to the spot as he watches Bucky without meaning to, caught in the quiet gravity of him.

Bucky straightens, his boots landing softly on the floor beside Becca’s. His hands rest briefly on his knees, fingers flexing like he’s bracing himself for something. Then, without hesitation, he looks up at Tony and holds out his arms.

“C’mere,” Bucky says.

Tony blinks, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. He shifts on his feet, his arms tightening across his chest. “What—”

“Just come here, doll,” Bucky says, his voice gentle but firm.

Tony hesitates, his gaze darting between Bucky’s open arms and Becca, who’s still fast asleep, her breaths slow and even. The bed is tiny. There’s barely enough room for Bucky and Becca as it is, and the thought of squeezing himself into that cramped space feels… impossible.

“Bucky,” Tony starts, his voice awkward and stilted. “There’s no room. I’ll just—”

“There’s room,” Bucky interrupts, his arms still outstretched. His expression softens, but there’s an edge of stubbornness in his tone now, the kind that always leaves Tony feeling off-balance. “You love havin’ this argument, don’t you? Just humor me.”

Tony snorts, shifting his weight uneasily. “Probably not gonna get much humor out of me tonight, Buck.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Bucky says, his lips quirking in a faint, tired smile. He nods toward the bed, his gaze steady and insistent. “Come here, baby. Please.”

The please is what gets him.

Tony swallows, the sound loud in the stillness, and finally takes a cautious step closer. “This is stupid,” he mutters, trying to inject some levity into the moment, but the words fall flat. He toes off his own shoes as he drags himself forward. “You don’t need me crowding you two all night.”

Bucky shakes his head, the smile fading into something quieter, more earnest. “I do,” he says simply. “I need you here.”

The words stop Tony in his tracks. He stares at Bucky, his mind scrambling for a witty retort, something to deflect the heaviness of what’s hanging in the air between them. But nothing comes.

Instead, he just exhales sharply and mutters, “Fine. But if I fall off the bed, I’m taking you down with me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches out and catches Tony’s wrist in a firm but gentle grip. His hand is warm, calloused, and before Tony can process what’s happening, Bucky tugs him closer—not onto the bed, not yet, but to the space between his knees where he sits on the edge of the mattress.

Tony stumbles forward, blinking in surprise. “What are you—”

“Just… hold still for a second,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and steady.

Tony freezes, his pulse ticking sharply against his throat as Bucky’s hands reach up to the knot of his tie. The movements are deliberate, careful—nothing like the hurried, heated way Bucky had tugged at his clothes a few nights ago, impatient and hungry as he backed Tony against his desk.

The memory flares briefly, unbidden, making Tony’s face burn. He remembers Bucky’s hands then, quick and sure, undoing buttons and pulling fabric aside like it was in the way. The way his lips had followed, leaving a trail of heat against Tony’s skin, drawing soft gasps and murmured protests that neither of them had meant.

This is nothing like that.

Now, Bucky’s touch is unhurried, almost reverent as he loosens the tie from Tony’s collar. There’s no rush, no teasing smirk, no deliberate press of his body against Tony’s to ignite sparks. Just quiet, deliberate movements and a weight in Bucky’s eyes that Tony can’t quite name.

The tie slips free, and Bucky sets it aside before his hands move to the buttons of Tony’s blazer. His touch lingers briefly, just enough to make Tony’s breath hitch before the first button pops open.

“You don’t have to—” Tony starts, his voice coming out shakier than intended, but Bucky cuts him off with a soft shake of his head.

“I do,” Bucky says simply, his gaze meeting Tony’s as his hands move to the next button. “Just let me.”

Tony swallows hard, the words catching in his throat as he nods, barely perceptible. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything else, so he lets Bucky work, his hands steady as they ease the blazer from Tony’s shoulders.

The quiet intimacy of it all feels strange, too raw for Tony to handle, but he doesn’t pull away. He stands there, frozen but compliant, as Bucky folds the blazer and sets it aside with the same care he’d shown with the tie.

When Bucky’s hands settle lightly on Tony’s waist, Tony’s breath catches again, his gaze darting away. But before he can spiral too far into his own head, Bucky leans forward, pressing a kiss to Tony’s forehead.

