#and world record of his best friend after his passing (The Unnatural)

[scrappedtogether]

I know it’s not as traditional as arrogance or greed and that it messes with the thematics of “the real monsters were humans” 🤪 but I honestly so enjoy Scooby Doo villains whose motivations are built on love.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Die with a Smile

For @anonymous-existences who asked for a "Die with a Smile" by Bruno Mars and Lady Gaga using Spirt Halloween ship. Hope you like it!

Danny remembers being alive, but it was a distant memory as if he had woken from a wonderful dream. He could recall no scents or tastes from his time being flesh and bone, but he remembered sights and sometimes, if he was lucky a few sounds.

The sound of his sister singing. His father's laughter. His mother's humming. His best friend's fingers tap on his keyboard. His other best friend's plants when the water of her watering can fell over their leaves.

Danny held all the sounds dear to his heart, even if he could not remember their names or voices. Just their faces, smiles, and the warmth in their eyes before the car accident. Danny had been a Halfa from the age of fourteen, but twenty years later, he had died in a collision caused by a drunk driver, turning into a complete ghost.

Like all his previous adversaries, Danny could no longer return to the human world willy-nilly. He had reformed after he died in the Zone, becoming one of its citizens, anchored to the Realms between Death and Life.

He needed a gateway made by a mortal who willingly invited him through. All natural portals were nice, but it was a one-way. Anyone could pass through them to the Realms, not vice versa.

His parents had unknowingly created an open invitation when they stabilized their portal, allowing ghosts to run a rampage in the city. Danny doesn't remember why they had made it, but he wishes it was still there so he could see them again.

So that he could feel the deep love so evident in the glimpses and flashes of their faces that ran through his mind. He couldn't find his way back, so he spent years looking. He was one of the few ghosts that had no anchored haunt. Danny spends all eternity flying through the Realms in search of the love that he had once felt.

He lost count of how long ago that was. But along the way, he picked up other various wonders.

A bag that opens to his pocket of cosmos is flung over his shoulder. A long cloak that protected him from the scorching heat, freezing blizzards, howling winds, and drowning rain. A glimmering book that recorded his adventures in the consultations. And many new friends who have been in the Realms for so long they had developed their own culture and given birth to generations that knew nothing of the mortal realm.

Danny's ghost's name had also faded from his mind, knowing he used to answer something when he was fourteen. He is grateful that his birth name stays with him, even if he does not know his surname.

He now went as the Wander. Always searching for something he did not know if he could hold, let alone own. Wander grew in power, for his death had brought along all the ectoplasm of his Halfa days, and while his travels were relatively peaceful, there were times he needed to fight his way through.

He has never been defeated.

That was Danny's experience now. Wander, find adventure, find friends, find new incredible sights, become saddened that the new things didn't match the love he set on a pedestal, and wander again.

Over and over. Never lingering for too long. Never belonging.

Just lost in the endless void of the Realms.

Then, Danny had run into him.

A human had fallen through a portal caused by unnatural means. It was due to being attacked by a monstrous tyrant that was threatening his world. Omega Beam radiation polluted the portal, and for a second, Danny had thought he had finally found a stable way into the human world.

But alas, when he approached it, an invisible force kept him from leaving the Realms. Its constant flickering and electrical crackles mocked him, even if the scene behind the portal depicted a broken world.

Danny wanted nothing more than to fly through the human world, feel all those fantastic emotions, and live again. He pushed and pushed against the force field; however, there was no open invitation. He could not pass through the portal.

The human that fell after being pushed by the sudden explosion could. Danny had caught him and nursed him back to health, and when he awakened, he was struck dumb by those intense, intelligent eyes.

Batman was the name the human gave him, and for a few months, that was what Danny called him. The way to his home, an Earth called Gotham, had closed as soon as the omega beams had vanished. Batman was beside himself, attempting to find another portal.

As the man was living without means of flight between islands, Danny offered to take him to a few natural portals. He warned him that even if he could enter said portals, there was no guarantee he would be back when he vanished.

Portals bend time and space. They may appear in the same spot, but it was also a gamble of when that would be. Batman had no care, taking Danny's offer, and the two went off on a new adventure.

The broken pieces of an endless city was the connection between the Realms and Batman's Gotham. It took some time before Batman admitted that the city they traveled through - as, for some reason, the city bounds stopped Danny's flight - was his beloved city. It was an exact duplicated, over and over again as time moved on in the mortal world; this one copied every new development without removing the old one.

It merely expanded right next to the old building. The natural portals across the range were unstable, lasting only a few seconds before Batman was forced to throw himself back into the Realm or he got stuck at the wrong time.

Batman left a clue at every stop the portal gave him, claiming one of his children would notice and help find a way to bring him home. Danny wasn't so sure, but if the human found comfort in the thought, he would not be the one to burst his bubble.

As for Danny, the familiar emptiness that came with the urge to move on never showed itself. He found comfort in the footsteps of Batman. He found glee in the laughter around the small fires they make in the destroyed streets, void of any color.

Danny had forgotten most colors, so used to the Grey's, blacks, whites and dark purples of the Realms but the way Batman spoke of it made him think back to the reds blues yellows and greens he had not realized he missed.

Slowly, his journal filled itself with nothing but the mortal he had found.

Batman survived on what little they could find in the broken streets of his colorless home. He seemed disgruntled by the silence of the repeating streets, the obvious signs of violence that never quite healed in his city.

After a while, Danny realized he felt whole again. As if a part of his soul had been returned. Batman did not bring him back to life, but he made him feel alive.

Danny informed him it meant the land was cursed, but that only earned him a cold glare and a sharp bite of beef jerky from a gas station with its window smashed in. Their travels continued, with Danny dreaming of the five sounds he could recall of his loved ones- he did not need food anymore as a ghost, but he did need sleep. His core required recharge- realizing a new sound had been added.

The sound of Batman's soft taps as he marched on, searching for a way home.

Danny created a new constellation for him. He named it the Lost Vengence. It seemed right, even if Batman rarely spoke.

A few months of them together, Batman had wandered into an air that exploded with green grass. He grasped for his belt, but whatever he was searching for wasn't there, and he fell to his knees screaming.

Danny, who hadn't breathed it in, had rushed him over to a crumbled hospital, strapping the human down and panicking over his state. He was no doctor, but if he left Batman alone to get help, leaving the area that didn't allow him to fly would take far too long, and Batman would die.

Already, his heart was beating too fast for a human. Danny had ripped off his strange mask, trying to get him out of the clothes covered in the green goo, but it didn't do much. All that was left was a human- a handsome human- screaming his head off.

Eventually, Danny realized that his journal may have the answer. He could not always remember what he recorded, but if he asked it to, it would pull up records of adventures he may have forgotten.

There was a method of passing on his healing that Frostbite once shared with him long before his death. He pressed his hands over Batman's chest, not with his palms but with his soul, and prayed the human would accept it.

A few minutes later, Danny's ectoplasm had sunk through the skin and cleaned out the effects of the strange grass. Batman slumped against the metal table, breathing heavily and sweating profoundly, but he stared up at Danny as if he were bestowing an angel.

Since ectoplasm was purely emotional, no words had to be shared between them to know Danny had wanted to save him more than anything. Had felt the way Batman made him feel complete.

"My name is Bruce Wayne," Batman had told him later that night while the pair looked through a mall that seemed to have been flooded. The water splashed against their mid-calfs, slowly picking their way through the new clothes that Bruce could wear.

His soft smile filled up to his core, and neither mentioned the way the distance between them closed or the fingers that laced together,but Danny knew he had found it.

What he had been searching for all these years.

Bruce would sometimes stop them in the nicer parts of his city- places that merely went out of business instead of being broken down- and treat him to the few things he had forgotten of the human world.

An ice cream parlor had been stripped clean, but the owners had left one fringe with three tubs of ice cream. As time was frozen, it was good to eat, and Danny realized that while he did not need food, he did enjoy it. Bruce was sensitive to the weather that changed every few hundred miles.

In the parts with ice and snow, he curled up on Danny's chest, protected by the cloak that expanded to cover them. In the fires, he was carried on Danny's back, the fabric of the cloak protecting him from burning while Danny's hair flickers snowflakes for him to breathe.

Other times, he merely liked holding hands because he, too, felt whole with Danny.

Then they came upon a part of town that belonged to Bruce's third youngest son. He called it the Nest, and a date and time was carved on the wall. His son had found a way to stabilize a portal, and he planned to pull Bruce back home.

The boy thought Bruce was trapped in the past, but his rescue would still work. Bruce could finally return to the humans.

He understood. Danny had lived his life. Now, it was time for Bruce to finish his.

"Will you go? Would you leave me?" Danny knew the answer to his questions the second he looked into Bruce's eyes. It cracked something deep inside, but he was not angry or feeling betrayed.

"I'm sorry," Bruce whispers, tracing his hand on the curve of Danny's cheek. The ghost leans on it, wishing, not for the first time that he had the sensation of touch again. He only gets brief impressions of something against him, but Danny can not feel the texture of Bruce's clauses.

The warmth of his skin.

"Don't be. This was the best part of my existence in a long time. You were everything that I had forgotten about love."

He knew humans were warm. He remembers a tiny moment when his sister's fingers in his hair comforted him.

But he could not remember what their warmth felt like.

Bruce's face crumbled before it softened. "I'm not gone yet. We have a few hours."

"Just three," Danny whispered, looking at the numbers on Bruce's watch. He had set a countdown to when Tim would activate the machine- the portal- that only called Bruce home. Since the boy did not know it wasn't a time issue but a different reality, he had unintentionally made it with only Bruce in mind.

The force keeping all ghosts like Danny in the Realms wouldn't let him enter.

"I know how I want to spend them." Bruce found a record player broken in the movie theater beside his son's shining new hideout. Apparently, it was the one that had been abandoned in Bruce's youth.

It played a lovely old, slow dance from the forties that echoed through the dusted room, surrounding them in its soft, wistful melody. Bruce guided Danny to the center of the stage- the only place not covered in dust or supplies- and carefully bent him into an elegant dip.

At that moment, Danny and Bruce were all that existed in the broken-ended city of Gotham's past.

A smile blooms on Danny's face, twirling around the man who caught him and guided him, saying without words how much he adored Danny. The unsaid words between them meant nothing in the face of their world ending, but their smiles made up for it.

Danny's book had fallen open at one point, his collected stars and cosmos flying out to surround the pair as they swayed and slowly danced. He felt the thumping of Bruce's heart against his chest, pressing closer to record the feeling in his core and soul.

Song after song. Step, spin, sway, dip, intelligent eyes that watched him with the same amount of wishful longing and bright, loving smile.

"I could die again," Danny told him, hands on Bruce's shoulders and the human hands on his hip.

"I am," Bruce whispered back as his clock started beeping. They had ten seconds left. "I want you to remember me with a smile."

"Of course." Danny leaned back only far enough that when he pushed his face against Bruce's, their lips sealed in a burst of incredible, indescribable sensations. All at once, it's like sounds, feelings, tastes, and sights rush back at him, making him feel as if life was being breathed back into him, only for it to vanish as Bruce's body slowly fades away.

He leans back after his hands pass through Bruce's body, no longer anchored enough in the Realms to hold, and gives him the brightest smile he can muster. Neither mentions the tears rolling down their faces as he whispers.

"The party is over, and our time on this Earth is through, but I'll love you. For all eternity. I always do when I think of those who are still alive." Danny watches him fade away in soft, gentle sparks that he would later gather and shift into stardust.

He places them in Gotham's skies so Bruce can have a tiny part of him, even though he cannot see it. Danny turns around and marches back towards the realms.

The Wander must find a new purpose.

[rediron89]

the cameras 

a horror movie that starts with a man arguing with his wife. he noticed that there has been something strange going on outside. like someone was going around his yard late at night.

he bought an expensive security camera setup and we see the point of view from his computers webcam. 

every shot is from the point of view from a camera set around the house. the audience quickly is made aware we are watching a recording of the events. at first we have normal daily stuff happen. getting ready for work. a dog wanting to go outside. meal prep. 

there's no security cameras inside but we do have the point of view from some computers and smart devices. at night we notice small changes at first. the kind that would require a rewatch to notice. 

a knife left on the edge of the counter that was clearly put away properly. a door quietly unlocking itself in the background. the man doesn't notice it because he is obsessed with thinking something is going on outside. 

Then things start breaking, cameras suddenly glitching and bigger items moving. a glimpse of a shadow. a dog unheard poops on the floor. 

his paranoia rises and he invests more and more money into these cameras. we see him put some inside but we never see the view from these. 

instead we see the view from cameras in strange places. and old cellphone found under the bathroom sink. low quality betraying it's age. sights from the eyes of a toy bought for a child. 

unusual points of view of view at the best of time. We slowly discover secrets that the house is keeping. an abusive relationship between the couple. a beating that lead to a hidden miscarriage. the woman talking to a friend about how much she hates living here now. 

as life in the house unravels the cameras at night start glitching more and more. shadowy faces appear around the corners behind the man. unnaturally sharp teeth gleaming in the dark stalk him. 

all evil follows him. distorting the world around him. weapons appear in areas that they should not be. his paranoia grows as he can't see the changes around him, but he does see the conversation between the wife and the friend from a point of view we didn’t. 

This enrages him, and after she leaves the next day he leaves the house at an odd time. You see him come home way too early with a heavy trash bag, and he shoves it into the shed. He puts a heavy padlock on the door and puts the key into his pocket. That night the dog starts barking. The shadows are much clearer and knock twisted hands on the windows. 

He gets up and rushes to the door with a gun. Clearly recently bought. The dog rushes out with the man quickly following. The shadows caressing his hair as he passes. He turns the corner as he watches the dog barking, biting, and clawing at the shed door. We see blood pooling at the bottom of the door and as he reaches for the key the dog steps in the blood. The dog then turns to attack the man. He then shoots it multiple times. 

The next day she is talking to the police about her missing friend as the man finishes burying the dog in the backyard. The police investigate him, and he gives some excuse how some animal was attacking him and the dog got in the way. As he goes back to filling in a hole with way too much dirt for a dog. 

We don’t see from the normal cameras anymore. Some old vhs camera in an attic that is pointed at the dripping decapitated head of the friend as she mouths something at the camera. He turns on the light only for it to be an old doll head that he crushes with his foot by accident.  A bloody bundle in the basement wiggling just to be shown to be a bundle of old rags. Even at day the glitches happen. The woman now notices them. The weapons in the house glitching in and out between shots always pointing their handles to him.  Sharp edged shadows whispering untold love to him, and fears to her. The next day she attempts to leave. Shook by the events that happened. Upon finding her in the middle of fleeing he in his paranoia points his gun at her. Telling her that he will protect her. She turns to the door and he attempts to shoot her. Only for a bright “dog shaped” light to cause him to miss. He drops the gun to the floor where it misfires. 

She escapes into the night as he is left bleeding from a chest wound. Shadows and glitches come out of every corner. Digging deeply into the wound. Soaking into his blood. Now a toxic oil color. Draining him of what life he has. As the decapitated body of the friend holds the dog and her head look on. 

After being enveloped by the smoke he becomes a glitch. His desiccated ghost stairs at the camera. And he says “Oh i see now” and smiles and unearthly bright smile. As the camera starts to move you see from the point of view of a cops body cam as his ghost starts walking down the street.

[pastelwitchling]

Journey to the Past

read on ao3

This was meant to be part of my one-shot collection, it turned out to be too long, and now it’s a separate fic. If you enjoy reading even a little bit, please comment and share/reblog, it always makes the world of a difference ❤

Michael woke to find he’d fallen asleep at Alex’s bedside. Before anything, he sat up, checked to see if Alex’s eyes hadn’t fluttered, if he wasn’t finally waking from his coma, but his hand remained perfectly still in Michael’s, the heart monitor echoed steadily into the otherwise empty room and echoing off Max’s bedroom walls.

They would’ve taken him to the hospital, but since the attack that did this to him had been by his father’s rogue Project Shepherd agents, they couldn’t risk leaving him in a room that any enemy could access. At least here, Isobel and Michael could set up forcefields around the grounds. At least here, Max could strike anybody that came too close with lightning and they could blame it on the weather. At least here, Michael could cling to Alex and no one would bother him about it.

Michael wasn’t Alex’s boyfriend, he knew. Alex’s actual boyfriend – or his ex, that is, as of two weeks ago – was back in New York, unaware that the man he’d fallen so deeply and treacherously in love with had fallen victim to his father’s pissed off and ridiculously loyal minions.

Michael followed the bruises on Alex’s jaw and cheeks with his eyes, the cut on his lower lip, visible under the thick respirator. There was a stitched up gash in his forehead, and his knuckles on his right hand were scraped and bloody from the fight he’d given the attackers. He’d fended most of them off, before Michael had arrived to blow the rest of them into the walls and knock them out, but not before one of them had managed a stray shot in and got Alex in the stomach.

Max had done his best to heal him, but the bullets had been laced with yellow pollen. Jesse Manes’ last attempt to kill his youngest son, apparently, had followed him out the grave.

Michael shut his eyes against the thought, and instinctively gripped Alex’s hand tighter. He didn’t want to think about Project Shepherd and what they’d intended. They’d failed, and that was all that mattered. His grip turned painful on Alex’s hand. They’d failed.

A knock came at the door, but Michael did not look away from Alex’s face. He heard Max’s voice from the end of the room ask, “How’re you holding up?”

“Why isn’t he awake yet?” Michael demanded. “You said he’d be awake by now.”

“No,” Max sighed, and closed the door behind him. “I said Kyle hoped he’d be awake by now.”

“It’s been two days.”

“We’re doing everything we can –”

“Well, it’s not enough!” Michael snapped, and the room collapsed back into silence.

“He’ll wake up,” Max promised him. “He will. Just give him some time.”

“I need him,” Michael whispered.

“I know –”

“No,” he growled. “I need him.” He rubbed his face roughly with one hand. “Where’s Is?”

“Outside,” he said. “Why?” When Michael didn’t answer, Max’s shoulders slumped and his frown deepened. “Michael, no.”

“I know we said there were risks –”

“Risks?” he scoffed. “I already told you it’s too dangerous to go digging through Alex’s head! Isobel told you it’s dangerous!”

Michael stood. “Valenti said his brain waves are normal, he’s just asleep. If I can find the part of him that doesn’t want to wake up, then – then I get him back.”

“Or you guys screw something up,” Max argued, “and change something that can’t be changed back.”

Michael clenched his jaw. “He won’t wake up, not like this, and I can’t just sit here and wait.”

“Michael,” Max tried, purposely calming his voice in that way when he knew Michael was seconds away from blowing up and wanted to ease him back down. “Listen to me. I know you’re worried about him, but if you go into his mind, you could make things worse.”

Michael swallowed. Max was right, he knew Max was right. But he remembered Kyle’s voice when he’d hoped Alex would wake up soon. He had been too quiet, his eyes downcast like he was praying and didn’t want the others to know it was that bad.

He had no idea that when it came to Alex, Michael paid attention. Only when it came to Alex.

“If I do nothing,” he said, “Alex stays asleep.” His fingers curled to fists at his sides at the thought. He looked back at Alex, the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed softly. His unmoving fingers and closed eyes.

Michael sniffed, and decided, “If Alex doesn’t wake up by tomorrow morning, I’m going in to wake him up myself.”

 They waited until the next morning, then noon. Michael had been ready to start at dawn, but Kyle had seemed anxious, and Max argued for “Just a couple more hours, Michael, he’s the doctor here!”

Michael had argued that Alex didn’t need a human doctor, and Kyle had argued that Alex was human, so who else was going to treat him?

Michael forgot that sometimes; that Alex wasn’t actually an alien like him, that he didn’t have any superpowers like the others did. He’d just always seemed so strong and intelligent that it slipped Michael’s mind. But Alex was human, and more fragile than Michael allowed himself to believe. He’d been too careless, too willing to ask for Alex’s help fixing this or fixing that without ever considering what he might’ve been doing to him. What it might cost.

Maybe that was why Michael was so eager to go into Alex’s mind already and wake him up. It was time for him to save Alex for a change.

“Just for the record,” Isobel said, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“You deal with brains all the time,” Michael argued.

“Not like Kyle,” she insisted. “And not memories. It’s like . . . time travelling! If you touch something in the past, you could change the future forever!” She swallowed. “And Alex is . . . he’s too important.”

She didn’t need to say the words for Michael to know what she was thinking. He’s too important to you, she seemed to be telling Michael. If I hurt him, it’ll break you, and I could never forgive myself for that.

Michael took her hand. “You’re gonna do great,” he said resolutely. “If anyone can do this, you can.”

Her brows pinched, unconvinced, but Michael didn’t have any more time for doubt or hesitation. Alex hadn’t woken up in too long, and his nerves were fraying with every passing second.

“Do it,” he said.

Isobel glanced hesitantly at Kyle. Kyle looked to Alex, as if weighing the damage that they could do, but even he must’ve known that Alex being asleep for this long was abnormal, because he looked to Isobel and nodded, clearly unhappy about it.

“Be careful,” Max warned. “For your sakes, and his.”

Isobel’s hand on Michael’s tightened, and she shut her eyes. Michael kept his gaze on Alex for as long as he could. Then he felt a sudden chill shoot throughout his entire body from his hand, and he inhaled sharply. One second he was looking at Alex’s sleeping figure, and the next, the world around him turned to smoke, and he found himself standing in the desert on a bright, sunny day.

He was still holding Isobel’s hand, but nothing looked familiar. There was just desert and gray-steel buildings built high with tall glass windows, clustered like boulders in the sea.

In the distance, he could see uniformed soldiers, marching in formation. Men and women training, sergeants barking orders, laughter from friends somewhere hidden. Where were they?

“What the hell?” he muttered, looking around. He didn’t recognize the area at all.

Isobel shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Where’s Alex?”

Michael turned and found they were inches from a doorway that opened to a large, steel room. There was a raised platform at the very opposite end, and several soldiers fighting, sparring, exercising – but Michael couldn’t see any of them.

Isobel gasped. “Michael,” she pointed. “Isn’t that Alex?”

Michael had already spotted him. He was on the platform, fighting another young man. But even before Isobel and Michael approached him, Michael knew this was a much younger Alex. He looked barely eighteen, his hair having lost its spike and was cut short, he was throwing punches and kicks in a way that seemed very unnatural for the man who hardly had to raise a finger to induce fear. And he was losing. Badly.

“I don’t think anybody can see us,” Isobel murmured, looking around at the other soldiers as they passed. “Or hear us.”

Michael’s eyes were on Alex. His heart was hammering, beating painfully against his ribs with every beating Alex took, every time his body fell to the floor. His opponent delivered a roundhouse kick that had Alex on his face again, and Michael snapped. He held a hand up to blast the other fighter back, but his powers wouldn’t work.

“Are you crazy?!” Isobel hissed, slapping his arm. “You can’t change anything, remember?”

“Literally,” Michael spat, hoping Alex’s opponent could feel his glares. “My telekinesis isn’t working.”

Isobel looked around before her eyes focused on another soldier who was doing pushups. Her brows furrowed for barely half a second, then she winced and put a hand to her temple.

Michael tugged on her hand. “Are you okay?”

“It’s taking all of my power for us to just be here,” she sighed. “My other powers won’t work either.” She frowned. “What’s he doing?”