Tony exhales shakily, his shoulders slumping as some of the tension bleeds out of him. “You’re really… something tonight,” he mutters, his voice quieter than intended.

Bucky hums faintly, his thumbs brushing lightly over Tony’s hips. “Yeah, well…” His gaze flicks to Becca, nestled behind him, her face slack in sleep. “Guess everyone’s a little off tonight.”

Tony doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. The warmth in Bucky’s voice pulls at something deep in his chest, but before he can dwell on it too long, Bucky shifts, his hands steady as he guides Tony toward the bed.

“C’mere,” Bucky says softly, his voice calm but insistent. “We’ll figure it out. Just… stay.”

Tony swallows hard, his throat tight with something unnameable, and doesn’t argue. He lets Bucky guide him, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles hesitantly beside him. Bucky leans over and flicks off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

Tony adjusts awkwardly, curling into Bucky’s side and fisting his hand into the material of Bucky’s tear-soaked shirt. “Don’t blame me if I elbow you in my sleep,” he whispers, his tone pitched low and uncertain. The bed is small, and Tony’s already bracing himself for the inevitable fall if Becca so much as shifts.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Bucky murmurs, his hand settling lightly on Tony’s back. The touch is steady and warm, grounding Tony in a way that makes his throat tighten.

They fall into silence for a long moment, the quiet filled only by the faint hum of the radiator and the soft sound of Becca’s breathing. Tony lets his eyes adjust to the dark, his gaze flicking to the faint outline of Becca tucked against Bucky’s side. She looks smaller than usual, her face peaceful despite the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks.

“She’s tougher than she looks,” Bucky says suddenly, his voice breaking the stillness. It’s soft, but there’s a weight to it, something heavy and resigned. “Joey… he’s a good kid. I’ve known him his whole life. Never thought it’d get this serious between them, but she loves him. Always has. Since they were little.”

Tony swallows hard, unsure how to respond. He’s never met the Alpha, of course, but the way Bucky talks about him—steady and low, tinged with quiet fondness—makes him feel like more than a name on a telegram. It’s easy to picture the boy through Bucky’s eyes: the neighbor kid with a shy grin and a good heart, someone who grew up alongside Becca and earned her love in a way that feels unfairly fragile now.

“She doesn’t deserve this,” Bucky continues, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s just a kid. Fifteen. She should be worried about dances and sneaking out to see a picture show, not… not this.” He exhales shakily, his grip on Becca tightening slightly. “Not waiting for news that might not come.”

Tony presses his face into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, the scent of cedar and smoke washing over him—sharp and steady, but tinged with sorrow. It anchors him and unsettles him all at once, pulling at something deep in his chest that he doesn’t know how to name.

“Yeah,” Tony mutters after a moment, his voice barely audible. “Guess not.”

Bucky’s arm tightens around him slightly, pulling him closer, and Tony doesn’t resist. He lets himself sink into the warmth and the weight, the quiet presence of the man beside him. It feels like too much and not enough all at once, but for now, it’s all he has.

“You’re good at this,” Bucky murmurs after another long pause, his voice soft and low, breaking through Tony’s spiraling thoughts.

Tony snorts faintly, though there’s no real humor in the sound. “What? Squeezing into a bed too small for three people?”

“No,” Bucky says quietly, his hand stilling briefly before resuming its slow, soothing motion. “This. Being here. Taking care of people.”

The words hit something raw and fragile inside Tony, and he stiffens slightly, his breath catching. “No,” he mutters, his voice rougher now. “I’m not.”

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Tony’s head. His lips linger there for a moment before he rests his cheek against Tony’s hair. “You take care of me,” he murmurs, the words almost lost in the quiet. “Hey, sweetheart?” “Yeah?” Tony croaks.

“I didn’t know the two of you were friends. But… thank you. For being there for her.”

Tony bites down on the inside of his cheek and buries his face into the Alpha’s armpit to hide the warmth coloring his cheeks.

“We’re not friends. She forces me to eat breakfast with her. Steals my breakfast and cheats off my homework.”

Bucky snorts. “You don’t do ‘homework’.”