Michael followed her gaze, and saw that Alex, beaten and bloody, was slowly pushing himself to his feet with trembling arms.

“His face is covered in blood,” Isobel shook her head. “He needs to stay down!”

Michael guessed he shouldn’t have been surprised to see Alex so resolved to stay on his feet. His hair was plastered to his temples with blood and sweat, his breaths were quick and short, like his chest ached, but his shoulders were straight and his eyes were filled with a fiery anger. Alex was looking at his opponent like he was every other person who’d ever beat him down and ordered him to stay there. He was screaming, without any words at all, that he wouldn’t.

It didn’t seem to matter to the opponent as he threw hit after hit, hurting Alex again and again, making Michael flinch and burn with rage every time.

When the fight was over, the other soldiers jeering and eager to start their own training match next, Alex’s opponent crouched down beside him and whispered, loud enough for Michael and Isobel to hear, as though they were in Alex’s place themselves –

“Nobody cares who your daddy and brothers are, Manes,” the opponent sneered with disgust. “Your kind will never survive here.”

Michael clenched his jaw. He felt Alex’s anger, his frustration, his grief. He’d often wondered what happened to Alex after he’d enlisted, how a soldier trained and what that did to them, whether it was hurting Alex the same way.

No one offered Alex a hand, no one knew what to make of this lesser Manes. Michael wanted to kill them all for hurting him, for pushing him down. Alex, on the other hand, seemed to see things differently.

With all the charge of that emo kid from high school, Alex groaned and pushed himself to his feet. He spat the blood in his mouth out, and wiped his forearm against his nose. His eyes were dry, his expression unreadable, but that same anger stayed.

More than a few soldiers looked surprised and even impressed, but Alex, already walking away, didn’t notice.

The scene changed.

Before Michael could blink, they were outside again. A cursory look around told them they were behind the building this time, where rocks and stray blades of grass grew out. Alex was sitting against the wall, his knees pulled up to his chest. In the distance, soldiers marched on, but nobody seemed to see Alex as he cried.

He hadn’t wanted anyone to see him.

Michael glanced at Isobel, and saw her eyes were wide and sympathetic. Alex wiped the tears away faster than they could fall. He sniffled, and pulled a picture out of his pocket, hiding it between his eyes and knees, a secret for no one else.

“I’m sorry,” Alex sniffled again, and wiped his cheek on his shoulder. “I’m trying not to. I’m getting better at it. Not that I think you’d be disappointed that I cried, I just . . . don’t want to cry in front of anybody else. Never again.”

Michael and Isobel each went to a different side of Alex to see whose picture he was talking to, all the while Michael trying not to scrunch up with the uncomfortable thought that Alex had taken enough comfort in someone else that he would sneak a photo of them into base, even back then.

When he saw the picture, he froze. Isobel breathed, “Oh my god . . .,” and Michael had to kneel down next to Alex. It was a picture of them – him and Alex – similar to the picture he had in his airstream. Except this one was taken at a different angle, and they were smiling at each other, taken in the exact moment Alex had noticed Michael watching him play guitar, and the two had laughed, giddy at being so close together and knowing what they knew about their feelings for one another.

Michael tried to breathe, but a lump lodged itself in his throat. Alex had kept a picture of them with him when he’d first gone to the base, and he pulled it out whenever he needed strength and comfort. All this time, he’d thought Alex hadn’t thought twice about him . . .

“I’m scared, Guerin,” Alex confessed to the picture, his grip on the edges tightening. “I don’t – I don’t know what to do. I’m not strong enough to be here. I don’t want to be here.” His lower lip trembled. “But that’s why you started to pull away, right? I was too weak to protect you . . .”

“No,” Michael breathed, shaking his head. “No, please, don’t say that, please.”

“That’s why Alex enlisted?” Isobel said. “Because his dad hit you?”

“It was after Rosa,” Michael croaked, eyes on Alex. “Everything changed, and I . . . I could never tell him what happened. But he – he thought . . . I didn’t know he thought . . .”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Alex cried, hiding his face with one hand. “I’m trying not to cry, I swear I’m trying. I just miss you so much, Guerin. You’re the only person that’s ever felt like home to me, and now I’m here, and I’m more lost than ever.” He exhaled shakily. “All I wanted was a goodbye. I keep thinking about the way I left. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Isobel’s own eyes were glassy. “Michael?”

“I didn’t want to,” he whispered in response to her silent question. “I didn’t want to say goodbye. It felt like I would never see him again if I did.” He clenched his jaw. He tried to press his forehead to Alex’s temple, to inhale his scent, but he couldn’t feel Alex at all. He could only watch him suffer.

“The last thing I ever said to him before he left was –” he scowled at the bile in his throat “—that I’d be better off if he left. I was just angry, and – and hurt!” he tried. “I didn’t mean it!”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said firmly, pulling her eyes off Alex. “It’s in the past, Michael. That’s what all of this stuff is. Memories. You know Alex now, you know what he thinks of you. He loves you.”

Michael shook his head. “That’s not what hurts, Is.”

“Then what does?”

“It’s that he loved me this much even back then.”

“Private Manes,” a voice sounded, and Alex gasped just quickly enough for Michael to catch it before he was on his feet, straight as a board.

Michael looked up and found none other than Sergeant Ramos, Alex’s mysterious leader who’d come to Roswell a mere few weeks ago. The man Alex had looked up to and smiled around and trusted. The man who seemed more Alex’s father than Jesse Manes had ever been.

Sergeant Ramos, looking about twelve years younger, raised a brow at Alex’s right hand which was subtly pushing the photo back into its hiding place in his pocket.

He tilted his head at Alex. “You’re the new kid, right? Jesse’s youngest. Alec?”

“Alex Manes, sir,” Alex said loudly, coherently. Like a soldier.

“Alex,” he nodded. “You miss your friend, Alex?”

Alex faltered. “Sir?”

“Your friend,” he nudged his chin at Alex’s pocket. “In the picture.” His eyes were meaningful when he said, “You must’ve been very close.”

Alex swallowed. It was no use trying to hide the panic in his eyes. He’d just come back from his father’s house, he was too used to being afraid. He hadn’t spent a decade learning to hide that fear.

“Is he the reason you’re here?”

Alex raised his chin. “I’m here to be stronger, sir!”

Ramos smiled, like he knew something Alex didn’t. “You seemed plenty strong to me up on that platform, Private.”

Alex frowned. “I was . . . losing, sir.”

“No,” he shook his head. “No, you were getting back up. No matter what he hit you with.”

Alex clenched his jaw. “I don’t like bullies, sir.”

“Did a bully hurt your friend there?” he asked. “Is that why you’re here?”

Alex said nothing, and Michael could see the questions in the furrow of his brow. What would happen to him if a sergeant discovered he was gay? Would he report him to Jesse?

Ramos sighed and looked around. “If you don’t know why you’re here,” he said, “you won’t last long, I can guarantee you that. You know where you are?”

Alex blinked, confused. “The – the US Air Force Base?”

“Are you asking me?”

He straightened. “The US Air Force Base, sir!”

“You ever been in a plane?” he asked. “Ever seen what we see up there?”

Alex hesitated, then shook his head. He quickly caught himself and said, “No, sir!”

Ramos hummed, then patted Alex’s shoulder once, hard enough to make Alex stumble. “All right, follow me! I’m about to show you the few good things about being out in this godforsaken desert.”

Alex followed as he was supposed to, though doubt never left his face. He seemed convinced that there was nothing good about being out here.

Michael and Isobel exchanged a glance before they quickly followed. Michael stayed close to Alex and reached for his hand several times, until they passed right through each other and Alex hardly seemed aware of him.

They went into a hangar with several smaller planes inside, and Alex tensed just for a moment at the sight of them all before he realized Ramos was leading him to a little aircraft at the far right of the room.

“Stay with me, Guerin,” Alex suddenly whispered, his eyes wide and betraying some fear. Michael looked to him, surprised, but realized that Alex was just talking to himself. His hand covered his pocket where his picture of him and Michael was, and with a deep, shaking sigh, he followed Ramos to the plane.

When Alex got close enough, Ramos tossed him a helmet. “Hop in, kid!”

Alex swallowed. He looked like he wanted to stutter an excuse not to, but he gripped his pocket tightly and nodded once, putting on the helmet.

“Oh my god,” Isobel said with a smirk tugging at her lips as realization dawned. “You’re like his good luck charm.”

Michael swallowed, though he definitely didn’t want to smile. When did it stop? When did Alex realize that he wasn’t good luck at all? When had he stopped needing him?

Before Michael and Isobel could say anything else, they both ended up in the backseat of the little aircraft, Ramos and Alex in the front, the plane on a wide stretch of road. Michael didn’t know if this aircraft had initially fit two people in the back, but it was like the memory warped and changed for them to be able to follow.

“We’re tied to Alex,” Isobel told him. Despite the roar of the engine, they heard each other, and the other two passengers, perfectly. “We’ll keep getting tugged along with him.”

Alex gripped the edge of his seat tightly as the plane took off into the air. Michael could hear his gasp, his eyes wanting to close but unwilling to do it in front of his sergeant. They rose high to the clouds, Alex’s knuckles white. Michael wanted more than anything to reach for him, to hold and comfort him, but this Alex was on his own. He’d never had Michael there as Michael had had Max and Isobel. It was just him, alone, with nothing but a picture to comfort him.

“Better hold onto somethin’,” Ramos laughed and pulled up high above the clouds.

What they saw knocked the breath out of their lungs. High above a bed of white, the sun shined brightly, turning the sky around it to gold and pink and purple and blue. It looked like the color of their spaceship surrounding them.

The sunlight hit Alex’s wide eyes, and Michael watched him breathing quickly, emotions turning from fear to shock to grief to wonder to amazement to grief and shock again. He could’ve done anything in that moment. He could’ve cried, could’ve screamed. Instead he smiled, a surprised burst of laughter escaping his lips.

He held up his hands and yelled, “WOOOOOOO!” and Ramous laughed harder. Isobel couldn’t help but laugh along, and Michael couldn’t look away from Alex. The bright sunlight had turned his tear-filled eyes to crystal green, and if Ramos noticed his crying, he didn’t say anything. Alex just laughed and ran his hands through his hair, marveling at the sight before him, as if he’d never expected that such a beautiful treasure could be right over his head this whole time.

After they’d come back down, Ramos handed Alex his half of a ham and cheese sandwich. “Every year,” he told him, “I look at new recruits, try to decide if there are any worth keeping an eye out for. This year, that’s you.”

Alex blinked. “Why me?”

“Because a soldier who can start a battle is a dime a dozen,” he said simply. “I need the kind of person who can win them. I think I can make you captain in record’s time.” He raised a brow, and finished his sandwich in one bite. “Would that be something you would want?”

Alex’s eyes widened. “That would outrank my dad – er – Sergeant Manes.”

“Yes,” Sergeant Ramos said slowly, as though he’d just figured out the bully’s name. “It would. He would have to answer to you.”

Alex’s cheeks were red, but his expression fierce and hopeful. “You can really make me captain, sir?”

“If it’s what you want,” he said. “If it’s the kind of person you want to be. But you ‘aint gonna get it getting beaten down the way you do.”

“I’m – I’m trying –”

“Trying is for excuses,” he said. “‘Round here, you do. If you want to outrank your old man, there’s only one way to do it, Manes. I can train you, but the work’s gotta come from you. What do you think?” He tilted his head. “How far are you willing to go to be the stronger one?”

The look on Alex’s face said it all. He would become whatever he had to, do whatever needed doing. He had enemies, and he wanted them to burn.

The picture changed. It was like walking through a film, memories too blurred and passing now for Michael and Isobel to cling to.

“What’s going on?” Michael asked Isobel, and she shook her head.

“Alex doesn’t clearly remember any of this stuff,” she said, “so we can’t see it any better than he can.”

They saw Alex get older, training harder, running faster, shooting better than anybody else around him. They saw him rise in ranks quickly, uniformed men pinning medals to his chest, congratulating him. Alex laughing with a team of his own, men with muscles larger than Michael’s head, following him like he was their hero.

The memory then stopped, and Michael and Isobel found themselves in a hospital hallway.

Isobel shivered and clung to Michael’s arm. “What is this?” she asked. “Where are we?”

Michael looked around, and pointed at a familiar man pacing along the wall, his thumb pressed to his lower lip.

“Gregory?” Isobel blinked. “What’s he doing here?”

A doctor stepped out, and Gregory was on him in an instant. “How is he?” he demanded at once.

The doctor sighed. It sounded sad. Gregory’s face fell, anguish overtaking his expression. “We did all we could,” he said, “but we couldn’t save the leg.”

Isobel gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “No,” she breathed. “I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to see this.”

Michael couldn’t hear anything else she said. He was watching Alex who was sitting up in bed, staring numbly at the ceiling. Michael went inside and stood at Alex’s bedside. He did not look at the sheets and what they revealed.

“Private,” he whispered, leaning in as close as he could without touching Alex. “Can you hear me?”

Alex said nothing. He didn’t look down or move. The circles around his eyes were dark. He slowly reached over to the tray beside his bed where a few of his belongings sat in an opened plastic bag, and took something out. It was a picture, his picture of him and Michael, tattered around the edges and stained with specs of blood on the back. He hugged it against his chest as a tear wordlessly rolled down his cheek, though he remained expressionless.

“Alex,” Gregory came in. He looked over Alex’s missing right leg, and swallowed thickly. “Hey,” he brushed his hair back from his face. Alex was either half-asleep or still filled with anesthetic. “Hey, can you hear me?”

Michael knew Alex could, that he remembered this moment perfectly, or he and Isobel would never have been able to see it.

Alex’s lips tugged up in half a sad smile, his brows furrowed as another tear fell down the bridge of his nose. “He’ll think I’m broken now. He’s so beautiful, he’d . . . he’d never love me like this.”

Michael stepped back, feeling like he’d been shot. Alex had kept the picture. Alex had thought Michael wouldn’t love him without his leg. Even now, after all these years, he’d kept the photo of them together. Even now, Michael was still his comfort.

The scene changed.

“I’m getting dizzy,” Isobel groaned. “Where are we now? It looks like Alex’s house, doesn’t it?”

It did. It was night, and they were right in Alex’s driveway, the trees lit with fairy lights, and there sat Michael, or a previous version of Michael, on the bed of his truck.

Michael’s heart fell into his stomach. “No,” he breathed. He remembered this.

“Whoa,” Isobel looked between Michael and Memory Michael. “It’s like Inception.”

“No, please, no,” Michael whispered as Alex pulled up. He stepped out and saw Michael shaking his head.

“What?” he asked in that cute way Michael had never admitted to.

“Pick another memory,” Michael told Isobel. “Any other memory!”

“I can’t control where we go!” Isobel said. “Why? What happens here, Michael?”

Michael pressed the bottoms of his palms into his eyes as Alex’s plea to help him find out more about his mom sounds in his ears. Then Michael’s own cruel words, “I like Maria, okay?”

Isobel’s hand tightened on Michael’s. “Oh.”

Michael was about to say something, though he didn’t know what, when the image before them blurred. It didn’t go away, it just faded to darkness.

“What’s happening?” Michael asked Isobel.

Isobel’s brows were furrowed. “It’s Alex,” she said. “He – he stopped paying attention.”

Michael swallowed thickly as the colors ran around him. Then he and Isobel were in Alex’s living room as Alex came in. It was right after Michael had left his house.

Alex sat down on the couch, staring off into the distance. He pulled off his cap, and his arm fell limp to his side. Slowly, Alex let his head fall back against the wall, and he stared at the ceiling, the same numb expression on his face as when he’d woken up to losing his leg. Any pretense of being fine or indifferent to Michael’s confession was gone.

Alex sniffled, then straightened. His eyes were dry. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out that same picture of him and Michael. He stared at it for a long time, but he didn’t say anything.

“He kept it,” Isobel breathed. “All this time, he’s loved you so much.”

“I didn’t –” Michael croaked, shaking his head. “I didn’t know.”

He’d thought Alex didn’t care who he was with. Then he thought to the way Alex’s eyes had fallen time and time again; in his driveway, his backyard, outside Michael’s airstream over and over and over again. Never surprised, just afraid that his suspicions had been right. That he was too broken for Michael to love anymore.

Alex lied down with a deep sigh that sounded frighteningly like resignation, his hand with the picture hanging off the couch. Slowly, his jaw clenched, Alex let the picture flutter out of his fingers and to the floor. He turned over to his other side and closed his eyes. He didn’t pick the picture up again.

“Alex . . .” Michael whispered, but before he could try reaching for Alex, the picture changed again, and he and Isobel were standing next to Alex in front of a short building. Kids played outside and elders swept their front porch.

Isobel leaned her weight against Michael. He put an arm around her waist. “Whoa, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, “yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. I don’t think I can keep this up much longer, Michael. We have to find the broken part here, fast.”

Michael looked Alex over. “I think we’re getting there. Wasn’t this what he was wearing the day he was ambushed?”

Isobel straightened, eyes narrowed. She gasped. “Kyle told me Alex had gone to visit his mom that morning! He called on his way to the bunker, and –”

“That’s where they got him,” Michael growled, his hands turned to fists at the thought. “We’re close.”

As if hearing the urgency in their voices, a woman opened the door to greet Alex. She had Alex’s dark eyes, dark hair, and kind smile.

“My baby,” Alex’s mother pulled him in for a hug. Alex hugged her back just as tightly.

“Hey, mom,” he said. He sounded exhausted.

His mother quickly noticed and her smile faltered. She cupped his cheek. “Okay, baby, come in. Come on. I’ll make you some tea.”

That was how they found themselves minutes later, seated in a small but comfy living room with plush floral couches, Michael and Isobel on each side of Alex as he and his mother nursed hot cups of tea.

“What’s going on?” Alex’s mother said. “Why do you look like that?”

Alex scoffed halfheartedly, “Are you saying I look bad?”

She brushed his hair back from his eyes. “My son is the handsomest in the world.” She brought her hand to his chin and lifted his head. “So why is he so upset?”

“I’m not upset, mom,” he said, smiling weakly. “I’m just . . . so tired.” His smile fell away and he pinched the bridge of his nose. He took a sip of his tea and set the mug down. He rubbed his hands together. “When you called last night, I told you everything was fine. I lied, mom.”

She nodded, like this didn’t surprise her in the slightest. “I know.” She tilted her head, and softly asked, “Is it your breakup? I thought you were okay with that.”

“I was,” Alex shook his head, eyes shut. “I – I am, but I . . .” He sighed and pulled something out of his pocket. He huffed a miserable chuckle. “I tried to burn it. I couldn’t.”

She took the picture from him, and Isobel gasped softly. It was the same one Alex had had of him and Michael for all of these years. He’d never gotten rid of it. Michael had never stopped being a comfort to him. Until, apparently, now.

Realization dawned on Alex’s mother’s face. “This boy. What was his name again?”

Alex rubbed his face. “It doesn’t matter. None of this matters anymore. Forrest and I broke up, and he still won’t tell me anything.”

She frowned. “I thought you said you loved each other?”

Alex nodded. “I used to believe that.” He sighed shakily. “Not anymore.” He chuckled sadly, and covered his face with his hands. “I’m so tired, mom. I’m so tired of – of excuses and being afraid and – and being brave just to find out that it makes no difference. It’s not enough. I’m not enough.”

“Alex,” Alex’s mother looked horrified at her son’s words. “Did he tell you that?”

“He didn’t have to,” Alex confessed in a whisper. “He showed me. He told Maria he loved her.”

Isobel’s eyes were wide. “Michael, you what?” she demanded. “Why would you lie like that?”

“I was scared,” he said, his eyes on Alex. “I wanted to hold onto something easy.”

But he didn’t know this was what he’d been doing to Alex. That he was hurting him this badly, all to date someone he’d never actually wanted to date. Michael looked at the dark circles around Alex’s eyes, his hollow cheeks, his tousled hair, and wondered how long it had been since Alex had eaten or slept.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Alex said. “I’d always hoped that . . . that we’d end up together. But it’s not something he wants anymore. If he ever wanted it at all.” His eyes shut tight. “I can’t keep clinging to bread crumbs, mom, I don’t want to.”

His mom looked concerned, but she took Alex’s hands in both of hers and said steadily, “Alex, what’re you trying to say? You can tell me.”

Alex exhaled shakily, and lifted his gaze to his mother’s. “Mom, I’ve thought about this a lot. I’ve thought about it since he and Maria first started . . .” he clenched his jaw and looked away, like just the thought of Michael and Maria together pained him. Finally, he said, “I’m leaving Roswell.”

“No,” Michael breathed.

“And I’m not coming back this time.”

“NO!” Michael stood. “Alex, you can’t leave!”

“Michael,” Isobel tried. “He can’t hear you.”

“Alex can’t leave me,” he shook his head. “He can’t.”

“I can’t see him anymore,” Alex said. “I can’t pretend he still loves me. It hurts too much.”

Despite Isobel’s protests, Michael leaned over Alex and grabbed his arms. He kept going through him.

“Alex, look at me!” he demanded. “I’m right here, look at me!”

Alex flinched just as Michael’s hands collided with his arms, grabbing onto him. He could feel Alex, and Alex could feel him.

Alex looked startled, his mother’s voice was gone. Everyone’s voices were gone but Michael’s, Isobel’s, and Alex’s. The world around them was turning to black as Alex searched the air in front of him, as if looking for the source of the sound.

“He can hear me,” Michael muttered, eyes wide. “He can – he can hear me!”

Alex’s eyes fell onto Michael’s, and his brows furrowed. “Guerin?”

“This is it,” Isobel stood. “This is the faulty memory! The part where Alex’s brain is screwed up and is keeping him asleep!”

“Isobel?” Alex blinked. He tried to stand with Michael clinging to him. Michael was afraid that if he let go of this memory, Alex would disappear from him for good. “What’re you guys doing here, what is all this?”

They were standing in darkness. Nothingness upon nothingness.

“You were attacked,” Isobel told him, “by Project Shepherd agents.”

“You’ve been in a coma for three days,” Michael said. “We couldn’t get you to wake up, we had to come into your mind, try to wake you from here.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Alex shook his head. “Attacked? Coma? None of this makes any sense!”

“Remember!” Michael demanded. “Remember! This is just a memory, the real you knows what happened! Remember, Alex!”

Alex looked shocked, doubtful, disbelieving. Then something in his expression slotted together. “I was – I was at the bunker . . . the door was open . . . it all happened so fast.” He blinked, and gasped. “A gunshot. Someone – someone shot me.” He frantically patted down his stomach, looking for the wound, but he wouldn’t find it in a memory. He looked back to Isobel, then Michael. “You’re telling the truth.”

“You have to fight it, Alex,” Isobel urged. She leaned forward on her knees and huffed, like just breathing was getting tiresome for her. “You have to want to wake up.”

“Want to wake up?”

“Yeah,” Michael cupped his jaw. “Come on, baby. Wake up for me,” he breathed. “I miss you, please wake up for me.”

Alex searched his face, then said, “No.”

Michael faltered. “N-No?”

“No,” Alex tried pulling his arms out of Michael’s grasp, but Michael held on. “Guerin, I don’t want to.”

“What do you mean you don’t want to? Alex, this is your life we’re talking about –”

“My life?” he laughed. It sounded so sad. “What life, Guerin? The one where the man I love won’t say two nice words to me? The one where my friends don’t think twice about what their decisions might do to me? Where my own brother tried to kill me because I got in his way?”

Alex shook his head. “No, Guerin. No. I’ve been tired for a long time, and I want to rest now.”

Michael gripped his arms harder. “You think I don’t know the real you?” he demanded. “You think I don’t know that you’ve had hope for us even when I didn’t? You think I don’t know that no matter what you say, you’ll believe in us whether you want to or not? We’re cosmic, Alex, this won’t kill us, and you know it won’t. If you don’t wake up, I’ll just come after you again, you know I will.”

Isobel stared, shocked. “Michael . . .”

His grip on Alex turned painfully tight. “I’ve never trusted anything, Alex. I’m not like you, I can’t see the good even when everything just feels bad. But I trust you. If you don’t wake up, I’ll die.” He shrugged, a sad smile tugging at his lips as a tear rolled down his cheek. “And you won’t let me. I believe that.”

His grip loosened.

“What’re you doing?” Alex said, though he seemed to already know the answer.

“I’m trusting you to come back to me,” Michael said, his whole body trembling. “Because you always do.”

“Michael,” Isobel warned, “if you let him go now, we might lose him for good.”

Michael smirked, and a tear fell down Alex’s face. “I’m not letting you go,” Michael told Alex. “I can’t.”

“Guerin,” Alex tried, but Michael was already straightening, bracing himself.

“You’ll come back,” he said, sure of this more than anything else.

Without another word, he let go of Alex, and a sudden wind hit his face. Then he blinked, and he was back in Max’s bedroom. He and Isobel both broke apart and fell to the ground.

“Oh my god,” Kyle gasped somewhere in the distance and helped Isobel up while Max came to Michael’s side.

“You guys have been frozen for hours!” he said, pulling Michael to his feet. “What happened?”

“Michael had Alex,” Isobel said, and looked to her brother. “Why?” she demanded. “Michael, after what he told us –”

“What?” Kyle said, looking between them. “Told you what?”

Michael lumbered out of Max’s hold and took his place at Alex’s bedside again, taking his hand in his. “Come on, Alex,” he begged in a whisper. “Come on. Come back to me.”

“He said . . . he said . . .”

“It doesn’t matter!” Michael snapped, and Isobel fell silent. “He’ll wake up. He will. Come on, baby,” he murmured into Alex’s hand. “Come on.”

The minutes ticked by in silence, like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something to happen, but nothing did.

“Michael,” Isobel said quietly. “He’s not going to wake up.”

“Yes, he will,” Michael said at once, his grip on Alex’s hand bruising. “He will.”

“Just give him a minute,” he heard Kyle say. He must’ve been clinging to that hope just as desperately as Michael was.

“Come on,” he pleaded. “Come on, Alex. Stay with me.”

A moment. Two. Michael’s eyes burned, and his hands started to tremble. Then he felt it; he felt Alex’s fingers move in his.

He gasped, and waited. Alex moved again.

Kyle pointed at one of the monitors. “Brain activity’s increasing!” he all but yelled. “Alex?”

They looked to Alex, waiting, waiting, waiting. Then Alex’s eyes fluttered open, and a sob escaped Michael’s lips before he pressed them to Alex’s fingers, kissing each one. Kyle gently pulled off the respirator, and he and Michael both helped a confused Alex sit up.

Alex’s brows were furrowed as he took in the room. When he spoke, his voice was dry and hoarse. “I had the weirdest dream.”

Isobel collapsed into tearful giggles, and Max, relieved, patted Alex’s shoulder twice. Kyle ruffled his hair, and Michael moved to sit next to him, hugging him tightly and keeping him close.

“Don’t ever do that to us again, Manes,” Kyle warned him with a trembling smile.

“Do what?” Alex asked. “I don’t remember anything – ow!” He lifted up his short sleeve to reveal red nail marks. Michael’s nail marks from when he’d been gripping him a little too tightly, terrified of losing him.

Alex met Michael’s gaze with furrowed brows, realization quickly dawning. Michael pressed their foreheads together and took a second to breathe Alex in before he closed the distance between them, taking Alex’s lips in his own.

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and then Alex broke away, panting, though they kept their foreheads together.

“Get off him,” Kyle slapped Michael’s shoulder. “He still needs a minute to breathe.”

“No,” Michael said simply, resting his head on Alex’s shoulder and nuzzling his neck, feeling as much of him as he could.

“Oh!” Isobel started. “Alex, what ever happened to that photograph?”

Michael tensed.

“What photograph?” Max asked.

“Alex,” she said, “had this picture of him and Michael when they were seventeen. We saw it in all of his memories.”

“Isobel,” Michael warned through grit teeth. He expected the same out of Alex, to see him embarrassed or shy, but Alex simply blinked like he’d forgotten about the picture.

“That?” he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the small photograph.

Michael hugged his waist with one hand and took the photo with the other. “I have one just like this.”

Alex laughed. “Yeah?”

“I’ll show it to you,” he promised into his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Alex sighed. “I think it might be time for a new one.” He smiled at Michael like he adored him. No, more than adored him. The thought made Michael’s heart flutter and made him cling tighter.

Michael kissed Alex’s neck, then his shoulder. “Good. ‘Cause I have a few ideas.”

“Um,” Isobel said testily as Max and Kyle looked away with red faces. “Y’all know we’re still here, right?”

[joontier]

Subliminal in Scrubs | V1; report iv 

pairings: dr. jeon jungkook x female reader

chapter rating: NC-17 | genre: humor, romance

warnings: swearing

word count: 2.5k

g/n: Send me your thoughts?

[taglist] @nottodayjjk @ditttiii​ @zeharilisharaban​ @btsbunny07​ @turquoiseandplaidinautumn  @aamxxrii @codeinebelle ​

Subliminal in Scrubs (the records) |  navi. | m.list

Your phone blares at exactly 6:45AM, and a memetastic image of Chohee lights up your phone screen as you’re brushing your teeth. When you swipe to answer the call, you don’t even manage to get a word in when Chohee chatters you out of your sleep-deprived soul.  

“Just as practiced, I’m punctual, and you’re late.”  

Garbling out a reply about how it’s still five minutes prior to your agreed time, you tap your toothbrush loudly against the sink, likewise spitting out the foam from your mouth. “Fine, just hurry because I’m starving!”  

Being the gold-hearted person that she is (although that fact is not known to the public), your best friend had offered you a ride to the building where you’re scheduled to take the Korean Medical Licensure Examination today.  

The moment you settle yourself on the passenger seat, she greets you with a cheery “Good morning!” - one that was too cheery this early in the morning, and all the more way too cheery for a certain Kim Chohee. The two of you share a look and you lean in for a hug. “Hey, we’ll do just fine, okay? We’ve been studying our asses for this.”  

You don’t let go at once, looking up at her with a kissy face. She pushes your head backwards with a disgusted expression, keeping your face at an arm’s length. With an unattractive snort, you lean back in your seat, laughing your ass off at your poor attempt to lighten the mood.  

“Seriously, _______, I know you’ve been lusting after me for years even when you’re well aware of my ‘strictly beef’ diet,” Chohee states, dusting your imaginary germs off her shoulder. Turning on her Benz’s engine, she checks her reflection on the rear-view mirror before driving off.  

With both your hands occupied with the sandwiches you’d ordered from Subway, you use your pinky to connect your phone to play some Mozart via bluetooth. You try not to talk much about the test, knowing it will only cause unnecessary anxiety on both your ends.  

As Chohee leans towards you, you tilt her sandwich in her direction, letting her take a bite from her sub. “Hey, what’s an abscess again?”  

“Isn’t that more commonly known as boils? Built up pus within or below the surface of the skin?”  

Kim Chohee chokes on her BLT.  

“Pus?” she repeats, swallowing her bite with great strain. “Seriously? While I’m eating a sandwich? Couldn’t you be more subtle perhaps?”  

Equally just as surprised as she was, you narrow your eyes at her. “We’ve been studying medicine for the last six years! It shouldn’t be a surprise by now...and besides, we’ve heard and see a lot worse too...Would you rather have me say purulent exudate then? And waste my precious saliva on a six-syllable word rather than the common term for a liquid form of inflamm-”  

“Okay!” Chohee throws an arm up in defeat. “Sheesh _______! Don’t I deserve at least some gratitude for driving you to our exams?”  

“Plus we’ve already seen a cadaver too, which was supposedly one of the peaks of our med-student lives! What’s all this hype about some viscous mass on the surface of the skin?”  

Your best friend peeks at you from her peripheral vision, absolutely mortified. You love it.  

“Can you please remind me how we became friends in the first place?” Chohee shakes her head and increases the volume of the player as the droplets of rain start pouring down the windshield. “Anyways – I was meaning to ask the histological meaning of it.”    

“Oh, right,” you nod, recalling your notes, “well, it’s a localized collection of neutrophils and necrotic debris. Basically, it’s a suppurative inflammation which is associated with pyogenic bacteria and characterized by edema fluid admixed with neutrophils and necrotic cells. Staphylococcus aureus usually produces abscesses because it’s coagulase positive and coagulase helps the production of fibrinous material that localizes the infection.”  

As soon as you finish, silence takes over the car, and suddenly, a sniffle comes from Chohee’s side. With a matching frown, you best friend looks at you with shiny eyes. “Oh _______, what would I do without you?”  

With still half an hour to spare, you decide on relieving your bladder first before all the toilets get occupied later a couple of minutes before the actual exam. You take your time with it, even managing to put some effort in fixing your hair in clipping your fringe back so as not to eliminate all distractions possible during the exam.  

While looking through the large panel windows on your way back from the comfort rooms, you spot a familiar face – the last person you’d want to see on such an important day. Perhaps your prayers weren’t loud enough to actually reach heaven.  

There Jeon Jungkook was at the end of the hall, walking like a newly-canonized saint in all his glory. Most (if not all) of the female onlookers stare at him as he passes by, with Jungkook seemingly unbothered by their unwavering attention. You aren’t one for exaggeration, but these women look like they’re willing to worship the ground he walked on.  

Your nerdy, anti-Jeon Jungkook ass quickly hides beside a nearby locker, not wanting to be ‘graced’ by his presence, just as some girl coined a few moments ago as she headed to the toilets with her friends, collectively gushing over the boy.  

The popular kid turns to his right and you swore you’d never prayed harder and faster than any other time in your life. Your room assignment was just the one by the corner...and if he could just make a few more steps and head straight to the next classroom a-and...nope. It’s official. The universe loved shitting on you.  

Jungkook enters room 132, the very same numbers indicating your room assignment for the licensure exam. You ball up your fists in your spot by the lockers, releasing all your pent-up frustration in the simplest and least violent way possible: a long, tedious exhale.  

Gathering up all your self-control, you re-enter the classroom with an inward grimace, desperate to not have Jungkook’s eyes meet yours. He’s looking for a seat, and with all the back rows already occupied, he’s stuck with picking one from the first two rows.  

He’s already stood near the seat you’ve picked and you bore holes into the back of his head with your fake telepathy, silently ordering him to pick a chair on the other side of the aisle instead.  

Just as you had not wished for, Jungkook plops his huge ass backpack on the chair next to yours. You tread back to your seat as discreetly as possible, avoiding his gaze at all times as he rummages through his military backpack. What the fuck is in that thing in the first place? You won't be surprised if he manages to pull out a whole microwave inside – and yet funnily enough, he can’t seem to own a single damn pencil.  

As you were minding your own businesses (hopefully it stays that way for the rest of eternity), you catch the other students discussing surgical cases last minute.  

“Hey, which artery is the one for transection for an epidural hematoma?”  

“Was this the kid that got hit by a fastball in the head?”  

“What happened?”  

“Poor boy got hit in the temporal area during a baseball tournament. Remained conscious during the rest of the day but during the same evening he gets a severe headache with vomiting and confusion. When they got to Severance he got scheduled for immediate surgery for epidural hematoma.”

“That sounds awful…”  

“I’m not sure which artery it was again though…”

If that were the case...then it’d be the transection of a branch of the middle meningeal artery...but then you wouldn’t want to answer that out of the blue and get mistaken for being too snoopy…

Instead, you reach for the bottle of water by the legs of your chair, likewise hearing the same answer coming out of Jungkook’s mouth in a whisper. Huh. You raise a brow. Well, there was a major chance he knew the case since he came from Yonsei too, just as you had speculated from some of your roommates who seemed like they came from the same school after mentioning Severance Hospital.  

The group continue discussing their answers when this girl, who had an obnoxiously unnatural high-pitched voice, approaches Jungkook.  

“Jungkook-oppa?”  

Oppa? OPPA?!

You wanted to throw up. This girl looked at least two-three years older than him. At the least. Guess Jeon was really more of a fuckboy than Chohee would ever admit. “We were just discussing something and we’re really unsure of our answers, maybe a smart oppa like you would know?”  

With as much discretion as you could muster, you adjust in your seat, leaning a little bit towards their conversation as you eavesdrop like the nosy person that you are.  

“The surgery was a transection of the meningeal artery,” says Jeon nonchalantly like it’s the most basic thing in the world, still scrolling through his phone. Silence ensues after that. That’s it?! He’s not even going to bother explaining-  

Jungkook exhales as he puts his phone down. “Epidural hemorrhages result from a rupture of one of the meningeal arteries, as these arteries supply the dura and run between the dura and the skull. Plus you said temporal area right?” he asks, facing one of the guys.  

“The artery involved is usually the middle meningeal artery - a branch of the maxillary artery, as the skull fracture is usually in the temporal area. Since the bleeding is of arterial origin, symptoms are rapid in onset even though he seemed normal for a few hours. If they didn’t bring him to the hospital that same evening, he could’ve had tentorial herniation and would have eventually died.”  

As much as you hate to admit it - you’re beyond impressed. Chohee always stays true to her word, but it doesn’t change the fact that he was still a jerk for clearly cutting the line at the subway.  

The girls coo over him, praising him over how cool he looked by explaining his answer. Jungkook settles back on his seat like he hadn’t just perfectly given an on-point pathological explanation for a neuro case.  

The group continues their review, until they’ve come to another question they’re unsure of. “Jungkook-ssi, would you know where the rupture of a berry aneurysm of the Circle of Willis would likely produce hemorrhage?”  

With only ten minutes left, you’d usually be preparing yourself mentally but this group and Jungkook’s intervention has you all ears once more. Nothing wrong with some last minute review, right?  

“It’s the subdural space.”  

Wow. Okay, quick and close but wrong. Impressive wit though.  

You open your mouth to say something but you hesitate as it dawns on you that you really aren’t part of this group and you’re not the one being asked. Jungkook not missing a beat gets a collective ‘ooh’ from the group, who’s clearly impressed at how quickly he’s answered the question.  

Meanwhile, your conscience is making you contemplate on your earlier hesitation with the voice of the angel on your right shoulder telling you it isn’t right to let the wrong answer pass just like that, especially on a day like this. The devil on your left, however, tells you otherwise. You go with the former.  

Amongst their murmurs of mutual praise for Jungkook (you bet this man is rejoicing inside with all the attention he’s getting, despite looking nonchalant), you take a deep breath and say the correct answer, voice coming out louder than expected.  

“Excuse me?” another ‘spectator’ says, jutting her chin towards you.  

“I said,” you look up at her, “it’s actually the subarachnoid space.”  

“Are you sure?” she retorts.  

Seriously? Just because you’re not some fuckboy jock who smolders at all boobed humans means you can’t be sure with your answer?  

“Hey! I know you!” Someone exclaims from the side, causing everyone to turn their heads toward him, “You’re the foreigner valedictorian at SNU!” Similar to their earlier praises directed towards Jungkook, the same dudes marvel at your most recent accomplishment. You give a shy smile in return, quietly thanking the stranger for the sudden confidence boost.  

“Jungkook-oppa is also the valedictorian at Yonsei.”  

Well, that didn’t last for long...somebody has always got to rain on your parade. You won’t allow this girl though, not today.  

You purse your lips, collecting your thoughts first before explaining it to them. “Subarachnoid hemorrhages, although they are much less common than hypertensive intracerebral hemorrhages, but the former are...more often than not...resultant of a rupture of a berry aneurysm.” You pause momentarily when someone drags his seat closer to yours, “Go on please.”  

“Right, um...berry aneurysms are most commonly found at the Circle of Willis, usually by the junction of the communicating artery and the cerebral artery. Chances of rupture increase with age and cause marked bleeding into the subarachnoid space and produces severe headaches.” The same dude earlier blinks at you, urging you to explain further, “uh...additional symptoms may include vomiting, pain, stiffness of the neck, and papilledema. Death may follow rapidly as well.”  

A few from the people gathered around your seat clap their hands, along with compliments and offers along the lines of marriage and organ swaps.  

Someone mentions seeing the proctor approach the room and the group immediately disperses, everyone rushing back to their seats as quickly as possible. A middle-aged man enters, tells everyone to bring out their pencils and place their stuff by the platform, then momentarily leaves for the restroom.  

Jungkook fishes through his bag, turning each pocket inside and out over and over again. There’s no way this kid actually-- “Shit, where did that pencil go?” he murmurs, going through his bag once more. Looking away, you bite your lip to stop yourself from snickering. Jeon Jungkook is definitely on a different level.  

As expected, your entertaining seatmate calls you and asks for a pencil. With a deceivingly enthusiastic nod, you retrieve a pencil from your case just beside your chair. Your life after meeting Jungkook at the subway had finally led to this moment. He clears his throat and you figure it’s signaling the coming of another obnoxious comment.  

“Oh, I’m sorry, this wasn’t meant for you,” you look at him with the most apologetic look you can muster. Then you look at him, down then up, just as he had done back in the library, you smile widely before winking at him, making him hand your extra pencil over to the guy sat next to him, “Thanks, babe.”  

Jungkook scowls hard and you rejoice inside your head, making sure that your face doesn’t register the slightest bit of jest. His  scowl however, does not last for long. “Hmm, you’re the girl from the library, right? Smart and feisty...maybe you are my type after all,” he murmurs, tongue poking his cheek. You scoff loudly, scrunching your face in disgust. “No thank you.”  

“Oppa,” the girl’s shrill voice calls him one more time and you face forward to freely roll your eyes. If you aren’t mistaken, there’s even a hint of mild annoyance on Jungkook’s features. “Don’t mind her, oppa. You can have my extra pencil instead.” She tsks. “Some people just don’t know when to quit.”  

At least she got something right this morning: you don’t know when to quit. 

© joontier 2021

[archetypal-archivist]

My Beloved, Penis

Fuck it. I was infected by Penis SMP by @demonboyhalo reblogging a bunch of it and the lack of consistent lore bugged me, so I somehow banged out 2000+ words of fanfic about the Penis SMP and how it got started. Lots of internet humor and classic MInecraft shenanigans in this one folks. *slaps roof* This baby can fit so much crack treated seriously, lol. This is also up on my AO3, Zazibine, if you would prefer to read it there.

_-_-_-_

It was never supposed to get so big. It was just an SMP with a couple friends of his he had met from the Hypixel discord server, where he had logged on simply to trash talk the absolute asshole who had dared to kill him last minute in bedwars, only to stumble upon said asshole- going under the name shittyfartbaby69 of all things- complaining to his girlfriend(?) Milfboss in the voice chat. Thirty minutes later of awkward hellos and the manliest of bitching at each other (with Milf chiming in every once in a while to roast them both), and PenisUnavailable had perhaps his first Minecraft friend in, like, forever.

Then Admiral_Anus had entered chat, bitching about his competitor in ABBA Mining and his bullshit bad luck and the whole process repeated. By the end of the day, Penis had three new friends, a private discord server for the four of them, and a promise to meet up with them in Hypixel next Sunday for the ultimate round of bedwars.

The game went spectacularly. Somehow, Admiral had some of the best bridging skills any of them had ever seen, and between Milfboss' terrifying Scottish screaming and pvp and Shitty with his clutch TNT skills, the three of them almost made up for Penis' awful depth perception. They still lost around forty percent of their games, but that was certainly better than Penis' own abysmal record, not helped with his habit of walking off the edge at inconvenient times.

And it was... fun. Usually bedwars was just him playing in his bedroom alone for an hour before he rage-quit and went back to survival for a bit before he died to fall damage and rage quit that too. But shittyfartbaby69 would crack dirty jokes that he'd never even heard of before, and Milfboss would roast him for looking it up on reddit and Shitty would cuss her out as he tried to prove that no, he was being original- all while Admiral would comment of them as if they were a sideshow display. Then Admiral_Anus would turn around and knock an enemy player off their island with some clever pvp and they would all hoot and holler and swear for a while before going back to their conversation, joking about forgetting the topic and starting up a running gag about something new.

And their accents, mmm. PenisUnavailable would never say it, but he really was as American as white Wonder bread and Milfboss' Scottish brogue, Admiral's smooth British snark, and Shitty's shrieking in Australian, well. Ear candy, you know? Even if he teased them mercilessly for pronouncing shit wrong, like "buhguhr". Ppffttt, it still cracked him up how Milfboss had threatened to murder him after the dictionary app on his phone had proved him right that it was actually "Bur-gur", even if Admiral kept insisting it was pronounced "bruh-girl".

Four hours and twenty-eight wins later, they had agreed to meet up the next day to play again, preferably at an hour that wasn't two am for Shitty again. (It was two am for Shitty again, although that was because they played for six that time.) Eventually, it just became a regular thing, them playing bedwars and competing at ABBA Caving- the one game Penis was unnaturally good at, much to Admiral's annoyance- to the point where they ran out of funny jokes about their competitors and the game itself and started talking personal anecdotes.

Milfboss owned a motorcycle. Admiral, entirely independently, also owned a motorcycle, as that was the only vehicle of reasonable speed and style that could actually handle the London traffic. Shitty couldn't drive at all, something about never passing his driving test. Admiral ate cheese at breakfast. Shitty liked to burn his garbage in a metal oil drum in his backyard. Milfboss posted herself singing covers of shit over on Youtube. And it wasn't just real life stuff either- their minecraft skills were also on the table for them all to collectively roast.

Admiral had never seen a single Minecraft Championship. Milfboss thought a flat cobblestone roof was entirely acceptable. Shitty's favorite block was the flint and steel. (That's not a block, sixty-niner. Shut up, is too. OoOh, real clever, 'shut up'! Uh, how about no? How about I fuckin' make you, ever think 'a that? No nono nonono, I'm on two hearts! I'm on two hearts, stop!) It made him curious, honestly. He wanted to see Milf's builds for himself, get revenge on Shitty, see if Admiral really could beat the Ender Dragon with a knockback stick like he said he could.

So he made a minecraft server. And they all joined it. (And stuck PenisUnavailable with the bill, suckaaahhh~!)

Predictably, it all went to Hell in a hand basket pretty quick.

See, it's one thing to play with nutters like his friends in a structured set up like Hypixel games, it's quite another to try and keep a semblance of order in an open world survival server like the Penis SMP. The first five minutes had been him trying to explain the rules and teleporting everyone back to spawn over and over as they tried to "escape the cops," ie, him. The next five minutes was Shitty scream-laughing "scatter!" and other John Mulany references down the mic as everyone ran off to start their houses. Penis, as he was still "god" at that moment, used admin commands to find the closest flower field biome to settle into, hoping for some- ha- peace and quiet.