“Exactly,” Tony mumbles, his voice muffled against the soft fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “That’s how much of a menace she is. She cheats off assignments I don’t even do.”

Bucky chuckles softly, the sound a low rumble in his chest that Tony can feel more than hear. It’s warm and familiar, and for a moment, it cuts through the weight pressing down on the room. Tony’s grip on Bucky’s shirt loosens slightly, his fingers flexing before curling again, holding on like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

The darkness around them feels impossibly heavy, but it’s not suffocating. Not quite. It’s the kind of weight that settles rather than smothers, wrapping around them like a blanket too thick for the season. Tony closes his eyes, letting himself focus on the faint, steady rhythm of Bucky’s breathing, the quiet creak of the bed as it shifts under their combined weight.

“Hey, Bucky?” He says quietly.

Bucky hums. “Yeah, baby?”

Tony hesitates, his question lingering on the edge of his tongue. He knows he shouldn’t ask—knows the weight of it—but the thought has been gnawing at him for weeks. Tonight, though, with Becca curled against Bucky and Joey’s absence casting a shadow over everything, the words slip free before he can stop them.

“Why haven’t you been called up yet?”

Bucky’s hand stills, his breath catching just enough for Tony to notice. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, and for a moment, Tony regrets asking. He lifts his head slightly, glancing up at Bucky’s face. “Forget it,” Tony mutters, his voice rougher than intended. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” Bucky interrupts gently, exhaling a slow breath. His gaze shifts to the ceiling, distant and thoughtful, before it falls back to Tony. “Guess we have to talk about it, sooner rather than later.”

Tony doesn’t respond. His chest feels like it’s caving in, his lungs straining against the weight of the conversation he’s been avoiding since the beginning.

“When Ma and Dad died,” Bucky begins quietly, his voice steady but tinged with something heavier, “it was just me and Becca. She was thirteen, still a kid, and there was a pile of debts bigger than anything I’d ever seen—hospital bills, the funeral, everything they left behind. Someone had to take care of it. Someone had to take care of her.” He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly. “So when the notice came, I went down to the recruitment office and told them I wasn’t tryin’ to dodge it. Just… asking for time.”

Tony blinks, caught off guard. “They let you do that?”

Bucky shrugs faintly. “I think I got lucky. This was before things really took off. Before Japan attacked us. Maybe they took pity on me, y’know? Some kid fresh outta school, no parents, trying to hold things together for his sister. Told them I’d go if I had to, but I couldn’t leave her with nothing.”

Tony swallows hard, the image of Bucky standing in front of some indifferent bureaucrat, pleading his case with the same quiet determination that Tony’s come to know so well—it twists something deep in his chest.

“And now?” Tony asks, his voice quieter.

Bucky’s hand falters for a moment before resuming its slow, soothing rhythm. “Now our grandparents are helping. Paying for her schooling. She’s with them when she’s not here. They’re good folks. But… that doesn’t mean the clock’s not ticking.” He lets out a quiet, humorless laugh. “I’m on borrowed time, Tony. Just waitin’ for the day the letters start coming again.”

Something in Tony’s stomach lurches. It feels like dread, but heavier.

Anguish.

There’s no point in masking it. He knows Bucky can smell it.

Bucky doesn’t say anything right away. His hand continues its steady rhythm on Tony’s back, grounding and patient, giving Tony the space to sort through the tangled mess of his emotions. But Tony can feel the Alpha’s gaze on him, sharp and searching even in the darkness.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to dump this on you,” Bucky says softly after a long stretch of silence. His voice is quiet, apologetic in a way that twists something deeper in Tony’s chest. “Not tonight. Not…like this.”

Tony snorts faintly, though there’s no humor in it. “What’s one more thing to worry about?” he mutters, his voice muffled against the fabric of Bucky’s shirt. “Might as well pile it on.”

“Hey.” Bucky’s hand stills briefly before resuming its soothing motion, firmer now, as though trying to ease the tension out of Tony’s frame. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Tony asks, his tone sharper than he intends. “Be realistic?”