Shitty, inevitably, ended up trying to settle in the fucking Nether. Like a mad lad, you know, as you do when you are apparently obsessed with all things lava. Milfboss ended up making an oak plank box of a "tree house" in a dark oak forest, while Admiral_Anus picked a nearby swamp for his starter base. Outside of that, they just kinda vibed in discord as they tried to fend off the mobs and get enough resources to try and build up houses that were a bit more than cobblestone towers and wood boxes- er, mostly. Milf kinda just fucked off to go mining, found a skeleton spawner by chance, and made a set of iron gear to stand in the dungeon room with to just chill and kill mobs for a while. She ended up with something like 45 levels and burned her only diamond on an enchanting table so she could buff the Hell out of her iron weapons and armor.

Penis, rather typically, he though to himself, put together a basic sheep farm and started work on a cute little cobblestone cave base. He managed to get a whole twenty by twenty block room done and fully furnished before he noticed the chat full of Shitty's death messages and went to go investigate. After nearly dying in lava twice, he managed to find Shitty's pile of items floating on a basalt pillar about a hundred blocks out from his... base?

It was a soccer ball. Shitty's base was a perfect fucking spherical soccer ball made up of quartz blocks and basalt. Just. What. The Fuck??? Then out popped shittyfartbaby69 and it was PenisUnavailable's turn to misjudge a jump and plummet right into lava. Fifteen minutes and much shrieking later about losing his diamond pick, and it turns out that Shitty didn't really care about his lost items, as he really only had four gold picks, a stack of dark oak, two furnaces, a bucket, and thirteen cooked mutton to his name. Not even a bed, the fucker. He just ran back to his portal from spawn every time he just burned to death, taking the chance to gather resources on the way back each time.

And no, he wasn't following a tutorial for his "football" base. Jerk. (Although Penis did have to admire his determination...)

The day ended on Milfboss, Shitty, and Penis reconvening back at spawn to try and hunt down Admiral_Anus, who they found later having built a thirty block tall castle of all things. Out of cobble stone and the windows weren't quite even, but still, it was pretty impressive. And of course, when presented with a castle, what can what do but siege it? So they lay siege to the castle and Milfboss curb-stomped Admiral in pvp and laid claim to the throne, crowning herself queen before summarily throwing the rest of them out. It was a good day.

And the day after was a good day. They played dodge ball crossed with hide and seek in forest around Penis' house with arrows supplied by Milfboss. And the day after that, too, where they had a building competition using nothing but cobble stone, specifically to spite Milfboss, who had kicked all of their asses the day before. In fact, three wonderful weeks passed of doing normal Minecraft shit and being friends passed by, and every bit of it was great fun.

And then came the fucking role play.

PenisUnavailable would have liked to preface that with he only participated under duress, but really, Milfboss had been queen for too long and nobody wanted to risk TNT cannoning any of Shitty's nice builds, so. Well, the castle was better than his drafty cave, alright? It was cold and wet and didn't have a proper door because aesthetic (and because it usually took him several tries to work an iron pressure plate door), so there were far too many mobs wandering in at night and spawn camping him. He and Shitty had almost the same number of deaths and Shitty lived in the fucking Nether.

So yeah. Castle time, baby! Daddy needs a new home! And Admiral obviously wasn't happy living out of Milf's awful tree house hot box where they all did drugs together on day fifteen and it still smelled of burnt wheat seeds, aka "weed." It was only obvious that they teamed up to try and take back the castle.

The battle itself didn't exactly go great, but it wasn't exactly horrible either. A lot of shouting shit at each other for fifteen minutes, the majority of which he wouldn't remember until it was too late- something about server unity?- only to find out that it wasn't two on one girl boss, it was two on a girl boss and her "baked out of his mind" henchman, also known as Shitty in a squirrel furry skin.

The ears man. Those stupid (cute) ears.

And then they were running for their lives because Milf had somehow gotten her hands on a flame bow with infinity enchants.

It all culminated in a dramatic stand-off in front of Shitty's Nether Soccer ball, Milf on one side, diamond axe in hand, not a bit of armor on because of an unfortunate run in with lava, Penis and Admiral on the other, picks in hand, threatening to tear down shittyfartbaby69's base. Shitty wasn't online just then to comment, but they could all hear him click-clacking away on his keyboard so he obviously hadn't gone to sleep just yet like he said he had. At an impasse, and unable to justify letting her teammate's home be used as collateral, Milfboss stood down and gave up her "crown," an enchanted golden Prot IV helmet she had gotten off a skeleton from her spawner.

Then the great betrayal, the beginning of the end. Shitty came back online. 96-Cam joined the game, not that they noticed in the chaos. Admiral-Anus cackled wildly and PMed Milfboss the message that Shitty had sent him, giving Team Gay Sex permission to tear down his base in the name of winning the war if it came down to it- making Milf's sacrifice worthless in the end. Penis gave another dramatic speech, circling around Shitty, who was acting weirdly apologetic to Milf about betraying her and still wearing that fucking squirrel furry skin.

"You see Milf, there's one thing more powerful than a girl boss, and when it comes down to wars between kingdoms, there's something you need to remember!" Penis got out his golden ax, helpfully labeled 'Piss Off'.  "And that's a dilf with something to lose!" An enderpearl in his off hand and he teleported behind Milf, catching on fire from the lava but still landing the last hit needed to finish her off. She puffed into a cloud of EXP, swearing up a storm, and then Admiral and Penis turned their gaze to the cheering Shitty.

"AAAAAYYY, LET'S GO DADDY!" the squirrel man screeched, wild laughter shorting out the discord voice chat, making him go quiet in patches when the volume overloaded the client. Behind him, Admiral quietly started building a chair out of birch fence posts and slabs.

"Not so fast, shit-ty-fart-baaaaa-byyyyy~, this isn't quite over yet!" Penis fucking chirped, barely holding back his laughter. "You're still a fucking traitor and we can't have you backstabbing us too. Get in the chair for Daddy, okay baby?"

Admiral finished the chair just in time for Shitty to turn around and see the completed monstrosity, shrieking dying off immediately. "Oh screw you, that's just mean. The Hell man? That's not a chair, that's illegal. If you want an electric chair or some shit, just ask. That's just sad." Mentally shrugging, Admiral lit up his work with a flint and steel while Penis pillared up above where Shitty was building an electric chair out of iron bars and trap doors. Admiral nudged Shitty into the chair, Penis dumped a bucket of lava over the edge of the pillar so it flowed over him, and Shitty started giving a soliloquy about how betrayal and how his love for his "Daddy" still "burned strong".

Like his dick. Apparently.

By the time the lava finally hit the floor and burned Shitty to death, Penis was crying with laughter, shrieking down the mike and banging on the desk hard enough to make him forget that his was still on the mouse, making him mine the block under him with the bucket and sending him hurtling to his fiery death too.

It was a good day... almost.

Because, as it turned out, shittyfartbaby69 was actually a tiktokker of some renown and his cam account had record everything. And he had uploaded the bit to tiktok, as you do, where it went viral, where it wasn't supposed to. And Milfboss, who had recently been uploading covers of herself singing old classic Minecraft songs, had attracted the Minecraft fandom kids to her twitter, where she had gone to post her rage about the events of her dethroning and Shitty's execution.

Penis SMP had gotten on. Fucking. Trending. And now everyone was demanding the full clip, their names, their Twitch streamer handles, their characters' backstories.

The masses wanted lore.

Penis watched in disbelief, head in his hands and mouth agape as sugar crash played over a clip of him killing Milf on loop.

They were making memes.

...Oh god. They were screwed.

[cela-astral-projection]

"You sent for me, My Lord?" Aedan asked as he stood just inside the bedroom vestibule. He fought to keep his face impassive as the smell of stale perspiration struck him. The gauzy, white curtains obscured Lucio from view. The room was dimly lit and eerie as whisps of smoke crept through.

"Yes, Captain," Lucio croaked as he sat up. No small effort in his weakened state. Aedan saw the silhouette of him as Lucio pushed himself up and rushed to his side. Aedan fought to keep his face impassive as his gaze fell on Lucio. This was a man at death's door. But, even as vain as Aedan knew Lucio to be, he was pliant enough to allow Aedan to assist him.

After a few minutes of adjusting pillows to keep Lucio propped upright, Aedan sat at the bedside, allowing Lucio to catch his breath from the seemingly minimal exertion. Lucio's shirt hung open, and Aedan could see how badly he had atrophied. Aedan saw a growing spot of red at his shoulder, where the prosthesis that he still insisted on wearing had torn the tissue paper-like flesh.

When Lucio got his bearings, he opened his bloodshot eyes to stare at Aedan, and managed a weak smile, and tilted his head toward the bottle on the bedside table. "Old times sake?"

Aedan followed his gaze and pulled a face immediately. He knew that alcohol -- hideously bitter and wormwood infused -- absinthe sans Green Fairy. It had always given Lucio great pleasure to watch his men wither and writhe around the campfire. Aedan swore under his breath and turned back to Lucio.

"Come on, don't deny a dying man one of his last wishes," Lucio said. His rasping tone was pitiable, but the smug, shit-eating grin was dazzling as ever.

"Lucio, that's the thing that's gonna put you in the grave once and for all." Aedan countered with dark humor. Lucio barked a laugh.

"Alright, then let's put me out of my misery." Lucio teased in challenge. "Pour a round for both of us."

Aedan sighed, shaking his head reluctantly as he picked up the bottle.

"Oh, swirl it a bit. This is...a special brew. Just for you." Lucio interrupted as Aedan's fingers struck the glass. Aedan looked back at him with an incredulous stare, eyebrow raised.

"Special, how?" he questioned, picking up the bottle and swirling the amber liquid as requested. Glittering, red sediment whirled up in a hurricane, then dispersed out unnaturally. Aedan's brow pinched in concern.

"It's going to suck a lot more than it usually does," Lucio replied, though there was less mirth in it when he, too, saw the strange, sparkling cloud. He audibly swallowed, as if reconsidering, then steeled himself.

Aedan grudgingly poured the drinks and doled them out. Both men sat staring at the odd, strangely shimmering crimson fluid, then between one another. Lucio's bravado seemed to have gone out of him.

"I think...the longer we think about it, the harder it's going to be," Aedan said finally, and Lucio nodded. "Count of three?"

They simultaneously ticked off the numbers, then knocked back the noxious concoction. The effect took a moment to settle in, sending both men spluttering and coughing viciously. It was intensely astringent and herbaceous in the cruelest of ways, with a burn that lingered on the tongue long after the liquid passed down the gullet.

When they were both recovered, Aedan stood and went to the small bar tray that sat, dusty and abandoned in the corner, pouring a snifter of brandy for both of them.

"That was fucking vile," Aedan croaked before taking a swallow of the comparatively sweet liquid, letting it linger on his tongue before swallowing. "Hope it was worth it."

Lucio gave a weak half-shrug before imbibing. "We'll see, I suppose."

Aedan didn't give his words much thought, still caught up in the unpleasantness of the sensation. They sat in companionable silence, but after a while, he felt the weight of an almost expectant gaze. Silver eyes met silver.

"Did you just bring me here to torture me, or was there something else, Lu?" Aedan implored gently. This man who had been his friend. Their relationship had been strained -- Lucio, locked away here, embroiled in death for so long, but never succumbing, while so many others fell in the city and palace below. As the Captain of the Guard, his heart had been with the people. It had been easy to dismiss Lucio -- his mishandling and callousness, and then the absence of him. It was easier to forget him.

It was difficult seeing Lucio now. How small he was. How empty. And even now...he just wanted to play like a child. While the world burned around them, he wanted to do shots.

"Jules says that it's close," Lucio said with a somber nod. "Need to say my goodbyes."

"Julian has been saying as much for months," Aedan countered. "And you just keep kicking. So, forgive me if I'm reluctant to throw you on the funeral pyre just yet."

Lucio gave a breathy snort of a laugh. "At least you have a blaze of glory planned for me," he shrugged. "Not exactly pretty enough for a glass coffin, lying in state anymore."

"Your narcissism is failing. Maybe it is the end." Aedan teased, though there was no malice in it. He couldn’t manage to be cruel--it was all that he could do to maintain their playful banter. 

Lucio drew a long breath, then nodded. "I really am just...tying up loose ends. I have one more big party, then I can go in peace."

Aedan hadn't thought of a masquerade. It seemed like such an impossibility, given the current state of things. "You're joking," he said flatly, disbelieving.

"No," Lucio countered, then tilted his head back and forth, relenting. "I mean, Nadia won't let me go to the big party. Even though it is my birthday...she won't give in to my begging. But, I've got something else planned. Just a...family dinner, of sorts."

"Well, I suppose that's an exercise in restraint, knowing you." He said. "Was anyone planning on telling me we were having a full-blown masquerade this year?"

Lucio waved his hand dismissively. "You have enough on your plate. Vulgora will handle the security--"

Aedan hissed his disappointment, "Yeah, that's even more worrying. I hate playing clean up for the Pontifex,"

Lucio lifted his hand to stop him. "Let's not talk business," he said. "I'm just about drunk, and I'm fading fast. I just...I wanted to see my friend. Just the two of us."

His tone struck Aedan's heart, and he softened, falling quiet for a moment. He finished his drink and set the glass down. He rested his hands in his lap, watching Lucio.

"Does it scare you?" Aedan asked quietly, not quite able to meet his gaze.

Lucio inhaled sharply, taking a moment to consider. "Not anymore," he said earnestly. "It did...but you get tired of being scared all the time. Get bored of waiting for it. And everyone else gets bored, too." Lucio shook his head. "I hate being bored. And I hate being boring."

"I don't think you're boring," Aedan said. "You're the furthest thing from it. When you're around, I know...the day is going to be interesting, if nothing else."

Lucio narrowed his eyes at him. "I had to make an appointment with you for you to make time for me," he countered, then shrugged. "It's fine. I get it. I wouldn't wanna hang out here long, either."

Aedan looked stricken, though he could hardly argue. "Maybe I should have come more often, and I'm sorry about that. But...I'm taking up the office you gave me. And I'm doing the best I can. Things are...difficult, now."

"I know," Lucio said. "I couldn't have asked for a better Captain. You are..." He stopped himself, considering his words. "You're kind of perfect. In an obnoxious way."

Aedan laughed loudly, caught off guard by the underhanded compliment. One of the very few Lucio had afforded him in their time. "I'll take the praise," he said with a grin when he recovered from the shock. "And you were like...a peculiar, egotistic older brother. And I love you for it."

Lucio smiled in return. "Exactly that. Brothers. We don't always see eye to eye, but...we're family. And family looks out for one another."

Aedan knew Lucio's track record with family, but the sentiment still struck him as sincere. "And what can I do to look out for you?" He asked.

Lucio's face fell just a bit, and he shook his head in the negative. "No...you've done more for me than you know," he said with finality. "I can't ask for anything more."

Aedan reached out across the bed and touched the cold, metal arm affectionately. "I'm still going to be here, you know? Until the end."

Lucio couldn't quite meet his gaze and swallowed hard. Aedan saw an uncharacteristic glitter of tears forming in his already glassy stare. "Yeah, I know. I know. You're the best brother a guy could ask for."

They remained like that for a while—a simple, familial touch of comfort and peaceful quiet. Lucio broke the silence, reaching over his cold, bony fingers to pat Aedan's much warmer, firmer hand. "I think I need to rest,"

Aedan helped Lucio back into a prone state and sorted his pillows and blankets to Lucio's exacting specifications. He waited patiently until Lucio was settled. It hurt him to go, and from the door, he turned back.

"Hey," he said, "I'm going to miss you."

Lucio scoffed. "Well, you know what they say. The ones we love live on inside us, or some shit."

Aedan lifted an eyebrow and smirked. "You believe that?"

"It's the only hope I'm clinging to at this point," Lucio said soberly, then sighed. "I guess we'll find out soon enough."

Aedan sighed, looking over his shoulder. "Lucio, miracles happen every day. Fuck, you might outlive us all."

"Your lips to the Devil's ears," Lucio said with finality.

When Aedan left, and his footfalls had faded, Lucio searched the candle-lit gloom.

"He took the bait," he said into the darkness, his voice strained with emotion.

"Marvelous," The darkness hissed back—smoke coalescing into a humanoid form. Slight and severe and otherworldly, the Quaestor stepped into the dim candlelight. "You did well, Count."

"Just...tell me that it's going to work," Lucio snapped. "I did everything you asked. The beetle dust...he drank it."

"It will do," Valdemar reassured. "He'll look like every other victim of the plague. He'll feel like every other victim. How delightfully tragic. The young, vibrant Captain of the Guard..."

"Please, stop." Lucio choked. "I know you said it has to be him. I did what you told me I had to do. I just want to know that I didn't kill my best friend for no reason."

Valdemar circled the bed. Long, elegant fingers tented. Amused at his display of emotion. "He is your perfect match. An easy transition..." They crooned spitefully, tilting their head back and forth mockingly. "Such a lovely specimen, the Captain. I do so hate to see him wasted on you."

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

The Mask of Death Chapter 14 - For Her Sake (Vader Being Scary Fanfic)

Bail Organa had never been so terrified. He felt the layer of cold sweat damp and clammy against his forehead, his lips drawn into a strained grimace to prevent them from trembling. He had been through war zones, kidnappings, terrorist attacks and assassination attempts. He had aided Jedi fugitives Yoda and Obi-Wan Kenobi as they went into exile, right under the nose of the newly announced Emperor Palpatine. He had adopted the daughter of one of his best friends in the wake of her tragic passing, and was actively raising her as his own. He had seen the child’s father murder younglings, in the name of The Dark Side. What he hadn’t counted on was for said adopted daughter to grow to resemble her father more and more with each passing day. She had her late mother’s political lenience, her debate skills, her keen intellect, her dark hair and brown eyes. But she had her biological father’s dry sarcasm, his stubbornness, his nose for trouble, his courage.

Anakin Skywalker died on Mustafar, Obi-Wan had said. At the very least, he had been left for dead, consumed by flames. Perhaps, Obi-Wan had known that was a lie. Perhaps, he had known his former apprentice lived albeit a changed man.

Bail had never been as closely linked to Anakin, he’d been Padmé’s close friend and although Anakin had always been polite and easy to make conversation with, there’d always been a barrier he couldn’t penetrate. Sometimes, he’d wondered whether Anakin was jealous of his friendship with his secret wife - something he wouldn’t find out about until much later. Either way, whereas Obi-Wan and Yoda had deemed Anakin Skywalker to be dead as soon as he transitioned from Jedi Knight to Sith Lord - Bail didn’t share their opinion. Perhaps Obi-Wan had loved the boy too much to see the darkness in him, but Bail has noticed his dull edge early on. What little he had gathered from Padmé when she would mention him, had only served to further his suspicions.

Bail had been wary enough, knowing he’d need to keep his daughter, Leia, under wraps to hide her potential from the Emperor, were she to have inherited her father’s Force abilities. That was trouble enough, knowing the power of Palpatine whose cunning intellect had played both sides of The Clone Wars right into his own hands. No, worse yet was this.

Leia was all of six ars old, and while Bail would have preferred to leave her behind on Alderaan with either his wife, Breha, or a handmaiden, or nursing droid - her big brown doe eyes pleading with him to attend the senate banquet with him had made him cave. It might be dangerous, but she hadn’t displayed any latent Force powers so he deemed it safe enough. She was his daughter, there was no reason for anyone to suspect where her biological heritage might come from. Except, once they arrived - little Leia dressed in a baby blue, frilly gown with puffy sleeves, befitting of her status as crown princess of Alderaan, and a sheer embroidered silver scarf resting over her narrow shoulders - the banquet had turned out to be preceeded by an unprepared gathering. Apart from Bail Organa himself, the small party involved Mon Mothma of Chandrila, Gall Trayvis, Burla Pao, Adrian Loto and Lafreeda Zint - all member of The Imperial Senate, as well active members of the organized secret Rebel Alliance. That in itself was enough to make Bail break into a nervous coldsweat.

Still as the less than unwitting senators settled down, realizing far too late it may be a trap rather than an actual briefing - they were joined by three additional party members. The first two, Bail knew all too well. Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin, with his receeding silver hair meticulously combed back; his piercing, steel gray eyes scanning the faces of each attendant. His thin lips twisted into a callous smile, as he gave a curt bow of greeting before settling down at the head of the long table. The warm mahogany shades of the unusually well decorated dining lounge seemed so much less inviting, his presence bringing everyone up on their toes. Bail felt Leia’s big, dark eyes study his expression as she peered up at him from the spot on his lap where she sat poised; before her gaze travelled over to Tarkin’s gaunt, lanky form.

Hard on his heels strolled the newly appointed Captain Rae Sloane, whose prestige had gained her favours to climb the ladder after her aid had helped retract the Emperor himself unscathed after an assassination attempt over Ryloth; lead by a close ally to Bail himself, twi’lek freedom fighter Cham Syndulla. Her frizzy dark curls were tied back into a neat, tidy ponytail and she held her head high, confident in her newfound position. Bail had no doubts she possessed the ambition necessary to make a name for herself. It was the person to follow after her, that made Bail’s heart drop into his stomach. He gulped, and bit back the bitter taste of bile that welled up in his throat; hands suddenly unsteady as he held Leia closer to his body, as if that would help secure her. It didn't ease his nerves.

Captain Sloane sat down on the chair next to Tarkin, looking suspiciously like his right hand woman, and the small smirk on her painted lips suited her. The third guest the Imperial party had brought along, no doubt as an intimidation factor as he cared little for politics, opted to stand silently to the left side of Tarkin’s chair. His strong arms were folded nonchalantly across his wide chest, the constant sound of his respirator giving off a rhythmic pattern - breathing in and out in steady intervals. Behind the trio, at least a dozen stormtroopers, armed and ready, loomed outside the hydraulic doorway. They stood immobile, the door locked on open as a grim reminder of their presence. But Bail didn’t even glance at their gleaming, polished white armors and helmets. Instead, he found it difficult to tear his eyes away from Darth Vader; as the enforcer of the Emperor hovered like a makeshift harbinger of death right behind Tarkin.

Anakin Skywalker is dead, the Jedi exiles had said. But Bail had seen the holo recording, he had seen Emperor Palpatine - Sith Lord Darth Sidious - deem Anakin his new apprentice. Darth Vader, he had been dubbed. And Darth Vader was very much alive.

There were no physical remnants of the man whom the girl queen and senator Padmé Amidala of Naboo had fallen so madly in love with. Gone was the unruly dark blonde hair, the stormy blue eyes, the cocky smirk, the boyish attitude. Instead, Vader came across more like a reaper. Clad in all black, billowing cape trailing behind him. Taller than Anakin had ever been, by at least a few inches. Bail remembered Anakin had been shorter than him, but Vader made even him and his six foot three frame feel small; forced even him to tip his head backwards to meet the Sith Lord's gaze. Except, Vader’s gaze existed only as a pair of crimson, opaque lenses as eye holes for the face plate he wore. A mask, and helmet, concealing his identity. Making him unreadable, unpredictable. The mask itself eerily reminiscent of a human skull, with exaggerated and accented angles. As Bail peered uneasily down at Leia, he noted that her eyes, too, were glued to Vader’s form.

“I suppose it’s about time I explain the idea behind our little rendez-vous,” said Tarkin’s shrewd, authoritative voice.

“Please, do,” Mon Mothma agreed, faking a rather believeable smile as she invited one of her least favourite people in the world to take the lead.

Vader didn’t move. Bail wasn’t sure whether he was listening, or simply lending his physical form as a prop for intimidation. Even as Bail tried his best to pay attention to Tarkin’s lengthy speech of the Emperor’s supposed faith in this exact group of Imperial Senators - a blatant lie they were all aware of - he failed to maintain his focus. Instead, he carefully watched Vader out of his periphery; feeling Leia squirm, unruly on his lap as she began to get bored and restless with the drawled lecture.

“I was not aware there would be children present,” interrupted an unimpressed Vader, his tone booming and powerful as it ricocheted off the walls - in response to Leia’s annoyed grunt, as she attempted two wriggle loose from her adoptive father’s vice like grip.

“I’m terribly sorry, Lord Vader. Senator Organa was not aware of your direct involvement, we were summoned on the behalf of the annual banquet, as you are aware. He came prepared for the festivities,” Mon Mothma was quick to inject; and Bail stifled a small sigh of relief.

“I see. It is… unfortunate, that he lacks adequate foresight,” Vader replied, the short pause drawn out and premeditated, and Bail felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise.

To calm himself, he gently smoothed back Leia’s soft fishtail braid, looping it through his fingers and she huffed in protest.

“I apologize, with all due respect. This is my daughter, and while I agree that it is not an optimal arrangement, there is little else I can do at this point,” he quickly said, to hopefully mend the situation and direct the attention away from himself and back towards the issue on the table.

“I was under the presumption that you have little trouble gathering up servants upon request. A nurse would hardly be inssufficent for a man of your status.”

Vader seemed to go for a matter of fact delivery, but his voice was as monotone as ever, filtered through the vocalizer as it altered his naturallyspeaking voice. Anakin had had a cheeky, but soft tone - sometimes whiny, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes kind. The dry sarcasm persisted, but all else seemed to have ebbed away until only the unnatural baritone of the modulizer remained. Vader shifted a tad, hooking his thumbs casually into his belt and Bail had to force himself not to clear his dry throat when he realized the man’s head was tilted ever so slightly in his - and subsequently Leia’s - direction. The words were a thinly veiled jab, but Bail didn’t reply. Instead, he carefully bounced Leia a bit on his lap to amuse her and she seemed to relent for a moment, though she was back to fiddling with his laced fingers, determined to break free.

“Either way,” Tarkin picked up where he had been cut off, “ there is in fact a reason this security debriefing was deemed a necessity. The banquet will transpire as is tradition, but I was tasked with informing your particular parties of suspected terrorist activity in your immediate sectors. You are not being accused of anything, neither are you presumed to be involved with these nefarious activities. But, it is our duty as Imperial sovereigns, to warn you on behalf of the Emperor himself. Unfortunately, he will not be able to attend the festivities, much less this brief meeting. He does, however, send his best regards and my only priority is to forward his deepest condolences.”

It was nothing they hadn’t heard before.

In fact, Bail could count the very few and far between appearances the Emperor had made in person since the day he was announced as such. He blamed his physically marred features for his unwillingness to attend social ceremonies. Bail nodded, only half listening.

It was uncomfortably cold. A frigid, dry, jagged sort of icy chill lingered in the tense air. Before the Imperial trio arrived, the company had been warm and friendly, though poignant with suspicion. Now, the space seemed cramped, constrictive and suffocating. As Bail tried to focus on the culprit of the eerie, uneasy sensation - he found its source without really trying. Stinging, piercing, sharp pin pricks emanated from Vader’s direction. As if his very aura, his Force signature as the Jedi called it, was oozing off him. As if the sensation of dread was part of his very core, as if it was emitted from him in a cloud of invisible, foggy haze. Its shadow fell upon the small group, trapping them in despair, contempt and an awkward stillness. Peforating every inch of their perimetry.

That was the moment little Leia chose to make a break for it.

With an agile twist, she rolled around full body and slipped promptly out of her father’s now slack grip. Bail flinched, already reaching out for her to restrain her yet again, but she ducked and avoided his hands. In an instant, all eyes were first on the viceroy's helpless expression as his clumsy hands fumbled through empty air for his daughter’s tiny form. Then, they travelled over to Leia who had already managed to slip underneath the table; dive between Sloane’s legs to crawl under her chair, and pop up right in front of Vader. He towered over her, even as he too appeared to be staring at her petite figure. Her cheeks were tinged pink, the cold of the room nipping at the tips of her ears and nose. One tiny hand clutched at the lace embroidered along the hem of her lavish dress; the other was thoughtfully rubbing her little chin as she tipped her head so far back, she nearly toppled over to peer inquisitively up at Vader.

Bail was up on his feet in the blink of an eye, scrambling as he took a few rushed strides towards his daughter - and the Sith Lord. Vader regarded the small child, head tipped forward to grant him a better view through his seemingly cumbersome head piece. He said nothing, and Bail noticed the green and red blinking lights of Vader’s belt reflected in Leia’s large, dark eyes. He didn’t dare look away, didn’t dare tear his gaze away from the visage of his daughter standing in front of a child murderer, a monster - and unbeknownst to both her and him, her biological father. Bail’s outstretched hands retreated slowly, and he curled them into fists for lack of anything better to do with them. He let out a small gasp through an open mouth, and watched as it came out in a cloud of condensation. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted Tarkin’s amused expression, one silver eyebrow quirked at the display.

“You’re cold,” proclaimed Leia in a high pitched tone after what seemed like an eternity. "You could get sick."

Vader did not reply, but neither did he ignore or brush off the comment. Bail felt his heart hammering wildly against his ribcage, as he watched in awe while Leia promptly reached up to slide the flimsy fabric of her decorative scarf off her shoulders with a shrug. She pouted, determination furrowing her fine brows as she stood on her tiptoes.

“This will help,” she declared proudly.

Wobbling slightly, she raised her arms as far as they would go only to tuck the frilled end of her little ornate scarf into the crook of Vader’s sturdy elbow. He stood unrelenting, and Bail wasn’t sure whether he should be horrified by how uncanny the child’s resemblance to her late mother was when she smiled; a wide, toothy beam revealing the missing front tooth. He felt fear pooling in his belly, his stomach churning and his face pale as Leia took a step back to admire her handiwork and thoughtfulness. She clapped her hands, pleased with herself. Vader’s hollow eye sockets shifted to stare first at the small girl, then at the scarf that was barely wide enough to reach around his arm where it rested draped over his elbow. Then, whatever spell had transfixed him seemed to wear off, as he turned his head to lock eyes with Bail. Even through the face plate, Bail could readily feel the intensity and weight of the bewildered glare he was rewarded. It took all his resolve not to shrink back; his concern for Leia’s safety winning out as he hurriedly closed the gap between them to scoop his daughter up into his arms, and settle back down in his seat. Tarkin was first to break the tension, as he chuckled at the unexpected display.

“You have raised a quite remarkable child, Senator Organa,” he said, his tone an odd mixture of snide and amused. “Let us hope she will grow up to develop your sense of propriety.”

The rest of the meeting progressed rather effortlessly, a tirade of threats and insinuations hidden behind a facade of protocol politeness and curtesy. Bail had heard it before, although the knowledge that the Imperial fleet had detected suspicious movement around the Alderaan system did nag at the back of his mind as a foreboding warning. Leia settled down, silent and obedient as soon as she had carried out her mission. The room was still freezing cold, but Leia was warm to the touch; her skin soft, and her head heavy as she rested it against her father’s chest. Soon, she drifted off into the light, easy sleep only a satisfied child could muster. Her expression remained proud even in her sleep, as a dark brown strand of hair fell into her chubby little face. As the party said their goodbyes, concluding the meeting, Bail gathered up his sleeping daughter to close to his chest - protective and paranoid.

When Bail exited, last in line, Vader lingered just outside the hydraulic doors. Tarkin, Sloane and the troopers were already retreating down the hall in the opposite direction - no doubt to touch up on their own appearances before the banquet come evening. Bail hoped Leia’s nap would give her enough energy to enjoy herself, seeing as there were more likely to be at least a few other children in attendance for her to play with. He hoped it'd help her forget the encounter, he didn't look forward to her asking questions about the Dark Lord. Still, as he moved to swiftly pass Vader, a chill went down his spine and he instinctively stopped; an inherent need to adress the man screaming at him to tread lightly.

“Lord Vader. I must apologize for my daughter’s brash behaviour. She can be rambunctious, she has a mind of her own. It will not be repeated, I assure you,” he said, in what he hoped was a respectful voice as he turned towards the other man to face him.

Vader stared dismissively down at him, his head tilting downwards as his gaze shifted to the sleeping Leia. She snored quietly, mumbling something intelligible as she rubbed her cheek against her father's frock. For a fretful instant, Bail felt terror wash over him as he dreaded the thought that perhaps Leia’s obvious resemblance to Padmé was not lost on Vader. Perhaps, he had put it all together. Perhaps, the effort that had gone into hiding Leia’s true parentage had been in vain, to no avail.

Hesitating, Bail held his breath as Vader reached into the left side of his inner robes - only to pull out the little, frail scarf he’d been offered. It was wrinkled, comically tiny where it rested across the Sith Lord’s large, gloved palm. He held it midair for a short moment, as an offering; as if unsure of what to do with it - and Bail took the opportunity to force out a hushed ‘thank you’, relief washing over him when he gently tugged at the end of the fabric and it slid effortlessly out of Vader’s loose grasp.

“Indeed. I would expect as much. For her sake,” Vader said as a reply to Bail's earlier attempted apology, and the impact of those words were not lost on him.

Without further ado, Vader turned on his heel to stalk in a quick pace down the same corridor Tarkin and Sloane had disappeared along. Heart still thundering away in his chest, Bail watched the black shadow of his form disappear in the distance, menace of his presence dying away with it. He knew what that threat meant, and he was determined to honour Vader’s assessment.

After all, Vader didn’t know the entire truth - and he was no stranger to spilling blood of the innocent youth.

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

So, I love the installments I've written for Leia and Vader so far in this fic, and I wanted to write something from Bail's POV. What better than to have him fear for his daughter's safety the very first time she is introduced to Darth Vader? Leia is so young, she doesn't remember this encounter later on and whatever she may recall she would chalk up to a fever dream or childhood fantasy. Bail, of course, never brings it up again except for to Breha in secret.

Hence, my explanation for the existence of this chapter. Most of all, I wanted a different angle and take on the dread Vader emanates, and I'm glad to have another installment of this series out. It's been forever!

Enjoy!

Ao3 link below:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049894/chapters/69212226

[lady-divine-writes]

Good Omens - I Was Given Four Rules to Follow ... I Broke Every One: Chapter 1/3 (Rated PG13)

Summary: When Warlock Dowling is summoned to the old South Downs cottage of Aziraphale and Crowley to help clean out their attic, presumably after their deaths, he is given four rules to follow.

... He breaks every single one.

Notes: For @silver-colour

Written for the @tricketyboo2020 prompt "Creepypasta format story (like a found footage or witness statement kind of thing)" by silver-colour. It is a mild reworking of an older fanfic of mine, but that goes tongue in cheek with the ending of this story sort of. XD I would put this between Spooky Level 2 and 3, with 3 being "major and minor character death, disturbing images or concepts, major dark themes, major violence, etc." But there's only minor mentions of blood/body horror. But the whole undead thing is a trigger for some people and I lean into that imagery a bit. I wanted this to be a sort of leveled up Goosebumps tale. Tl;dr proceed with caution <3

Chapter 1

 I am going to die.

I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die.

I have to keep repeating it because I have to come to grips with it.

I am going to die.

Not in sixty years.

More like sixty minutes.

Oh, Amanda. I am sorry.

If you ever hear this … I never meant for this to happen.

My name is Warlock Dowling and I am 34 years-old. Devoted son and husband, I’ve spent over a decade working towards achieving my dream of following in my father’s footsteps and entering politics one day.

It’s a dream I don’t think I’ll be seeing through to the end.

I am telling you this because after reading what I’ve just read … and hearing what I’ve just heard … I am not certain I’m going to make it through the night.

I broke the rules.

There were four. Only four. And I broke them.

I didn’t break them by accident. I absolutely did it on purpose. I’m not suicidal or anything, but you only live once - am I right?

For the record, I don’t regret a single thing.

…

That’s not entirely true.

I’ll regret dying before morning if that’s the way things play out.

Today happens to be October 31st - Halloween night. I’d been tasked with clearing out the attic above a cottage in The South Downs which once belonged to a pair of old family friends. Technically, they were ex-employees of my parents from back when I was young, but I thought of them as surrogates. They practically raised me, educated me, taught me everything I know about coping in this cruel, pathetic world.

I held them in the highest regard.

They were the only people in my life who treated me as if I could become more than what I had been born into, that fate had something else in store for me. Because of them, I met the best friends a boy could ever have.

I will forever be grateful for that.

Cleaning out this attic was the least I could do to repay them, but to be honest, I don’t know who summoned me here. I assumed it was the executor of their estate, but now I’m not so sure. Looking over the letter in my hands, there is no legible signature. And the gold embossed emblem at the top that I took for granted as belonging to some upscale legal firm is, on closer inspection, gibberish - a mess of fleur-de-lis underscored by Latin words that roughly translate to “the cows shall rise”.

Ludicrous, right?

How did I miss that?

But more ludicrous - and confusing - are the rules.

I had been given rules about cleaning this attic.

The first rule on the list was to touch only what I could see. Under no circumstances was I to open any of the boxes or chests.

So, naturally, I opened every single one.

The second rule was not to put anything on. Fine by me. The only clothes up here are old lady outfits and a pair of white satin shoes.

But …

There was an awesome vintage leather jacket hanging on a dressmaker’s dummy in the corner and … well … it had my name written all over it! I had to try it on, see if it fit.

And it does.

Rule number three - keep to my torch. Don’t light any candles.

Nuh-uh! It’s Halloween! And torches are lame. So on the candles went. Jeez, there are a lot of them. Enough to burn down the whole place if I’m not careful. It actually seems like they’ve multiplied since I’ve been up here.

I won’t lie - it’s unsettling.

But according to the list, rule number four is the most important:

Don’t read any books I find. And definitely not out loud.

The first thing I saw when I entered the attic was a stack of leather-bound books. I scoffed at the sight of them, piled up to my chin, right inside the entryway. Isn’t that a bit like putting a huge bowl of candy front and center on your dining room table in the middle of dinner with a huge sign saying, “Do not eat?” If the most important rule about going into the attic is, “Don’t read anything!” why not put all the books on a high shelf?

Or the moon?

I’m not a book lover. I read hundreds of pages a day for work. I definitely don’t do it for fun. So this shouldn’t have been a hard one for me to follow.

But they looked like diaries.

And diaries hold secrets.

That made them a different matter all together.

I couldn’t resist.

But once I opened the top one, I knew I’d made a mistake.

These weren’t just any diaries.

They were the diaries of my two friends - Aziraphale and Crowley.

There had always been something odd about those two. I didn’t believe for a second that they were a proper nanny or gardener, not even when I was a young, impressionable child. But they were funny - a distraction from the dull as dishwater life of an attache’s son.

Yes, I was a spoiled little rich kid with everything I could ever ask for handed to me and, on top of that, diplomatic immunity.

Woe was me.

I realize how much of a douche whining about that makes me sound.

My life was still dull.

I was still lonely.

I never knew for sure what happened to them after they left us. I made assumptions - erroneous assumptions. I thought they lived happily ever after at least.

Now I know … that wasn’t the case.

I’m recording this in the hopes that someone will find it, so that you might know the true story of what happened to them …

… and why you might not be hearing from me again.

***

The Diary of Aziraphale Fell - Reluctant Widower

January 14th-

“Please, sir,” the decrepit woman hissed, but not unkindly. She came about her speech impediment by a mixture of symptoms - her thick accent coupled with her indeterminable old age caused her to talk that way. “Please, reconsider this decision.”

I glared at her regardless. I knew my eyes were bloodshot; my hair a mass of tangled, wayward strands; my lips quivered from constant, unrelenting crying.

“You said you had it!” I screamed, bypassing her arguments. “You said you would sell it to me! Wh---why else would I come here!?”

“You need to understand,” the woman implored, opening her hands in a pleading gesture. She fixed me with one clear blue eye, the other eye clouded – a useless, milky white lump of tissue bulging inside its socket, “what you ask for … it is unnatural.”

“But your granddaughter said it was a done deal!” I persisted, shooting a steely glare at the simpering young woman who ducked behind her grandmother to hide from my volatile stare. I wasn’t about to leave without the item I came for. At this point, I was willing to tear the place apart and everything inside - including the two of them - to get it.

They must have sensed that.

Even as the woman continued to defy me, she looked slightly more afraid than she had a minute ago.

“My granddaughter is foolish!” The woman directed the comment over her shoulder to the girl cowering there. “But she means well. We need the money. She was thinking with her head and not her heart.”

“I can pay you twice what you’re asking!” I reached into my back pocket for my wallet. “Three times! I’ll give you whatever you want!”

The girl, intrigued by my proposal, peeked over her grandmother’s shoulder, but the woman turned and barked sharply at her in a language I could not understand.

That was when I began to think I might be in danger.

I’d spent my entire life studying languages, so hearing one I didn’t comprehend, not even an inch, sent a shiver down my spine.

“Mr. Fell …” The old woman reached out, I presumed to comfort me, and took my shaking hand in hers “… your husband is dead. And I am more sorry than I can ever express at your loss. You carry your love for him like a beacon. I see it in your eyes. It shines from every part of you. With him gone, it is up to you to carry it. It will never fade as long as you remember him.”

Those were, without a doubt, the kindest words anyone had said to me since my husband passed. I crumbled, new tears falling hot down my cheeks. But regardless of her sympathy, sincere though it might be, I refused to relent.

I refused!

“I don’t want to remember him!” I whimpered, my anger renewed at the sound of my voice fracturing. “I want him here with me! I need you to help me bring him back!”

The woman sighed in pity but shook her head.

“The effects of life are varied, Mr. Fell. Our fate … it changes every day, with every choice that we make. But the effects of death should remain permanent.”

I flinched at that word as if she’d struck me across the face.

Permanent.

Crowley dead … my husband gone … and nothing for me to look forward to in life but emptiness. We’d had every moment of our lives planned together.

One arsehole drunk driver later and now I was alone.

I literally had no one.

I had lost contact with my mum early in life, never knew my father, didn’t have children of my own. My boss and mentor was an abusive prick who tormented me throughout the span of my career until I found a way out from under his thumb.

Until Crowley helped me discover a life where I didn’t need the man’s guidance or control.

But now I was going to lose him!? The only one who had stuck by me, who defended me, loved me through thick and thin!?

No! That was beyond cruel! And I wasn’t going to roll over and accept it!

I let the sorrow within me curdle, turn sour as I yanked my hand out of the old woman’s grasp.

“Your granddaughter said there are other methods of getting what I want!” I snarled. “Dangerous methods. Methods that might require payment in sacrifice … even blood. And not necessarily my blood. Innocent blood, if you catch my meaning.”

Both women gasped.

Despite the conversation at hand, I smiled.

Good, I thought. We were finally all on the same page.

Up until a few days ago, I never considered violence to be the answer to anything. But I had since come to a crossroads where an exception had made itself clear.

I was prepared to annihilate my humanity to get my husband back.

The old woman snapped her head over her shoulder, scolding her granddaughter in a harsh, guttural voice. The girl, who had started to brave coming out of hiding, shrank down once again.

“Be reasonable,” the woman begged, “please, and think about what you are saying. What you are willing to do.”

“No,” I said, my calm more potent than my anger … or so my husband used to say. “The time for me being reasonable is over. I will get what I want, no matter what the cost. The question is whether or not you will be the one to give it to me.”

The woman looked down at her gnarled hands and sighed a long, exhausted sigh. “Alright, Mr. Fell. I will sell the potion to you at the promised price.”

I stared at her for a moment in shock. I was relieved, of course. I hadn’t thought I would get this far. It frightened me how much I had begun looking forward to throttling her with my bare hands, imagined her neck snapping within my grasp, effortlessly like a twig.

That couldn’t be me though. I wasn’t that kind of person. It was this place - this shop and all of its trinkets, their age and professed magical abilities amplifying my grief, turning every rational thought I had into rage.

I had to get out of here and fast before I did something I might regret.

I opened my wallet with the onset of happier tears and thumbed through the bills, pulling out extra for the joy of getting what I wanted. I handed the money over, but the woman refused to touch it. She waved it away, her granddaughter popping up long enough to grab the money and then scurry off again. The woman reached into the folds of her skirts and retrieved a leather pouch that hung from a thin belt around her waist. From it she fished out a tiny blue bottle with a cork stopper sealing the mouth. She gave it a long, troubled look, then handed it to me.

For the first time, her hand trembled.

“Pour the contents of this bottle into your husband’s mouth, Mr. Fell,” she instructed, “and your husband will return.”

I held the bottle up to the dim candlelight of the musty Soho shop. The blue glass glimmered, a thick liquid inside swaying back and forth, shimmering like sun-tossed sparkles across a dark, foreboding sea.

“There are some rules that go along with that potion,” the woman said, her voice weeding into my head, summoning me back from my momentary trance, “and a few warnings you must heed as well.”

I sighed. I had hoped it would be a simple matter of giving my husband the liquid and living happily ever after, but I knew in my heart that nothing was ever that simple.

“Okay,” I said, slipping the bottle carefully into my pocket and patting over it twice to ensure its safety. “Tell me. What are the rules?”

“First of all, you will give that to your husband, but what will come back …” she paused, swallowed hard “… will not entirely be your husband.”

I nodded. I had expected her to say something along those lines, like a scene straight from an old time-y horror movie.

The woman locked both eyes, one clear and one clouded, on my face as I waited for her to finish her speech, eager to go back home and get on with my life. She realized, with regret, that I had every intention of going through with this, and took on the heavy burden of allowing this to continue.

“Be there to look into his eyes when he wakes,” she said.

I hadn’t dreamed of leaving his side, but since the woman made such a point of it, I asked, “Why?”

“He is being reborn, in a sense. And like other simple-minded creatures, he will imprint on the first person he sees.” She took my hands and squeezed them. “That person needs to be you!”

My gulp was audible, the weight of her words and of my plan suddenly settling within me. They pressed in on me, like that moment when the police came to my door. Their words – “Mr. Fell? I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but … it’s about your husband …” had turned me inside out, left my heart out in the cold.

I felt that cold now.

“Once the potion absorbs into his tissues, it will restart his heart,” she continued. “Then the potion will replicate. It will begin to take the place of his blood. It will make him calm, easier for you to control.”

I nodded again. I wanted to say something, assure the woman that I understood, but she didn’t pause long enough for me to speak. It wouldn’t have mattered. I saw the trepidation in her one, clear eye. I had no clue what to say to make this better.

“It will be a slow process, and you must learn to be a patient man!” She raised her voice, letting go of one hand to waggle an emphatic finger in front of my face. “You will be teaching him, raising him as you would a child. Remember, even if only a small portion of his soul returns, that soul belongs to your husband, and you must love him or this will not work!”