“Minimize this,” Bucky counters gently, his fingers brushing against the back of Tony’s neck. “You’re allowed to feel this, Tony. You don’t have to… bury it.”

Tony scoffs, though the sound comes out weaker than he’d like. “Yeah, well. In my experience, burying my crap tends to work better than facing it.”

He doesn’t have to elaborate. Bucky knows what “it” is. The war. The draft. The inevitability of Bucky’s name coming up, of the letters arriving, of him being sent off to fight in a war that’s swallowing up everything and everyone in its path.

Tony shifts abruptly, pulling away from Bucky’s warmth and turning onto his side, his back facing him. He doesn’t want to look at him, doesn’t want to see the weight in those steel-grey eyes, the resignation that’s already settled in. It feels too much like an ending, and Tony doesn’t know how to hold that in his chest without breaking apart.

The bed creaks softly as the room falls into silence. The hum of the radiator is the only sound, but it does little to fill the quiet that stretches between them. Tony focuses on the ceiling, the dim outlines of the cracked paint and faint water stains visible even in the darkness. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. For a long time, he wonders if Bucky’s fallen asleep, his breathing steady and measured behind him.

Tony closes his eyes. He tries to swallow the lump rising in his throat, tries to press down the aching, clawing feeling that’s threatening to tear him apart. But it’s too much—too big, too heavy, and before he can stop himself, the words slip free, so soft they barely leave his lips.

“I don’t want you to go.”

The confession trembles in the air, so quiet and raw that Tony isn’t even sure Bucky heard him. His voice cracks on the last word, the sound splintering like glass, and Tony clamps his mouth shut, biting down on the inside of his cheek to stop anything else from spilling out.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then, the mattress dips, and Tony feels the warmth of Bucky shifting closer behind him. A hand brushes lightly against his shoulder, hesitant, before sliding around his waist. Bucky’s arm wraps around him, pulling him back against the solid warmth of his chest. The weight is steady, grounding, and Tony’s breath catches as he feels Bucky press his forehead gently against the back of his neck.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs, his voice low and heavy with something Tony can’t name. “I know.”

Tony squeezes his eyes shut tighter, his body stiff in Bucky’s embrace.

He can’t help but think of the last time they’d been tangled together in bed—only a few nights ago, at the tail end of his heat, when the world had felt far away and distant. Bucky’s bed had been too warm, their limbs intertwined, Tony too boneless and content to care about anything beyond the four walls of the bedroom.

He thinks of the lazy, indulgent smile on Bucky’s face, the way his mouth had trailed patterns down Tony’s bare shoulder, both of them sticky with sweat but too relaxed to do anything about it. They’d talked about nothing and kissed endlessly, the kind of careless behavior that felt safe because the world outside hadn’t crept in yet. Tony’s heart had been full that morning, his body humming with the comfort of Bucky’s scent and the warmth of his skin.

Now, the bed feels cold despite the heat of Bucky’s body against him. There’s no teasing, no smirk, no lazy contentment. Just the weight of what’s coming and the words they can’t take back.

“You don’t—” Tony’s voice falters, breaking apart before he can finish. “You don’t know what it’s like. To be left behind.”

To be cast aside by everyone you know.

Bucky exhales softly, the sound shaky in a way that makes Tony’s stomach twist. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t. And I’m so damn sorry that you have to feel this. That Becca has to feel this.” His arm tightens slightly, his hand resting against Tony’s side. “But you’re never gonna be alone in this, okay? I need you to know that.”

Tony doesn’t answer, doesn’t trust himself to. His throat feels like it’s closing up, his chest aching as he fights to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Bucky’s scent surrounds him—heady and incensed, still tinged with that quiet sorrow that makes Tony’s heart hurt—and it pulls at something deep and instinctive inside him, something that makes him want to stay wrapped in this moment forever.

“You don’t have to do this,” Tony whispers finally, his voice barely audible. He knows he’s being unreasonable. Petulant. Selfish. “You don’t have to go.”

Bucky’s breath catches, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, his hand moves, his fingers brushing lightly over Tony’s side in a way that’s both comforting and  devastating. “I do,” he says softly. “You know I do.”