The woman stepped back, out of breath from her outburst, and her granddaughter (whom I had forgotten about) returned, pushing forward an ornate but dusty antique chair to catch her in. I held the woman’s arms gently and helped her into it, feeling strangely protective. The woman sat and waved us both off, not wanting us to make a fuss when she still had more to say.

“But most importantly,” she labored on, barely missing a beat in her speech, “do not let him taste blood.” I knelt down so that she didn’t feel the need to yell for her words to reach me. “He cannot eat meat, but most of all, don’t let him bite you or lick your wounds. Or anyone else’s – human or animal.”

“Will … will I become a zombie? If he does bite me?”

I’m not quite sure why the word ‘zombie’ leapt to my mind. In every interaction I had had with the woman’s granddaughter before tonight, she had been so careful not to use that term. She used other, more romantic euphemisms such as ‘bring back to the land of the living’, ‘re-associate with life’, and the most used - ‘rebirth’. But that’s what he would be, right? When we moved past the flowery vernacular and got right down to it? This potion I had pocketed would turn my husband into the walking dead, - a simple-minded creature that was once deposed from this Earth.

And that meant ‘zombie’.

As if I had nothing more pressing at hand, I suddenly recalled the Walking Dead marathon Crowley had convinced me to watch (against my better judgement). Crowley thought the show was hilarious, but I could barely make it to the middle of the first season. I had started watching with my hands over my eyes, then with my arm locked around Crowley’s, anxiously smacking his shoulder, and finally with most of my body lying over his lap and my face buried in his shirt.

It wasn’t just the gore in the show that skewered me, made me nauseous, unable to breathe. It was the fear and the pain those characters felt, being chased by a relentless enemy that needed no rest, constantly running into people they couldn’t trust, people who were so out for themselves they no longer believed in the sanctity of life, with nowhere to hide, nowhere safe at all, even behind thick, concrete and metal walls.

Watching your loved ones get turned into soulless monsters - still there, but everything about them that you had once loved out of reach.

And this ‘illness’ or whatever these people had - it spared no one. Even children had become zombies. And in the game that was survival for the remaining uninfected, children had become pawns.

Everything about it seemed so horrendous.

And while I suffered through my existential crisis, Crowley laughed at my antics.

I fought not to smile at the sound of his teasing voice.

“Uh … a little squeamish there, are you, angel?”

Angel.

From the first day we met, that’s what he called me.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give to hear him call me that again!

The old woman chuckled, bringing me reluctantly back from my daydream. “No. Not in this case. That’s not the nature of this spell. No, blood will give him back his memories.”

I looked at the woman, bug-eyed, and shook my head. “I … I don’t …”

“It will ignite his brain. He will begin to feel. In many ways, he will become more the man you married than in any other.”

“Wha---?“ I stuttered, baffled as to how that could be a bad thing. If drinking blood could make Crowley more Crowley, I’d set up an IV drip the minute I got home! I would serve him cups of blood with every meal! I’d make donating blood a requirement for entrance into my bookshop! (That one would definitely kill two birds with one stone. In fact, I might consider doing that anyhow.) “And why wouldn’t I want that again?” I asked, trying not to sound like turning my husband into a blood-sipping fiend was the greatest idea in known history.

The old woman smiled, but it wasn’t fond. It was shrewd, as if she could read every one of my thoughts.

And she didn’t approve.

“Once he has his memories back, he will start to crave it. Soon, drinking blood won’t be enough for him. It won’t work as well. It won’t keep the memories as fresh. He will have to go further, do more. He will become a killer.”

My face must have gone as green as I felt because the woman laughed again, this time with a touch of wickedness. A killer? My Crowley? My sweet, kind, compassionate Crowley?

Okay, maybe I was going too far with the endearments. He’d been a bit of a bastard, after all. Which was why I could picture Crowley becoming a full-fledged bad boy. With that leather jacket he wore like a second skin and his gleaming classic car, he’d been well on his way.

But a killer? No.

Then again, I was willing to become one myself a second ago, so maybe I wasn’t in the best position to judge.

“You are playing with the laws of nature, Mr. Fell,” she said, patting me on the cheek. “You are responsible not only for your own life, but for the lives of those around you.” The woman leaned in close, those eyes – one alive, one dead - more menacing than when I had walked into the shop; her face no longer that of a frail old woman but of a powerful witch.

This time, it was my turn to feel afraid.

“So don’t fuck it up.”

[faelune-home]

(fanfic) “how the guiding light wavers”

(A/N: I’ve had this in the works for a few weeks now. I first brought it up in this long post I wrote to establish character stuff, but this is the work that will finally make me feel a bit more secure in writing for my miqo’te girl. I’m aware it all sounds convoluted and bizarre to fixate on a name like this, but it was something that bothered me, and I’m the one actually doing the writing for my own character, so I do hope that this fic finally makes writing easier.

But alongside the name stuff, it’s also a larger look at where Fhara is emotionally throughout Shadowbringers I suppose. A little bit of where she’s come from and where she’s been so far and where she stands before entering Endwalker, so there’s at least a little bit more to this fic than just name shenanigans. XD

Name shenanigans and heroic title woes and legacy musings. All wrapped up in a complicated bow. Aha. I’ll probably do more Scion interaction focused additions on Fhara’s woes and worries later, especially since I had some in the original fic only to remove them as it was getting way too wordy, but this is the main meat of those feelings here and now.

Strong spoilers for the ending Stormblood patches and Shadowbringers, more so 5.0 and then just fleeting mentions of patch stuff. Set after 5.3.

Word count: 4760

Ao3 link)

When she set out from her home for Eorzea’s shores, she had a goal; to become a hero, and make her name known across the world. To be known as someone great and powerful, with monsters big and small bested at her hand, yet also someone kind and helpful, saving people and making their life a little bit easier. A lofty goal, but one she figured could be done, one small step at a time. After all, every adventurer started small.

Little did she know that her forays in Eorzea would grant her her desires, at a much faster rate than she anticipated; she joined the Scions, with their close ties to the city leaders and their own aims to protect the realm, and in gaining a reputation as a primal slayer, became known as a fabled Warrior of Light. A type of hero normally assigned to legend. It was everything she could have wanted and maybe even more than she could handle. It was a heavy title, but one she wore proudly, all while continuing as she had originally planned.

Yet as time passed, the weight grew heavier. There was still pride and joy in doing the right thing for the sake of others, protecting the innocent from those that would do them harm, but at some point, in the midst of the fighting, torn between Ascians and the Empire, despite doing the same thing she always did, her thoughts would wander to her original purpose in undertaking this grand adventure.

To become a figure of whom stories would be told, for those stories to return to her home and inspire the younger children, much like the old tales had inspired herself. To teach them to do good, to do better, to help others, to be brave, to be kind. An idealistic idea but one she held fast to. And by all accounts, fighting under the Warrior of Light title aided her even further in another aspect of her plans; to allow her to step back from the world once all is done and know peace when she hung up her bow and settled down.

When she set out from her home, she was ‘Fufu’; an old childhood nickname she’d long outgrown in her village, with the exception of her aunt, repurposed for her heroic exploits until the Warrior of Light title seemed to do the job better. Then in Eorzea, in the comfort of those she came to call a second family, she could be Fhara again. And it was nice, comforting even. To know that others knew her as more than just her heroic title, and that the Rising Stones could feel like a home so far away from home.

A home that was always filled with the sound of laughter or chatter, always someone socialising with a friend or partner, or busy working, the Rising Stones had all the energy and joy within its walls that she knew from her home, even with all the group had been through. To find that joy stripped out, the halls empty of people as her dearest friends collapsed into lifelessness and everyone else was left to fill in for their missing teammates…

For Fhara, it left her with no-one. But the Warrior of Light still had work to do.

The Warrior of Light had faced down conquerors, defeated dragons, set free thousands from the shackles of tyranny. But Fhara had never been alone in her feats, always with her companions at her side, or standing strong behind her, keeping the way clear for her, ready to back her up.

The Warrior of Light would go on to face Zenos that day in Ghimlyt Dark, the whispered tales from young inexperienced soldiers speaking how she almost pushed him back single handedly, with the famed Azure Dragoon jumping into the fray to assist her. In truth, Fhara stood alone on that battle field, facing a barely weakened, Ascian possessed corpse, the collapsed figures of her resistance comrades strewn behind her, she kept going until she herself blacked out under mysterious circumstances, only surviving by Estinien’s timely arrival.

Her recovery in Ishgard started her thinking, mixed in with the anxious waves of the mysterious caller’s words. The Warrior of Light would ever be revered for their acts, but as a single entity. Whereas Fhara, while capable on her own, worked best with a team, with her friends by her side. Working out a plan of attack together, or simply knowing they were there with her gave her strength. Yet standing on the field that day, the only thing giving her the strength to fight on was the desire to protect others, for if the Ascian controlling the fallen crown prince made it past her, Eorzea would no doubt suffer.

Then a stray thought...what gave her the strength to start doing all of this in the first place? What was her drive to begin with? It seemed so long ago…

‘Fufu’ had come all the many malms from a small village on the outskirts of Thavnair to become a hero, one that would have bard songs made about her for the sake of children’s tales. But the Warrior of Light had ultimately taken on that role. So what was the point of continuing to call herself ‘Fufu’ to the public? Was it just a habit by that point? A desire to hide herself behind an identity that both was and wasn’t her? After all, it was a nickname that had long been associated with her, and in the absence of any other ideas for an alias to call herself - oft teased as she was for her poor imagination for naming things - she had fallen to the easiest idea of her old childhood moniker.

Maybe it was time to move on from such childish notions? Her thoughts were neither bitter nor certain. The questions merely buzzed in her head as she left them unanswered.

She left the city with her golden hair cropped, a request asked of Jandelaine, met in passing before she left Ishgard behind her.

“It is a shame,” he’d said at the sight of her shorn twintail, the other loose from the hair tie, matted with blood and dirt, “But I can tidy it up and it’s like it never happened. A return to beauty and grace, just say the word.”

She could’ve kept it the same, and continued on as normal. But instead it was all gone. Because maybe a fresh start was what she needed?

~*~*~

The First was not a fresh start. At least not one Fhara was expecting. A land on the cusp of destruction, perpetually bathed in an unnatural eerie light, the people hunted by Sin Eaters, suffering either death or a torturous transformation in turn. She very quickly learned how terrifying, how desolate some corners of the land of Norvrandt could be, and she could well understand why, if people were living in such conditions.

Her first port of call in the strange new land was the oddly familiar gleaming tower, a recognisable pillar even against the hazy glowing sky. And within was the enigmatic Crystal Exarch, ready to greet her with open arms.

She had mixed feelings about the Exarch, on many points; having Called her friends and left their lifeless bodies back on the Source in an uncertain state, or even that Calling them was an accident in itself, since she herself was meant to be the target gave her no end of frustration toward the man. Even then with the knowledge that he hadn’t intended to summon the other Scions, the idea that he had wanted her to act alone in saving the First was one Fhara couldn’t help but balk at. 

Of course she was willing to help, she couldn’t stand seeing people suffer while she knew she could do something. But to think she would be able to handle the work singlehandedly was pure folly. In that way, perhaps it was a small relief then that she had the Scions to help her, unintentional was their presence on the First. Even with the uncertainty surrounding their summoning and the state of their separated selves, she at least had her friends and teammates with her.

However it was his first impression beyond his summoning mishaps that stuck with Fhara and kept her uneasy around the man; no sooner had she arrived at the gate, he had welcomed her past his wary gate guard, quick to introduce her and settle her into the Crystarium. A warm welcome for sure, and not one she was ungrateful for, however the mix of familiar and unfamiliar in the man’s demeanor made her cautious. 

That he knew her so well, so casually referred to her as ‘Fufu’ before she had even introduced herself, how comfortable he seemed while using it - hand waved away as him learning it from old records stored within the Tower, a name used in tandem with the Warrior of Light title, although it reignited her recent troubled thoughts on her public identity - while she knew nothing about him, that not even his own people could say much of him did nothing to ease her. Every factor together had her wanting to keep the Exarch at arms length. She would do as he asked - save the First, bring back the Light, prevent another Calamity from decimating the Source - and in return, he would return her friends’ home. That was all that was needed.

Of course, things would never be that simple.

In a land ravaged by Light for 100 years, a Warrior of Light was considered a heathen, a villain that had doomed them all. Instead, the people hoped and prayed for a Warrior of Darkness to be their hero. And so Fhara, with the starlit sky returning in the wake of her arrival, would become that hero.

Fhara didn’t want to say she hated it, however the dizzying speed with which the title and the stories spread was a shock to the system, moving even quicker than her reputation as the Warrior of Light had grown on the Source. She couldn’t blame the people for their enthusiasm, especially when the hero of legend’s arrival coincided with the return of the night after a century without.

She didn’t hate it. But she found herself seeking the comfort of her closest friends more often than she used to before. She knew they weren’t looking at a grand hero, but just Fhara, who stood up to answer the call. And they stood with her. As the days would pass on the First, rarely was she without a Scion by her side, only truly left alone in the comfort of her inn room, and even then, the wayward spirit of Ardbert was a presence she didn’t resent.

The days would pass, and the night returned across the land, and beyond the walls of the Crystarium, away from the crowds of people that would revere a hero, through pixie flower beds and dense forests ever shaded from the skies, and into desert ruins of a civilisation long lost-

“Welcome aboard, Ryne.”

Fhara had seen the young Oracle struggle under the weight of her legacy, the expectations of her duty to protect and act as a beacon of hope for the people of Norvrandt, while also living in Minfilia’s shadow by virtue of her name and powers. Fhara could empathise with the young girl, having long known the feeling of so many people relying on her and her own more recent doubts that she could live up to those hopes. She kept trying all the same, as she knew the Oracle would as well, for it wasn’t in Fhara’s nature to give up if she could do something.

But now, seeing the newly christened Ryne standing with a fresh air of confidence about her, her only nerves being about doing a good job for the sake of the team and helping relinquish Amh Araeng from the grip of the Light, Fhara was proud of the girl for her new lease on life.

Yet also a tiny bit jealous, that all it took was a name and a declaration to do better by herself for the girl to suddenly be brimming with courage, whereas Fhara fretted and frayed and languished under a gifted moniker, calling herself by her childhood name and then acting as though it were her only option, that she had no other choice...but was it always that simple? To just announce to the world you could be born anew yet still the same person?

Perhaps it wasn’t exactly the solution Fhara was looking for, but it was an idea towards a resolution for her woes. After all, she wasn’t trying to begin fresh like Ryne, Fhara just wanted to be Fhara, as she always had been. It was just trying to express that to the world at large.

It was only when the Light she had been capturing within herself finally overpowered her and left her weakened and stumbling, sitting at death’s door, did it finally seem to become clear to her. So rarely before had she gotten so close to death that she had never thought so closely about what she would leave behind, or who would remember her and how. The people of Norvrandt knew the Warrior of Darkness, Eorzea knew the Warrior of Light and the Scions knew Fhara. And if she died that day that would be the memory she would leave behind. 

Yet she realised, lying in her inn room, she didn’t want to just be remembered as a hero under a title, or by a name that most of her nearest and dearest scarcely used. She wanted to be remembered as Fhara, at least if it were possible.

She’d certainly made the attempt to introduce herself as such during their travels across the realm, but with how quickly people came to know her as the Warrior of Darkness, she feared that her attempts were being drowned out. However before their ascent of Mt Gulg, as the crowds gathered from across the land to assist them, she found that they knew her as Fhara, and they would talk to her, and they wished all the Scions the best of luck. And among a small few, the Warrior of Darkness was not a title solely attributed to her, but to all of her friends.

It was nice. A reassuring gesture that her efforts were noticed. Even as she stumbled her way to the deepest depths of the seas in pursuit of Emet-Selch - keenly aware that if she failed, she would be dooming the First and her fellow Scions along with her - she held onto that knowledge. After all her worries, it was an odd source of courage for her, bolstered by her desire to survive, and the understanding that she wasn’t alone in her duty.

Altogether her feelings gathered, and in the face of death and her desperate wish to live, and her wish to be known for more than her heroic tales, she made her decision. She’d never been afraid to make the first step before, not even into the unknown. She’d come all the way to Eorzea on a whim and a want, and faced almighty foes more powerful than herself with nothing more than the determination to protect those that could not fight back.

If she lived through this fight, she would cast aside her anxieties, and take that first step again.

~*~*~

Fhara wasn’t the type to call meetings, she was the type to attend someone else’s meeting. And yet the majority Scions were gathered in the Rising Stones, with the miqo’te standing at the head of the pack, nervously shuffling her feet. What few Scions that weren’t accounted for were assured to be updated afterward.

She ran her fingers through her hair, no doubt to calm some nerves, although the action drew the attentions of the group members that had only seen her sparingly during her otherworldly adventures; since last they had seen her, she’d left for the Crystal Tower with a short crop, still wearing her tattered and torn bard coat, an uneasy smile on her face as though more to reassure those around her than because she genuinely felt like her hopeful self. Yet each time she returned to report to Tataru with updates, she was a brighter figure, with a spring in her step as she relayed the progress on the First, and her hair would grow out slowly to the feathered bob she now wore. It wasn’t quite the cute twintails they’d known her for when they joined, but she looked all the more confident nowadays with it.

She finally started, with a loud voice, albeit one that cracked as though there was still some anxiety holding her back, “I have something I want to say. Something I’ve been thinking about for a long while now and that I want to be clear on moving forward.”

Any mumbling between parties silenced immediately. Fhara’s tail flicked at the now heavy hush, however some encouraging gestures from the figures at the front most row - some few nods and a thumbs up here and there - allowed her to continue, “Thank you for being here. Truthfully, some people here already know what I’m gonna talk about. But I’d rather make it clear to everyone now. This whole thing might sound rather silly to some people, that I’m worrying over nothing. Some of you might even say that if it means so much to me, then it’s not such a trivial thing. And I appreciate that, I do.”

She hesitated, ears suddenly flattening. “To cut out a long story, when I came to Eorzea, and when I joined the Scions and became known as the Warrior of Light, I told everyone here they could call me Fhara. It’s who I am after all. But outside where people would know the Warrior of Light better, then they should call me ‘Fufu’. That’s still technically me, it's an old name I was called as a child. And it’s the name I chose for travelling because...I suppose the easiest way to put it is that I wanted to separate my private life, if I ever chose to return home, from my adventure life. But lately with everything that happened and with a lot of the dangers getting so much bigger than even the Warrior of Light I just started to worry about who I really was and what I was doing.”

“Like how? You seem the same to me?” Aenor spoke up, ignoring the disapproving nudge from her frowning sister.

“I mean, I hope I do,” Fhara smiled, although it was more wistful looking than pleasant, “I never tried to pretend to be someone I’m not, no matter where I was or who I was with, or what name people called me. But I started thinking I was getting lost with myself, like people were seeing two different people with me.” Her tail flicked again. “I should say now, I don’t hate being the Warrior of Light. A lot of people try to project that I’m frustrated with it or that I could be doing better with a title like that, but none of that is true. I don’t hate it. But it’s hard. People have big hopes and expectations for me when they treat me like that, and I’ll always try to reach them, but it’s not always easy to do alone. So truly, I’m forever grateful to have you all with me at my side.”

Casting a glance over the Archons and the twins, Fhara continued, her voice somehow smaller, “But when the Callings happened, and then everyone else here was stretched to take over the work, and this place was left empty so much, I...well, as senseless as it might sound, I felt alone. But I still had a job to do, but doing it alone was hard. Because everyone else knew this brave warrior that could handle anything, and I didn’t feel like that at all.” The quiet admission brought about guilty whispering rippling through the group, until a sharp cough from F’lhaminn hushed them again.

“T’was never our intent to make you feel as though you had no-one to lean on,” the older woman said, “Especially during such a time when our own were falling out of commission. But then it was precisely such a time that we all struggled to balance the work that needed to be done, and to fill the gaps left behind. If that struggle left you without support, then that would be our failing, and for that we would owe you our sincerest apologies.” The mumblings rose once more, letting out a small chorus of “sorry”s and “‘pologies”. 

Fhara gave the woman a grateful nod then added, “I understand, I do. And I didn’t say that to call out anyone here, but I won’t deny that a lot of people across the realm talk about me in such grand ways because of the work and feats I’ve done, and it’s hard to feel like I’ve lived up to their stories. In that sense, being on the First kind of helped; it was a fresh start where I could try again to do the hero thing, but in a lot of ways, it wasn’t, because the same thing that happened here on the Source happened there. People needed a hero, someone to help them, and I just became the Warrior of Darkness to answer that need, and that’s what most people knew me as. But it still gave me a chance to try and start afresh with myself, and now I feel better about where I stand. And I want to bring that feeling and those certainties back here.”

She didn’t mention Azem. Though the suggestion that Fhara may be related in some way to that Ancient had brought her more hazy feelings, she had insisted that none of that mattered. The final insistence had brought her here now, to her certain decision. She was herself, and she didn’t have to worry about being anything more.

She let in a deep breath, steeling herself as she said, “The Warrior of Light is here to stay and she’s the one that will go down in history, and I can’t change that. Not everyone in the world will know the real me beyond the heroes tales, and I can accept that. But at least on some level, I can try to let them understand me. And that can start with a name. A name can be lost to time, so I get that people in the future will never know Fhara. But the people here and now can, and that’s all I want.”

With a final, certain nod,  she declared, “So from now on, I’m Fhara. Not just inside these walls, but outside them as well. It took a lot more words to say that than it probably should have, but I hope you all understand it now.” Uncertain of how to finish her speech, she took the skirt of her purple dress, already wrung tight by her nervous hands, and gave a bow. There wasn’t an immediate response. It took another glance at the twins next to her, giving her comforting looks to ease the tension in her shoulders, until another voice spoke out from behind the group.

“‘At was a lot of words to get the message out, but it looks here that it meant a lot to ye to make it sure as sure fer us lot,” the crowd parted, and Riol nodded, looking satisfied, “I think I’ll speak fer us all when I say message received loud and clear.” Fhara’s eyes started to water as she looked around to assurances and smiles, and possibly unnecessary cheers from what sounded like one of the Boulder brothers, but it was acceptance nonetheless.

“Thank you,” she sniffed, trying not to actually cry, rubbing at her face, “I mean it. This all probably sounds really ridiculous and I’m overthinking everything but-”

“There shall be none of that,” Y’shtola interrupted, “None of that self-doubt at least. We’re here for you no matter what decision you wish to make for yourself. You of all people deserve the support, and we are all the more glad to provide it.”

Fhara’s ‘Thank you’ caught in her throat, all she could do was nod. The larger group dispersed, individuals coming up to give her more reassurances and words of comfort as they passed before continuing on to their work. Urianger took G’raha aside for a word, both men departing to Dawn’s Respite, leaving the rest of the archons and the twins by Tataru’s desk with Fhara.

“So that’ll be a weight off your shoulders then?” Alisaie asked. Fhara nodded, letting out a heavy breath and slumping forward with the effort.

“I was more nervous for that than I thought, and it was just in front of the other Scions. But I’m glad. I feel like that is a step towards feeling more like myself, even if I never really strayed from that in the first place...I think.”

Thancred let out a thoughtful hum, looking over her suddenly tired frame. “I’ll say you never changed much, but I can see the ease it’s brought you now. Although if this is you after telling people that knew your little secret, how will you be with others, I wonder?” He ignored the peeved expression from Alisaie next to him as he brought it up, especially when Fhara’s face became a picture of concern.

“Oh, we’ll probably have to tell the Alliance leaders. Or do we? Is this an official thing I have to report on? Is there a process for this?” Fhara asked, eyebrows furrowing. Was there more work needed in this decision that she hadn’t thought of? Was there paperwork?

“Not to worry, I can get some official missives written up and shipped out in a jiffy,” Tataru stated, giving Fhara a bright smile and a thumbs up. Fhara returned it with a relieved look of her own, and the receptionist hopped onto her chair and set to work.

“Honestly, knowing diplomatic types, we could just use your name normally as though it's always been used, and rather than risk a faux pas, the Alliance leaders would just go along with it anyways,” Alisaie suggested with a wry smile.

Alphinaud shook his head at the suggestion. “While I don’t doubt that that is possible, sister, I would prefer if we erred on the safe side and actually updated the Alliance. We don’t have to make a large fuss over the matter for Fhara’s sake, but at least informing them of the change would be better for the Scions’ standing with them in terms of open communication.”

Alisaie rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Of course, brother.”

“At the very least, Lyse is already familiar with you personally,” Y’shtola said, addressing Fhara once more, “Even should the rest of the Alliance falter or take time to adjust, she would be able to take charge on the matter and make the adjustment easier for all. You needn’t worry about being left alone to handle this.”

“Yes, that’ll help,” Fhara smiled, however her eyes then dropped to the floor, a worrisome look on her face once more.

“Thinking now about how many people I’d need to update or inform, it feels daunting already. I’m questioning now why I thought the whole alias thing would be a good idea.”

“Really now, it’s beginning to sound like you’re thinking of telling the whole realm. You’re going to worry yourself like that,” Alisaie huffed. However she then added with a softer tone, “You said it yourself that you won’t be able to change everyone’s perception of you. Many will know the Warrior of Light, and some few will know Fufu. The odds of you coming across every familiar face you’ve ever known after this will be slim. But if it does happen, you don’t have to explain yourself in any great detail. All anyone needs to know now is that you’re just Fhara.”

The words, simple as they were, brought a warmth to her chest. And surrounded by her closest friends, those that had been with her for most of her journey and through thick and thin, the idea of continuing on into the unknown ahead of them didn’t seem as daunting anymore.

“Just Fhara...I like that.”

And that was all she needed.

[inliar]

small shreds of love

word count: 1.9k

minkyun-centric

a collection of small moments where minkyun falls a little in love with the world.

inspired by this tumblr post that for the life of me i cannot find the link to, but here’s a link to an instagram post that screenshotted it.

a/n: 2/3 of posts i put on my ao3 that have not made it to my tumblr.

1.

‘the best and worst part of mangwon-dong is the strays,’ minkyun decides as he walks around the area. best, because he gets to see, pet, and feed all of these animals every day after practice; worst, because he knows all of these animals are not getting proper care. strays are smart and wily and more than capable of fending for themselves, but minkyun firmly believes that just because they are able to do so does not mean they should have to.

he worries about them every day. worries when it’s cold, worries when it’s too hot, worries when it rains. minkyun is a very small person who can only do very small things, but he tries to do his part regardless. which means making rounds to feed as many strays as he can with the cat food container he has in his hand.

he knows most stray cats congregate around the alleys beside convenience stores (probably hoping for the crumbs of the people who eat around it) so he heads to the first convenience store he sees. sure enough, there’s a cat sitting by the corner. it’s pitifully thin, a fact that makes minkyun’s heart clench. it’s also been thoroughly ignored by the past two customers who have walked out of the store. “you’d think they would at least spare it a glance,” minkyun mutters, dryly.

he is maybe fifty meters away when he sees a well dressed woman kneel in front of the cat. she produces a treat out of seemingly thin air and offers it to the cat, who eagerly accepts. when the cat finishes it, she pulls another one out of her pocket. ‘oh’, minkyun realizes, stopping in his tracks, ‘her pockets are filled with cat treats.’

for just a second, he falls a little in love with the air of kindness that seems to viscerally surround her. she’s dressed like an office worker and looks to be his mother’s age, but she’s taking her time where she could be working or resting to feed the stray cats. he hasn’t met many adults who would do the same. maybe minkyun is a very small person who can only do very small things, but knowing that he is not the only small person in this very big world brings him all the comfort he could ever need.

2.

minkyun is reminded, once again, that he works in an industry where viewers find pleasure in his misery. he hates, hates, hates haunted houses. always has, always will. but this is one of their first vlives after their debut, and he figures that running away sobbing will not make a great first impression. at least he isn’t alone, though, since he has jaeyoung to accompany him. brave, reliable, jaeyoung, who will most definitely have to stand in the front because there is no way minkyun is going to brave the unknown first.

jaeyoung, to his credit, is exceptionally patient with minkyun. he dutifully ignores minkyun’s protests of how he can’t go in there and talks over his very loud thoughts with miscellaneous thoughts of his own. “hold on, i have to film us both,” jaeyoung says to no one in particular. “should i hold the camera? you can hold the box.”

minkyun doesn’t grace him with an answer.

jaeyoung frets over turning on the lights to show their faces and angling the camera to show their faces before managing to adequately sort it all out. “alright, let’s go.” he says decisively.

“no, i’m not going.” minkyun says, in a last ditch attempt to convince himself that he has the courage to stay behind and disappoint his group, fans, and agency. he doesn’t, but self preservation is a nice thought.

“i get it, but there’s nothing we can do. let’s go. stay behind me.” jaeyoung says, not unkindly, and minkyun has no choice but to agree.

the further they go, the darker it gets, and minkyun is not a fan of how every offputting sound seems to be amplified by the eerie aura of the facility. all he has is a flashlight that the leaders hinted would be useless later on, and a camera for video evidence if anything goes wrong. he also doesn’t like how desperately his hands seem to grip at the back of jaeyoung’s shirt, but he can’t find it in himself to let go.

‘you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,’ he silently chants to himself as jaeyoung makes small talk with the camera while some mystical recorded voice explains their mission. he nervously looks behind him every few seconds, but that’s more of an anxiety thing and less of an actual threat. but his nonexistent composure gets shot to pieces the second something makes a funny noise.

minkyun is nothing if not wonderfully responsive so he screams. loudly. all his little dumb brain can process is a never ending stream of ‘panic panic panic’ and who is he to override his baser instincts?

it only gets worse from there. more things start to make funny noises and more indiscernible shapes he can barely see start to appear out of nowhere. his mind screams louder, ‘PANIC PANIC PANIC’ and it’s only fueled by all the unfamiliar stimulus. he is not safe, there’s too many things happening at once, his heart is pounding to some terrible off kilter rhythm and the air is thick and heavy and he’s drowning in the soupy fear that’s latching his jaw shut as he blindly edges forwards and -

thud.

for a long, horrible, moment, it’s too quiet. then -

he doesn’t quite process exactly what he sees, only that it’s unnatural and frightening and suddenly all he knows how to do is scream and scream and scream as the fear paralyzes him. if it wasn’t for jaeyoung faithfully tugging him along, he never would have made it through the stupid corridor.

the rest of the mission is all a hazy blur. he figures that his mind did him a favour and deleted the memories from his head right afterwards, and he’s not complaining. and if he’s not quite right for the rest if the day, that’s nobody’s business.

he watches the reuploaded live on the very next day. he hates himself a little for how weak and cowardly he seems compared to all the other members, but all of the comments seem to call him the funniest idol they’ve ever felt sorry for while watching. minkyun wonders, again, if he should be proud of providing entertainment or resentful for what he had to go through to provide it.

his bitter thoughts are cut short once the biggest scare occurs. video minkyun is screaming like some sort of unholy banshee while video jaeyoung is screaming like a normal person, but video jaeyoung braves on. “it’s okay, i’m here, hold on,” video jaeyoung mutters, over and over again. it’s a soothing mantra and minkyun can almost see his recorded self calming down a little, settling into something outside of his raw, unadulterated panic. it doesn’t last for long, because video minkyun seems to always find another thing to cry about, but video jaeyoung is steadfast in his patience and reassurances as he keeps the two of them going.

real minkyun falls a little in love with the overwhelming sense of reassurance and comfort that video jaeyoung exuded. he had never fully recognized that side of jaeyoung before. the feeling passes, but minkyun thinks he’ll notice that part of him a lot more from now on.

3.

minkyun is not a stranger to busking. he was in a short program about busking with the rest of his group, and he’d seen people busking on the sides of streets before. he’d even been brave enough to sing a short tune on a street, but that was before he was an idol and before anyone knew his face. not that many people know his face now, but he has to act as though everyone does anyway. he’s seen what the media does to provide entertainment to the masses, and, despite doubting that busking could do him any real harm, doesn’t want to take the chance.

but that doesn’t stop him from pausing near any busker he comes across, listening or watching whatever the performer has to offer. it takes a certain caliber of courage to put yourself out there in front of an audience who didn’t ask to see you, and minkyun will openly admire and respect that whenever he can.

today is a good day. it’s as quiet and peaceful as the streets in korea can get, and he’s enjoying the cool autumn breeze as he walks towards the company building, cat food in tow. he was running low on food for the strays, and he happened to wake up earlier than he needed to for his afternoon vocal lesson, anyway. by some rare tendril of luck, minkyun can afford to enjoy and prolong his walk for another hour or so.

he’s halfway to the company, approaching an intersection, when he sees a boy in a high school uniform fiddling with strings on his guitar. the crotchety old man inside of minkyun protests - this kid should be in school, it’s class time, he’s not even trying to hide it - before it deflates and dies down. minkyun has so many friends who delayed or skipped high school altogether to become idols. even the ones that did “attend” missed a ridiculous amount of days. he should be the last person to complain.

minkyun almost misses it when the boy begins to sing, caught up in his conflicting thoughts. but once he hears it, he halts altogether.

it’s been a while since he’s heard someone sing so … honestly.

minkyun has spent a lot of his life learning the art of composure. he’s been taught time and time again how to correct his breathing, or how to widen his range, or how to emphasize the right notes at the right times to convey the right emotions. once he gathered some semblance of the basics, he even began to notice it in singers he hears on tv. this one turned her sustained high note into a vibrato by relaxing her throat. that one decrescendoed at the end of his phrase to give more finality to the note. even with professional singers who were supposed to be masters at conveying profound emotions, all minkyun heard was an amalgamation of techniques.

but this boy. he has no technique whatever.

without intending to, minkyun begins mentally critiquing his choices. he should have held that last note for at least half a beat longer. he should have emphasized that syllable. he should have -

‘no’, minkyun thinks, and this thought is louder and more final than the rest. he shouldn’t have done any of that. he shouldn’t have to do any of that. this boy’s voice, his clumsy guitar, and the honest and genuine emotion it conveys, is perfect the way it is. rather, it’s perfect because it is. it’s refreshing to listen so mindlessly and yet so carefully to a song, for once.

minkyun falls a little in love with the way the boy sings, but more so with the music he provides. it’s been a while since he’s felt this way about a song. it’s been a while since he’s remembered why he wanted to become an idol in the first place.

he dumps all of his change in the boy’s guitar case and walks away.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Howbout a story where everyone is out of the studio and they get to go back to their families?

Summary: Recovery is hard when you feel disconnected from the world around you.

---

[[MORE]]

In total, Henry had spent an entire 5 years stuck inside the seemingly never-ending loop that Joey had designated as the Cycle. It was absolutely surreal to the old cartoonist, reading his ex-childhood friend turned tormentor's notes and studies on the subject matter. The neat cursive detailing mad ramblings that could pass off as the musings of an overzealous researcher observing terrified mice in a booby-trapped maze. Studying their patterns, the subsequent changes of them upon additional stimuli being added to their environment, and other insane practices that completely threw morality out of the proverbial window.

Each beginning and ending of a year, another marked failure upon a calendar oversaturated by Joey Drew's overwhelming lack of satisfaction.

Even so, as much as it ached to think about lost time, 5 years wasn't much compared to what everyone else had to endure. 20 years of inky hell were nothing to shrug about, and Henry wasn't planning on just throwing everyone out into the streets to fend for themselves.

The house so close to the mountains, an inheritance he'd never really thought would come in handy, was the only reprive these shells of people had ever had in the span of two decades full of torment. His attention the only positive social interaction that they could recall with their broken minds.

Their recovery was not his responsibility, but he felt that he owed it to them regardless of the fact. Joey's descent was entirely on the man (his heinous crimes as well), but it didn't sit well with Henry to just not do anything to help fix some of the damages of the world.

And god if it didn't fill him with hope when he watched them slowly go into the road of recovery. People on the mend, shedding their old skins to become less the product of a cruel fiddler's ambitions, and more of their old selves, albeit newer in certain aspects.

The angels remained so, with little nubby horns and skin papery white. Tired eyes of sepia toned yellows, and scars from horrors he couldn't hope to understand. That he'd seen mere shadows of while briefly imprisoned himself.

Sammy fluctuated, stuck in a cycle of trying to find himself now that he felt like he was neither Samuel Lawrence Jr, nor the Prophet that worshipped the Ink Demon. Sometimes more close to human, other times coated in thick tarry skin that reflected oddly in the light. The closest he got to his old self was very close to the truth, but his once curly blond locks were now a messy tangle of raven curls that made him look so much paler than he should be. His teeth were sharp, his eyes far too yellow, and he refused to walk around barefoot even while indoors.

Tom and Buddy were still hound-like cartoon wolves, although now the feeling of fuzz was less a tactile illusion and more of a reality. Thick winter coats and soft summer furs. The shedding was absurd, but at least if they were spotted during the day they could pass off as very big dogs just frolicking in the woods. The same could not be said for the Searchers, Lost Ones and other cartoon characters that were slowly transitioning into less revolting forms. Jack had recently become a Lost One, consistent enough to wear clothing, but still having a hard time grasping speech.

Shawn too had passed onto the Lost One phase, but his tremendous size as the largest searcher with a mighty fine top hat, had followed him into his transition. He was over 9 feet tall and (albeit more wordy than most others of his kind) surprisingly bothered by his new height. Finding clothes that fit him would be a terrible pain.

Bertrum, Lacie and Norman were a difficult topic. Their mechanical parts had ensured their forms were stable and static. They couldn't become more human in appearence, and that in turn hindered their psychological recovery considerably. Still they were fighting that uphill battle, even if very slowly.

20 whole years of suffering, and still here they were, defying Joey Drew by getting to a point where they could begin to believe they were people again.

Henry Stein couldn't be prouder.

-

A lot of the crew had little to no remaining family. It was somewhat devastating to both him and Linda, as they poured their all into locating the studio employees's living relatives, only to find obituaries and tracks leading absolutely nowhere.

Buddy's case hurt the most, seeing the kid so heartbroken standing over his families's graves and his own empty one, had certainly put things into perspective. Illness had taken his mother just shy of a year of their escape... It wasn't fair.

Susie was much the same, crying thick tears as she left flowers on her poor mama's grave. She prayed her last years had been full of kindness despite her daughter having all but vanished into thin air.

Contacting the Pendles took a few days, and Tom refused to contact any of his own relatives, as he hadn't had that good of a relationship with his extended family to begin with. The only people that ever mattered were dead well before the machine had been built. Henry found that to be an overall theme for nearly everyone, really.

Joey Drew Studios had been built upon the hardships of social outcasts and dreamers. Joey's preferred prey had been those he deemed easily manipulated. People that wouldn't be missed too terribly.

The two largest exceptions being Sammy and Norman, and even then the both of them were not easy cases when it came to family reunions.

Henry had no idea where to look for Sammy's sister, as he couldn't find records of an Abigail Marie Lawrence after a certain amount of years (perhaps she'd married and taken on her husband's name?), and Norman... Well... The Projectionist didn't like strangers.

That alone made Norman exceedingly opposed to seeking anyone out. He was scared that he might have an "episode" and bring harm to whatever family member was out there missing him. A painful choice, as the want for home was clear in his gestures, his signed words, his dreams...

Henry would just have to focus on those that could be brought back home. For now at least.

-

The day Jack's face returned to him was the very same one where he saw his husband for the first time in two decades.

He'd been a complete jitterbug, fearful that his lovely hat and wedding ring wouldn't be enough for his beloved to recognize him. Lost Ones were people shaped but still very unnatural to look upon, even if Jack's form was considerably less emaciated and his words were slowly returning to him.

Nearly chickened out too, once an older gentleman was welcomed inside and briefly spoken to by Henry. Theo had come knowing Jack wasn't completely the same, but there was no revulsion, no regrets in getting his hopes up.

Just from body language alone, Theo had seen his husband in the round figure with sad glowing eyes and a battered bowler hat that still smelled mildly of sewage. Everyone had practically melted with delight as both held each other and cried happy tears at being reunited.

And then the ink of Jack's face began to melt off. Sepia skin and dark inky eyes, a round face framed by poofy locks. Peace of mind had let the biggest wounds heal. His voice was still not completely back, but both he and Theo had always held silent conversations. This wasn't an issue.

Saying goodbye was hard, but it gave everyone hope. If Jack who'd been something as mindless as a Searcher, could heal and move on, then nothing was stopping anyone else from living their best lives as well.

The will to live was further renewed.

-

Linda ends up being the one to ultimately find Sammy's younger sister. To their surprise, it brings a slice of the Polk family right to them as well.

Abigail Marie Lawrence was only such by blood. By name, she was now a Polk herself.

Married to Nelson, one of Norman's many nephews, and a childhood friend of hers.

Together they had a son. A tired looking young man with an uncanny resemblance to his uncle of all things. Mostly in the eyes. The hazel coloration that Sammy and Abby once shared had passed on to Lucian Polk.

Meeting them was... Awkward.

And very heated.

20 years of unexpected separation had brought up a lot of turmoils that neither knew how to deal with. In the end Linda and Henry had to separate the screaming pair, enough so that both hot-headed folk could cool down and then rush back to hug each other tightly and cry. Regretful and remorseful words spilling out with the tears and snot.

Overall, not something Henry ever wanted to get caught up in ever again. The Lawrence children were a little too intense for his taste.

When asked about Norman however... Well... Henry would have rather been stuck between a screaming match than be forced to explain about the Projectionist...

Avoidance brought him questioning looks, but a simple nod and a look that silenced any further questions. Nelson Polk was a gracious man that accepted when others needed time to themselves. He was only a brute by appearence after all.

He'd stated calmly that if Norman ever felt ready, he'd be welcomed with open arms regardless of whatever twisted form he may have taken on.

Layer that same day, Sammy told Henry that upon being told this, the Projectionist seemed happier in some way.

-

Recovery is hard when you feel disconnected from the world around you. For a long while, Henry feared that the gap between the years of their freedom, imprisonment, and subsequent rescue, would prove too much for everyone who'd become an inky abomination.

Was he ever so glad to be mistaken.

While there were many bumps on the proverbial road, and many a trial to face, everyone was thriving. Getting used to a world that was alien to them in some ways, but full of possibilities for them to explore.

Some were greatly limited by their conditions, but they too were managing.

Lacie had been steadily repaired and updated with her and Tom's combined efforts, and together they'd eventually figured out how to give Bertrum a better quality of life, through slowly converting his amusement ride body into something of a spider-like mobile unit. A little frightening at first, but progress towards constructing him an animatronic body perhaps? The world was their oyster. Their terrifying mechanical oyster.

Sammy's human form had eventually stabilized to where he only became his inky self when at his very limit, and Norman's mental faculties had return to a point where he finally felt safe reuniting with his family. They were initially quite horrified by the state of him, but didn't reject him. Merely fretted that he may be in pain.

His wife had long since remarried, but that wasn't much of an issue for him. Norman liked her new wife, she was everything the mother of his children deserved! And he'd thanked her as best he could for looking after his little ones when he couldn't.

Through a lot of home-schooling (bless Linda for being an excellent teacher), Buddy had finished the studies he'd abandoned to provide for his family. While he couldn't exactly get a job, it felt good to accomplish a goal he'd thought impossible.

He became a bit of an honorary Stein once Linda and the girls took a shine to him. It hurt that he couldn't live with them back in the city, but he liked the freedom the woodland location gave him. He was a wolf after all, even if at heart he was a young lad full of artistic ambition.

Susie and Allison were the easiest to rehabilitate in the end. They fought their demons and they came to terms with who they were. While Susie still had a few issues with her image and identity, she was doing formidably well in the writing industry.

Disguising her tale as a story of fiction as a means to vent, had sparked a talent she'd never thought she had.

Allison in turn took up the chore of making their home self-sustaining. Gardening, water filtration, the works. She processed her pain and grief through hard work and physical activities. Then when she was satisfied, she'd sit under the stars and reflect.

Many times she was joined by others who found the stars to be great listeners to their own plights. The company felt comfortable.

It felt good to trust again. Felt even better when a certain wolf sat besides her and admire the expanses of their freedom right beside her.

Yes, Henry Stein was truly proud of everyone's progress. He was glad he'd stuck around to witness it.

[maxskulline]

Freshly brewed coffee steams in a cup that’s shaped like the bulbous form of a Petilil. The hands wrapped around it are speckled in cuts and freckles alike, because farm work is never easy and because she spends more time in the sun these days than she’s used to. Max found out that she isn’t too prone to sunburn, and that that’s a good thing when you work in one of Alola’s dryest, hottest areas. Instead, her skin turned into a soft tan and her freckles stand out more than ever. It looks pretty - anyone would say so. Those who were once bold enough to trace the constellations on her skin always said how much they love that she’s star kissed. But beauty isn’t anything she pays much attention to these days. Why should she? On a usual day, Max works herself to the limit and then some, pushes past the possible because she dreams less when she’s exhausted. Dreams are unpleasant, unwelcomed, repetetive and she’s so tired of seeing it all happening over and over again. Of seeing him. 

The him she knew last, his wickedness forever imprinted into her memory, is more bearable. She can deal with the hatred she feels for this person. It’s the dreams of their time before - before all of this - the dreams of a family she has loved and lost -  those are the ones driving Max to a fitful, tear-stained awakening. Sometimes, she scrambles to the bathroom just in time to purge herself. As if she could throw up the shards he has left of her, cutting her apart from the inside. It is for this reason Max eventually decided to sleep in her own room, and protect Rosie from the mess she has turned into. She had to promise Rosie that she’ll take a bedroom next door, and that she’d always be there when Rosie needed her. But this is a battle she prefers to fight alone. 

On some days, Max doesn’t respond much when someone attempts conversation. These are the bad days. The days when she can only make it by because she’s had nothing for breakfast but a good handful of Valium. If asked, Max will blame it on bad sleep - it’s not technically a lie. Although, in hindsight, no one cares how dissociated she feels as long as she’s earning her keep on the farm, and intrusive answers are never demanded by anyone. In return she doesn’t care if she can’t remember the rest of the day because all that matters is to make it by somehow and save up enough Pokédollars to leave this godforsaken island. 

Today’s one of those less than okay days. The cup’s been sitting in front of her nose for a good half hour and turned luke-warm, voices and colours are whirring around the pink haired girl who sits two chairs apart from another youth at the table, a television is running distantly in the background. It’s all there and not there at the same time. To the outside eye, Max may look like a girl who isn’t an early riser and who needs her first cup of coffee to be talkative. They wouldn’t guess that she hasn’t slept to begin with lest they take a closer look at her face and notice the dark circles lining her eyes. 