Tony clenches his jaw, his hands fisting in the sheets as he presses his face against the pillow. He doesn’t want to accept it. He doesn’t want to think about it. But the reality of it looms too large, too undeniable, and it feels like it’s swallowing him whole.

Bucky shifts closer, his arm tightening around Tony as if he’s trying to hold him together. “Listen to me,” he murmurs, his voice steady despite the ache that lingers there. “I’ll come back. No matter what, I’ll come back to you. You have my word.”

“You can’t promise that,” Tony mutters, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion. “No one can.”

“I can,” Bucky insists, his voice firm but gentle. “And I am. You hear me? I’m coming back, Tony. I swear it.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and fragile, and Tony wants so badly to believe him. But all he can do is nod, the motion small and uncertain, as he lets himself sink back into the warmth of Bucky’s embrace. His breathing is uneven, his heart racing in his chest, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays there, pressed against Bucky, and lets the Alpha hold him like he’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Bucky’s hand moves again, slow and deliberate, tracing soothing circles against Tony’s side.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs softly, the words barely more than a whisper. “I’ve got you, Tony.”

And for now, in this quiet, fragile moment, it’s enough.

Tony doesn’t recall falling asleep; the crushing weight of his thoughts must have eventually dragged him under.

He wakes before dawn, the pale light creeping into the room, casting everything in a faint gray haze. The mattress beneath him is too warm, crowded with too many bodies. Becca is still curled up against the wall, her face slack in sleep, while Bucky’s arm remains slung protectively around Tony’s waist, holding him in place.

Tony untangles himself with slow, deliberate movements, careful not to wake either of them. He doesn’t look back as he slips out of bed, his bare feet cold against the linoleum floor. His mind is already racing as he pulls on his blazer, though his tie remains slung carelessly over the back of his chair. He doesn’t need to be presentable for what he’s about to do. Just… prepared.

The hallways are eerily silent at this hour, the oppressive quiet broken only by the soft creak of Tony’s footsteps. The early morning chill seeps into his skin, but he doesn’t care. His destination is clear, and his purpose even clearer.

Byron Tompkins’s office door is closed when Tony reaches it, the plaque on the wood catching the dim light. Tony doesn’t bother knocking. He grips the handle, twists, and pushes the door open with enough force that it smacks against the wall, rattling the frames hung with awards and irrelevant accolades.

The headmaster is seated at his desk, his glasses perched low on his nose as he reviews the morning paper. He jumps at the sudden intrusion, his head snapping up, and the color drains from his face when he sees who’s standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Stark,” Tompkins says sharply, though his voice wavers. “What on earth—”

“Becca Barnes is excused from finals,” Tony announces, stepping into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him.

Tompkins blinks, caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement. “Excuse me?” he says, recovering enough to feign authority. “Christ—you don’t have the authority to make that call, Stark.”

“Don’t I?” Tony’s voice is calm, almost bored. “She received a telegram last night. She’s grieving, you absolute cretin. Do you expect her to sit through exams and recite poetry while her world is falling apart?”

Tompkins clears his throat, clearly flustered. “This is an institution, Stark. We have protocols—”

“To hell with your protocols, Byron,” Tony snaps. He steps closer, his gaze narrowing. “Here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to phone her grandparents and explain the situation. Tell them to come pick her up. She’s excused from finals, and she’s excused from the rest of the term.”

Tompkins glares, his indignation flickering behind a thin veneer of control. “You don’t get to decide that, Omega.”

“Don’t I?” Tony’s lips curl into a faint, humorless smile, and he leans forward, planting his hands on the headmaster’s desk. “You know who my father is. You know what he could do with a single phone call. Do you really want to test me on this?”

Tony won’t test this. He’s completely bluffing. His father wouldn’t give a shit.

But the threat works, anyway. It’s worked for two years.

Tompkins visibly swallows, his eyes darting away as the weight of the unspoken threat settles over him.

“She’s a child,” Tony hisses. “A grieving child who doesn’t need some bureaucratic leech like you making her life harder. And while you’re at it, write a note excusing her from every last responsibility she’s got. Outstanding assignments, obligations, whatever else you pencil-pushers are dreaming up to make kids here miserable. She’s done."

The headmaster shifts uncomfortably, his shoulders sagging as he realizes he’s lost. “Fine,” he mutters reluctantly, his voice tight with frustration. “I’ll… make the call.”

"Fabulous."

Tompkins scowls as he reaches for the phone on his desk. Tony doesn’t leave until the first dial tone sounds, ensuring that the man follows through.

As he steps back into the hallway, the burden in his ribs doesn't lift; it just shifts. For a moment, he stands still, his gaze fixed ahead, his jaw tight, like he’s daring the weight of the morning to press harder.

The faint hum of the headmaster’s voice drifts from the office, low and reluctant as the call begins. Tony doesn’t turn back. He doesn’t need to. The message has already been delivered, the balance of power tilted just enough to leave Tompkins scrambling to save face.

He exhales slowly, his breath sharp in the quiet, and begins walking again. His steps echo in the empty corridor, steady but heavy, like each one carries the weight of something he can’t shake.

There’s no satisfaction in the victory—only the dull ache of inevitability settling deeper.

Lodging itself firmly into his chest.

[drrobctnik]

at the question, a laugh bubbles out of him, the sound equal parts disbelief that stone is genuinely asking, and maybe some shock that someone wants to hear. mostly, a sort of bitterness, at everything and everyone else⸻

"....h," voice catches, stuttered breaths, gasped exhale. feeling that squeezing on his shoulder, julius grips at stone's hand so tightly. & yet it's conscious enough at least to ensure he isn't hurting stone while doing so. if julius weren't careful he was more than capable of shattering stone's hand without much thought. "horrible thoughts, or at least i've been told they're horrible. directly, indirectly."

his fingers twitch but still upon feeling stone's skin on the top of his hand. his gaze is darting along the ground as he tries to piece together what it is he wants to say, how to say it. whether or not it'll make sense. whether or not he means it. whether he should. can he?

finally, julius glances upward, meeting stone's face. he pauses, gaze locked with stone's. though that self-conscious, anxiety spiked pit of himself wanted to look away, afraid, he didn't. wouldn't. h-he had to, face this, even if it meant being vulnerable. only with stone,

"i wanted, to give you everything. i thought you deserved a throne. if you'd wanted to kill everyone, then i'd help you with that. not because i get any real joy out of it ⸻ well, maybe a little ⸻ but it'd mostly be by proxy of you. knowing that's what you wanted. ....so long as you're, fulfilled, then i'd be content just to be there."

he trails off, gaze dropping again.

there's more, of course there is. that barely scratches the surface, and julius isn't even certain that he's explained that properly. he's never trusted his own words. he could barely make sense of his own emotions mentally, how was he supposed to vocalize his wants and desires in a way that anyone else would understand, or listen to, let alone ever accept or view as 'healthy' or 'good'?

whatever brief smile stone had on his face was wiped away instantly when he heard what julius said, which caused stone's blood to run cold. 'I can't lose you', words that paralleled the ones he had said to ivo in desperate attempt to get him to stop what he and his grandfather had planned. he clears his throat at that as he buries the memory, planning to revisit it at another point in time.

at least he seemed to have an idea on what happened to this robotnik's stone...

he listens to him, his grip on julius' shoulder never faltering. if anything, he gives it a gentle squeeze, a silent affirmation that stone would not judge him for anything he was saying or would say.

"what thoughts do you have?" he asks, voice soft as he waits for julius to answer.

[ramshacklefey]

I am here to request more Mormon facts🎤

Your wish is my command! I'll even sort them into categories for you.

Amusing:

The fact that there weren't horses in the Americas until European settlers has caused serious problems for their claims that their book is historically accurate.

This has led some to speculate that when the book says "horses" it means "tapirs."

All Mormon men think they're Paladins: at age 12, every amab person is inducted into their priesthood which is supposed to literally bestow on them the power to do miracles in the name of God as long as they are acting in accordance with God's will and living righteously.

They make a big deal of their "sacred secrets" in the temples, mostly so the members don't find out that they're just masonic rituals with the serial numbers shaved off.

Actually their whole structure is basically just a more bizarre version of the masons.

Their mythology makes free will impossible (something I figured out when I was 12, much to the consternation of my youth group leaders)

They believe that the righteous (men) will eventually become Gods and get to start their own universes.

Their supposedly eternal and absolute rules about what constitutes modest dress have nevertheless semi-consistently been updated to keep up with contemporary fashion.

Less funny:

Salt Lake City, Utah, is an unbelievable hotbed of multilevel marketing schemes. Women trapped at home keep getting into them. I guess if you're caught up in one, it's easy to buy into another...

They're well known for community support within their group, but the Church itself is an international multi-billion dollar organization and never gives significant aid to members.

Everyone in the church is required to pay 10% of their (pre-tax) earnings directly to the church.

Every young man in the church is required to serve a 2 year, volunteer mission. They have to fund these themselves.

Church leadership is supposedly called by divine revelation, yet somehow they're almost all from the same enclave of families whose roots trace back to the founders of the church.

My youth group leader once tried to tell me that rock music was spiritually bad and instead I should be listening to musicals and opera. Because the lyrical content was more spiritually pure.

They're in the "we are fighting a literal war against the Forces of Evil" category of evangelicals, but it was to my immense disappointment that this did not mean there were any sexy demons around.

If they took their own morals seriously, they'd all be communists.

Not Remotely Funny:

The church has a truly massive endowment, and their fingers are in a lot of corporate and political pies.

When California was voting on gay marriage back on 2008, the church organized a concerted effort of members buying property in the state so they could vote against it.

Seriously, I cannot stress enough to you how much money and influence the church has. They just don't wave it around as much as some groups.

Joe Smith and his successor, Brigham Young, were pedophiles who used their church doctrine to force teenage girls to marry them.

They're one of the groups that believe peace in the Middle East is a harbinger of the apocalypse.

Yes, they really are that racist.

They encourage members to adopt Native children in order to "save them" from the curse of their ancestors.

They have one of the largest genealogical databases in the world, and they mostly use it to perform proxy baptisms on dead people, including massive numbers of holocaust victims.

Their culture normalizes and even valorizes child abuse by men. All of the most respected men in my congregation growing up regularly beat their kids. This was considered normal and even funny.

Abuse and bullying are rampant for young men on missions.

They're also ableist in the weirdest way. They believe that everyone's soul is a "perfected" version of their body, see. Any neurodivergent or mentally disabled people are "normal" souls trapped in defective bodies.

BYU (the church-owned university) has a rampant problem with suicides among queer students.

Utah has one of the highest rates of depression in the country, especially among women.

[messiahzzz]

this informational piece is directed to the gale fandom specifically:

grooming is a tactic where someone methodically builds a trusting relationship with a child or young adult, their family, and community to manipulate, coerce, or force the child or young adult to engage in sexual activities.

1. Choosing a victim - The predator often chooses a child who is obviously vulnerable. Children who are withdrawn, low on confidence, emotionally deprived and with less parental supervision are particularly at risk.

2. Building access & trust - Sexual abuse often begins with friendship. The abuser can also take on other roles such as a romantic partner, a mentor, a caregiver or an authority figure. The abuser spends time in getting to know the victim's likes, dislikes and habits and pretending to share common interests. The perpetrator establishes trust with the child by making them feel special, sometimes through gifts or excessive compliments and attention. This is especially dangerous for vulnerable children who do not experience attention in their daily lives. In the trust development stage, offenders aim to develop a trusting friendship or relationship with their victim. This can involve several tactics, including:

a) praising the child for their maturity and intelligence;

b) encouraging the child to disclose personal information;

c) syncing their language with that of the child;

d) highlighting mutuality (i.e., similar interests, attitudes and behaviors between the offender and child); and finally,

e) portraying themselves as being trustworthy and nice.

3. Filling a need with gifts & favors - Giving the victim small gifts and favours is a strategy used by perpetrators to make the child feel indebted. Trust is further built by sharing intimate life details, going on special outings and giving the child access to things they normally wouldn’t get. Once the offender has identified a child’s needs, they will try to be the “hero” to the child who gives them what they desire. Examples include gifts, extra attention, or affection. This causes the child to see them as highly important and even idolized. They won’t want to upset them in risk of not getting the void in their life fulfilled.

4. Isolating - The groomer actively tries to isolate the child from people who may be watchful or helpful. This kind of isolation creates deeper connection & dependency. The offender also exhibits exemplary behaviour before parents of the victim & manipulates them into trusting the relationship. They will use this trust to create situations in which they are alone with the child. Time spent alone also reinforces the “special connection” the child feels they have with the offender. This “special connection” is further reinforced when the offender convinces the child that they love and appreciate them more than anyone else.

5. Initiating sexual contact - With the power over the child victim established through emotional connection coercion or one of the other tactics, the perpetrator may eventually initiate physical contact with the victim. It may begin with touching that is not overtly sexual (though a predator may find it sexually gratifying) and that may appear to be casual (arm around the shoulder, pat on the knee, etc.). Gradually, the perpetrator may introduce more sexualized touching. By breaking down inhibitions and desensitizing the child, the perpetrator can begin overtly touching the child. At this stage, the offender will exploit a child’s natural curiosity through physical touch and excitement. They will begin to teach the child sexual preferences and manipulate what the child responds to. The child begins to see themselves as a sexual being prematurely and the relationship with the offender now takes on a sexual term.

6. Post-abuse maintenance - The goal of the final stage is to ensure the child remains trapped in the cycle of abuse and loyal to the abuser, by either reinforcing and maintaining trust in order to prevent disclosure, or by explicitly threatening or blackmailing the child or their loved ones. This can also be reinforced and maintained by, for instance, giving the child affection, praise or encouragement for one’s actions.

[longelk]

he hates everything that comes out of his mouth but he cant even be gagged without making it weird

[ratrabbbit]

I erm…. I have no excuse as to why I drew this. I just wanted to draw Malleus in his sleepwear and well- were here now lmao- I did this in like an hour last night so don’t ask about the wonkiness of the drawing lol. I didn’t originally plan to finish this, but whatever lol

[arthur-barma]

jack vessalius

[macchiatosdumptruck]

.

[hasarjunadoneanythingwrong]

I’m sorry but yeah Starscream kinda tracks

STOP I KNOW ALREADY

[shi0n]

i dont rly like kanzaki ioris recent songs.. they just dont inspire me im afraid. which is a shame bc i feel like his recent works are more like "himself".. but im just not a fan

[puckpocketed]

KATE SHEFTE MY BELOVED

https://www.seattletimes.com/sports/kraken/tired-legs-off-fresh-legs-on-how-the-kraken-manage-the-chaos-of-line-changes/

[soysaucevictim]

I just- have a lot of feelings abt how fucking weird and complicated the natural world is, man.

It's just everywhere ya look, there's an iceberg of fascinating shit to learn about.

[baycitystygian]

I know I generally embrace being autistic but today the hardest parts of it were really in the foreground for the entire fucking exhausting day… having auditory issues on a VERY important phone call that I needed to make and fighting for my life to understand what the poor sweet insurance lady was saying because the audio was so distorted… having a way-too-long discussion with my sister where I (1) promised to “castrate [her baby daddy] like a hog” for ghosting her and genuinely meant it (thinking about stuffing his nards as a wall trophy tbh, if he doesn’t wanna be a dad so badly then surely it’s no loss to him!) and (2) argued with her about laws that are stupid and shouldn’t apply to her situation (that’s a long story)… which probably did not make her feel any bit better and honestly I think both of us are much more stressed out afterwards. like some situations get me so outrageously mad that I literally cannot handle it and I need to remove myself from the conversation because the other person isn’t budging because it’s something they have zero influence over and they are just trying to explain the damn thing but it’s Wrong in my eyes so I feel the need to argue my case and how the fuck does anyone put up with me

like I know I don’t go into much detail about personal issues on here (or much of anything re: IRL me) but uh. that’s a huge thing I struggle with and I have no clue how to change it. It’s like, does no one else have common sense? Why can’t anyone else see this? and it feels like screaming into the void and it makes me feel terrible and it only stresses out the other person who is Not Getting Paid Enough (well, at ALL) to deal with Whatever This Is