Her fingers begin to trace the texture of the oak wood table over and over again, although she hardly acknowledges the sensation, while she musters enough clarity to wonder where Rosie went. There’s a young man named Rocky she’s getting along with well, very much to her surprise. Rocky’s been - he’s been good to them. Especially to Rosie. Patient, attentive, funny, the kinda guy with such a warmth in his smile that he could melt away glaciers. He’s handsome, too. If Max cared about such shallow nonsesense nowadays. Still, for all the fucks she’s lost to give, she definitely cares about Rosie, and Rosie’s smiling a little more around him. It is the sole reason why Max can let herself relax a little whenever her best friend is spending time with him, indulge in self-pity without pretending she’s anything but heartbroken. 

The coffee’s gone pretty cold now. Doors open and shut close again, until she’s left in the room with three middle-aged farm workers. No one had shut off the TV. Max feels like she’s only now waking up, slowly blinking and shifting on her seat until her whereabouts make sense again. When the large grandfather clock tells her it’s almost time for her shift, Max lifts the cup at last and empties it in two large sips. Ugh - unsugared, cold coffee’s pretty much the worst and almost makes her wanna spit it out again, but it does as good a job of snapping her back as a smack to her cheek would. She cringes into herself and reaches out to pluck a grape from the fruit bowl as a means to wash away the bitterness. 

Her hand stops and falls flat when someone turns up the TV, loud enough to make her feel like she’s being once again pulled under water where she cannot breathe. 

‘.......... as of this morning, we can confirm that the President of the Aether Foundation was found and is now receiving medical care.’

Max moves on auto-pilot. Her legs don’t even feel like her own when she gets up and joins the others by the TV, fingers curled inwards so tightly that her nails leave crescent dents. Everything she hears and sees, Max watches from somewhere else - she’s no longer the owner of her body, but rather an observer. And yet - yet she feels more alert than she has had for the past couple of weeks. “What’s going on?”, she hears herself ask, unable to tear her eyes away from the screen. Next to the reporter plays a scene most likely recorded by phone, a shaky recording trying to focus on a bright tear in the sky. ‘It shouldn’t be there’ is the first thing Max thinks when she sees the wormhole - she’s never seen one in person before, made it out before she ever could. But looking at it feels unnatural and wrong because she knows the sinister fabrications behind it. All those experiments on the poor Pokémon..... no, this thing shouldn’t exist. 

“Dunno, they said it’s been there for hours before someone dropped out of it. Closed up right after. Apparently it spat out the missing Aether Foundation president.” 

And there she is. A fallen angel, exiled from what she had deemed her own paradise - a fitting and deserved ending to the nightmare she had played such a great part to create. She can’t find an ounce of sympathy within her, and why should she? This woman - she may look like a fallen angel now, but she certainly helped to crown Max as the queen of nothing - and she deserves everything she’s got coming for her. But not even the thought of a fitting punishment can satisfy Max now because something else’s catching her attention. 

It’s easy to miss, really. Just a black shadow falling through the sky when the camera zooms in. Max may have been the only one who saw it happening - a man dropping from the wormhole mere seconds after the President - a someone not even the news care to name. If Max thought she had lost her ground before, now it is swallowing her up whole. There’s little room to breathe down here, in the depths of everything she suppressed until now - the uncertainity and the fear and the deeply rooted knowing she wouldn’t let herself dwell upon because it hurts too much. She was right all along. She was right to think he’d do it. Max whimpers but doesn’t feel the solid pull on her arm, dragging her away from the television. A strong, kind hand - Rocky’s hand.

He and Lusamine are the only people who fell from the wormhole. There was no one else. None. He’s left them all behind. Max can feel her mind reeling, the world around her spinning. There’s a ringing in her ears, but every sound is dull, as if spoken through cotton wool. Max is pliant when Rocky maneuvers her out of the house and Rosie grabs her hand, speaking to her, telling her friend to breathe.

There was no one else. 

Traitor.

Guzma had called her a traitor for turning her back on him and his grandior plans. What had happened to her friends? Where are they? Did - did he leave them in his so called paradise? No.. No, that’s not it. She knows that’s not what had happened at all. Her vision blurs when something inside her fractures at the truth she had known all along. Now she’s clinging to Rosie, though she doesn’t remember when her hands found Rosie’s upper arms. She may be squeezing too tightly because Rosie flinches, but she doesn’t push Max away when her body cracks and she starts sobbing. 

He didn’t take them with him to begin with. Because there never was any room for anyone else, not even for Max.

She can’t turn away from the last time she saw him; it plays like a broken record, over and over and over again. How could she have believed that their ending may have swayed something inside of Guzma? She remembers him on his knees before her, rain-soaked, defeated, insane. She remembers the look in his eyes when she left him for good. She remembers that he wasn’t alone - he was surrounded by the people who adored and admired him through every challenge, who were there to catch his fall from grace and who could have made a change for him - but instead, he chose to follow her. Every last bit of hope she had left for him died today. She hates herself for having hoped to begin with - such a stupid and human thing to do. Guzma cannot be saved from his greed for everything that’s bigger and better than him. It is a disease and it’s infested him too deeply. He cannot see the good that he already has - that’s why, in the end, he couldn’t see her. Max doubts he ever will learn to know what he has. It isn’t her problem anymore.

Half an hour passes in the blink of an eye, but eventually, her breathing slows down and the tears dry fast under Alola’s brightest sun. A pair of brown eyes stare with concern, but there’s pain in them, too. Max wishes she could take it away - but she can’t even take her own pain away. What good is she, really? 

She really is the queen of nothing.

“Sorry about that”, she croaks out and clears her throat twice. Fumbles in the pocket of her pants for a half-empty pack of cigarettes and can’t even light it because her fingers shake so much. Kudos to Rocky for nicking the lighter and doing the job for her.

“Rosie.” 

Another problem comes with the fact that Guzma’s back in the picture. Not that she expects him to look for her, but you never know - might wanna take his sweet revenge for ruining his image in front of the Prez. She’ll need to make herself invisible and unknown to him, or to anyone who may recognize her as his..... 

Whatever. 

The first cigarette’s burned down within seconds. She can light the next one herself, ignoring the concern written all over Rosie’s and Rocky’s faces because Max is acting like this break down didn’t even happen. “I need your help with something, okay? If he’s back out there, I need to make sure he’ll never find me.”

Because Arceus knows how long they’ll have to work for an escape from Alola.

“I need you to cut my hair.” 

[exodusmc]

Outsider 05

Genre: Power au, war au, rebel au

Words: 1277

Paring: Light manipulator Baekhyun  x  Lieutenant Reader

Side character/s: Yixing

Warning!: Mentions of nightmares, talks about war

a/n: One million seller! And Exo Sc are soon here too! :)

Gif is not mine

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Days passed slowly, each minute making Baekhyun on edge. Everyone walking around him could be a rebel, waiting to strike but at the time did he only know of Yixing, the doctor having visited him once the morning after and patched him up. You were there too, watching with hawk eyes, never saying anything. Baekhyun was sure your weren't a part of the plan and it made him more anxious. It would be harder escaping with you around, the emptiness in your gaze was mixed with death when you took down that woman. But then again, you never abused your power like the other guards, only doing as you were told, like a weapon. The green pin felt cool under his fingertips, burning with the color of life which had been once a world for people. Wars tore the hues away and gave birth to people like him. Baekhyun had only met one unnatural, the man had smiled sadly at the young boy, a finger placed before his lips as he hushed Baekhyun. Before dark eyes had a wind played, stroking over his cheeks. The man gave Baekhyun the scarf he had been wearing and some money, ruffling his hair before he disappeared. Over the years had the man’s face faded but there was still a clear picture of his grin, the whisper of low words.

“There will be a good time for people like us..”Baekhyun had watched with wide orbs as the older who crouched down spoke.”..when people like you and my beautiful daughter can be friends..” 

Baekhyun never saw him again, he never saw that city again because it was destroyed and most people living in it killed. He remembered being so scared, the shadows suddenly his only company, just like now. Ever since the woman had gone crazy was the security harder and the free time shorter. He was never let out more than four times a day, once to eat at the canteen, the others to use the toilet. It started to get to him, the walls coming closer every night he tried to sleep. 

-

“I have some questions regarding case 04..”you spoke with the same tone as always, the unnatural becoming a mere number from your mouth. Yixing tensed at the sight of a file in your hands, his fingers gripping hard at black slacks he wore.”..There are crucial parts missing in his documents, important things all unnaturals have to go through.”

The papers landed on his desk, your eyes watching his face try to keep its warmth. You knew you were pushing him but you wanted to see what he would do, what he would say. Yixing had been a great doctor but the more you read the records, the more you were wondering what he was doing. 

“Ah..yes, well you see Y/n, he seemed so weak when he came so I never went through protocol…”he smiled at you, grabbing the file and flipped through them.”..I never got the chance to do them..always having someone else to help..”

“But you know that the unnaturals is higher than the low ranks when it comes to doing these tests...Doctor shouldn't you follow orders? The laws which keep us safe?”there was darkness in his gaze as he watched you, smiling with thinner lips.”..I have the authority to perform the tests but I was wondering why they weren't already finished..”

“Like I said, I’m a very busy man..”the doctor stood up, walking to one of the full shelves and grabbing random file, one of many.”..My priority is unfortunately to heal and not sit and watch what Baekhyun can do..”

You saw him close the file, putting it back but still holding Byun’s. Yixing smiled, hiding his glowing fingers the best he could. You were pressing his emotions to be stronger in the sense of anger, making it harder to control even when the power was created of life. 

“Well then, dr Zhang, I’ll take the case of your hands then..”panic sparked in his orbs for a second catching the pasty yellow light from the sun.

“But isn't it unnecessary? He’s been here for a long time and we already know that he posses light..”

“It’s as important as always. We don't know how strong he is or what he has as weaknesses..”the citizen who outed Baekhyun for money had already told them about the light which he used and how he never hurt anyone. You were starting to think he was arrested to make sure the rebels wouldn't have another ally with them.

“The drug will take at least a week before it gets here..”that was true but you could still see what he could do, what his body could take.

“You are right dr Zhang..”in Baekhyun’s file was a picture, his face pale against the blooming bruise from the soldiers. His lips looked soft and eyes down truend.”But I’ll look into his ability, goodbye.”

-

“Dr Zhang didn't want to perform the tests which is amust when it comes to the unnatural, his excuse was his hectic schedule..”you glanced out the window, following the lines of the forest about a kilometer away. It looked dark but at peace, dead grass swaying before it.”..and he went to case 04 last night for a check up after the incident in the canteen. He advised against me going into to the unnatural’s cell, since he was tried, so I never got a chance to see if something happened. But this morning was I presented as Dr Zhang checked case 04 and nothing seemed to be wrong. Lieutenant Shin Y/N, Juniela 20 year 4508, time 20:00. ”

You sighed, closing the report and glared at the red mark on it. There was a pile of letters on your desk, waiting to be sent, but you didn't want to, using the excuse of no one going to closest base. They laid in a neat pile, five turning to six, and you felt a sudden rage to them. Your nights had been filled by the nightmare you refused to believe was your own but over time had it been harder to ignore. Your parents had smiled at you, then they had cried so softly before disappearing, leaving you in the dark until a red soldier found you. Hate was all you felt for the images, hate for the fright eating you. Pens rolled around you, pushed to the side so you could grab a pencil and your book. 

“They are lying to us all, living in luxury and red. They never tell the truth, they are the monsters. They created them and they kill them, they kill everyone. The blue pills are only here to reduce the population, destroy the filth and they lie about them too…”your balanced writing was completely ragged, so different from all the reports laying to the side.”They lied to me.”

-

Yixing stood outside, breathing calmly as the sun caressed his face. He couldn't feel the grass through his pants but the soft swaying sound of it moving made him almost believe he could. Like always was his hair gelled back but he didn't wear the lab coat, stripped himself of the republic’s mark. Before him was a small fire and inside it a letter from his visitor, green having been destroyed. Yixing relaxed, relishing in the moment of peace while he could. He knew that this was the last time he could because they were close and a war with them. All he could hope was for a happy ending this time.

Tags: @shesdreaminginoverdose​ 

[alphacrone]

for it’s better to burn out than to fade out of sight (5/?)

rating: T pairings: Yuki & Tohru (platonic), Tohru/Kyo, Yuki/Machi, other canon pairings & friendships summary: In the end, it wasn’t sadness Yuki felt, when Tohru Honda had her memories erased. No, it was anger. And anger he could work with.

<< read previous chapter  ||  read next chapter >>

iv. i watched as the hillsides turned white with nowhere to go

***

“Be honest, Tohru. Are they treating you well?” 

Tohru looked up from her lunch, tilting her head in confusion. “What are you talking about, Uo?”

Uo tore off a piece of her curry bread and chewed in an unnaturally aggressive way. “Your family. Are they treating you well? And be honest.” 

“O-oh!” Tohru glanced between Hana and Sohma, who both watched her intently. It had been a week since she'd moved back in with Grandpa and his family, the renovations finally complete. The Hanajima family had bid her a tearful farewell, insisting that Tohru come by and visit frequently. Tohru was touched by their generosity, and began taking extra shifts at work so she could begin to repay them. “Of course! I’m really so grateful to them, taking me in when Aunt Mie’s going through a divorce…” 

“You were there first!” Uo slammed her fist down on the desk, knocking her half-empty Pocari bottle to the floor. “Your gramps better have his priorities straight when it comes to you…”

“N-no, that’s not-" Tohru frowned. “It’s just a hard time for them, so I just don’t want to be in their way.” 

Uo drew back to continue ranting, but Sohma cut her off, his voice low and calm. “Did they say that?” 

“Huh?” Tohru swallowed roughly. Sohma’s expression had not changed, but there was something sharp in his eyes. “Say what?” 

“You family,” he said. “Did they say you were in their way?” 

“A-ah, no,” Tohru replied, rubbing awkwardly at the back of her neck. “No, they wouldn’t say something like that, I-I just want to help them in this difficult time!” 

“Good,” Sohma said, and his gaze softened. “Tell me if they ever say anything that cruel. That is unacceptable behavior, especially from family.” 

Tohru nodded, cheeks growing warm. Sohma was always so cool and collected, even when he was unhappy. But to see him become so cold, just because he thought her family might have said something hurtful…

“Yeah, yeah,” Uo said. “Where were they when Kyoko...? I just think you could stand to be a little more selfish, Tohru. Don’t let them bully you into doing all the chores or sleeping in a closet or something.” 

“Did you know,” Hana said, dabbing her mouth clean with a pitch black handkerchief. “That in the Grimm version of Cinderella, the wicked stepsisters have their eyes plucked out by birds?”

Tohru’s mind reeled. “What? That’s awful!” 

Hana shrugged, bringing another piece of beef to her lips. “Just...something to consider.” 

Uo laughed, and slapped Tohru on the back. “Sorry, sorry, I know I’m worrying too much. But you have a bad habit of not telling anyone when you’re upset or in pain, Tohru.” Uo’s eyes grew sad. “Let us take care of you, okay?” 

“Uo...Hana…” Tohru felt tears welling up against her will. “You guys...I love you guys…” 

“Aww.” Uo scrubbed at her eyes, brushing away her own tears. “C’mere.” 

Tohru laughed as Hana and Uo engulfed her in a big hug. Sandwiched between them, she felt safe and warm, cradled in a world that brought her nothing but love and kindness. She didn’t often feel this way anymore, not since Mom had died, but when she did it was always because of her friends. Tohru didn’t deserve such wonderful people, but she was beyond grateful for them. 

From between Hana’s and Uo’s arms, Tohru caught sight of Sohma, who still sat across from her, looking awkwardly alone. She wished she could pull him into their hug, to wipe the strained look from his face, to banish any sadness from his heart. 

Gray eyes met brown, and Sohma smiled; it was a small, soft thing, and gone in an instant. But Tohru saw it, and kept the precious memory of it safe in her chest. 

She really was so lucky to have these friends of hers. Every one of them.

***

“Ugh, this house is so big, but I still have to share a room?” Kaoru griped, flopping back dramatically on her bed. 

“I’m sorry,” Tohru said, looking up from her math homework. She wasn’t making great headway, but with Uo’s persistent help she was managing to understand more. 

Kaoru waved away her apology, content with sighing dramatically. Tohru was secretly happy to be sharing a room; she’d grown used to listening to Hana’s light snores at night, and was afraid the silence of an empty room might keep her awake. 

“Kyoko,” Grandpa said, appearing in the doorway. Tohru smiled weakly at the wrong name. 

“That’s Tohru, Grandpa,” Kaoru sighed. 

Grandpa appeared not to have heard. “They’re calling for you downstairs,” he told Tohru. 

“Okay!” Tohru hopped up and brushed off her skirt. Despite herself, she was glad for a reason to  escape from her cousin’s griping. It must be hard for Kaoru to share a room with Tohru after thinking she’d have one to herself, but Tohru was just grateful for a roof over her head. A small part of her had missed living with Grandpa. 

When she reached the kitchen, Aunt Mie and Akinori were both waiting for her at the table. Kaoru and Grandpa followed after her, lurking near the stove. Their eagerness to eavesdrop made Tohru uneasy. 

“Hi,” she said awkwardly. “Is something wrong?” 

Aunt Mie sighed and adjusted her reading glasses. In her hands she held some papers, too far way for Tohru to properly read. “I wanted to get this over with as soon as possible, but moving in was so hectic...but that’s not important.”

“O-okay?” Tohru gripped her hands together tightly. Why did it feel like she’d done something wrong? Surely they didn’t know she’d been living in a tent. Uo and Hana had been sworn to secrecy, despite Uo’s threats to ride her motorcycle through Grandpa’s living room window, and Tohru was certain no one else knew…

“Tohru,” Aunt Mie said, voice stern. “It seems like you’ve been living with unmarried men? We had a detective look into it.” 

Kaoru gasped, sounding more excited than scandalized. “No way! You were living with guys? Woah!” 

“W-wait,” Tohru held up her hands in surrender, face growing hot. “What are you talking about? I-I-I was living with Hana’s family.”

“Yes,” Aunt Mie said. “For a little while. But before then, you were living with three men by the name of…” She flipped a page, eyes scanning the page. “Sohma.”

“Sohma?” Tohru thought she might pass out. “Th-there has to be some mistake! I go to school with two Sohmas, but I never lived with them.” 

Aunt Mie looked frustrated, but it was Akinori who spoke. “Are you calling us liars, Tohru?” He asked, eyes narrowing behind his thick-rimmed glasses. 

“N-no, of course not!” Tohru struggled to keep her breathing steady. “I didn’t mean to offend you, I’m sorry! It’s just, I wasn’t living with men, I-I- Before staying with Hana, I was living in a tent. I’m sorry for lying about that,” she cried, bowing deeply to Grandpa. “But I swear, I wasn’t- I didn’t-”

“My son is studying to become a policeman,” Aunt Mie snapped. “It will be a problem if one of our relatives has a criminal record.” 

“I-I don’t!” Tohru clasped her hands together, pleading. “I swear I don’t!”

“Don’t lie, Tohru,” Akinori said with a smirk. “We have photo evidence.” 

Tohru’s head was spinning. Photo evidence of what? Surely their detective had confused some other girl at Sohma's house as Tohru, maybe another cousin even; Sohma had said he had many cousins.

“Kyoko was fairly rough,” Aunt Mie continued. Kaoru was still watching from behind a few potted plants, mouth ajar. “And they say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” She pointed a thin, accusatory finger at Tohru. “You have to stay on the straight and narrow if you wish to continue living in this house.” 

A cold sweat had broken out on the back of Tohru's neck, and her hands shook uncontrollably. Tohru wasn’t like her mother in too many ways, but she was proud of the ways in which she resembled Kyoko Honda. But if what her aunt said was true, if being like Mom wasn’t acceptable in this house…

She still had her tent, muddy and half-destroyed, tucked away under Hana’s bed. If she could just get it without alerting Hana and Uo, Tohru could unburden everyone who felt obligated to house her. She could be independent, like Mom, like someone Mom could be proud of. 

“Hey, Tohru,” Akinori said, shaking her from her thoughts. He was still smirking, but there was something cold in his eyes. “Those men...they didn’t do anything improper to you, did they?” 

Tohru’s blood ran cold. The room was too small, the walls were closing in on her, and all she could see were the sharp gazes of her family-

Thwack!

The room fell silent as Grandpa pulled back his palm from his grandson’s cheek. Akinori pulled back, eyes widening. “G-Grandpa?” he stuttered. “What…?” 

“You really don’t know how to speak to people without belittling them,” Grandpa said, voice as light and unbothered as it always was. “Don’t mind them, Kyoko. They’re really just bad people, deep down.” 

“What?!”

“Grandpa!” 

“How dare-!”

“Hmm?” Grandpa seemed unbothered, smiling gently at Tohru. “They’re my dear family, Kyoko, and because of that I can endure their cruelty. But you...Katsuya always said you needed a place you could be free, and this house…” 

“ Dad ,” Aunt Mie spat, fists clenched at her side. “You aren’t in your right mind, you can’t just say things like that to your own family!” 

“Kyoko is our family, too,” Grandpa said simply. “Did you detective look into your or Kaoru? Me? Your cousins? My sister?”

“W-well, no,” Aunt Mie said through gritted teeth. “But no one in our family was raised by- by a delinquent!” 

Tohru looked down at her feet, throat growing thick. Mom had been a delinquent, when she was younger than Tohru was now, but she’d also been the best mother anyone could have asked for. Her father’s family hadn’t stayed in touch after his death, but surely she wasn’t such a miserable creature that they could see how good and kind Kyoko had been? 

“Someone’s birth isn’t important,” Grandpa said. “Kyoko loves more fiercely than any of you; she has a good heart. This behavior of yours has been disappointing, Mie.” 

The room fell quiet as Aunt Mie stared angrily at Grandpa. Akinori still held onto his face where Grandpa had slapped him earlier, and Kaoru watched it all with wide, disbelieving eyes. 

“I-I-I’ll start dinner!” Tohru cried, breaking through the tense silence. “How does nikujaga sound? Great!” She hurried to the fridge to begin preparations before anyone could speak further. 

“That sounds lovely, Kyoko,” Grandpa called. “Thank you.” 

No one else spoke again after that, but Tohru heard several doors slam as she cooked. She didn’t dare venture out of the kitchen, too frightened to see who had left.

Neither Aunt Mie nor Akinori returned by dinnertime, but that didn’t seem to bother Grandpa. Even Kaoru shrugged at the empty seats and helped herself to Tohru’s cooking, complimenting it as soon as she took a bite. Tohru gave her a shaky smile, but the absence of her aunt and cousin worried her far more than their presence would have made her uncomfortable. She hoped that wherever they were, they were safe and well-fed. 

***

When the house had fallen still and silent, Tohru crept out of her room, careful not to wake Kaoru. She felt guilty, sneaking around her own family like this, but she couldn’t help but wonder just what made them think she’d been living with the Sohmas, of all people. She hadn’t even spoken to Sohma or Kyo until after she moved in with Hana. Even if she was unhappy with Aunt Mie hiring a detective to look into her, Tohru needed to know if they’d been tricked or misled by someone with bad intentions. 

The papers were still on the coffee table where Aunt Mie had left them that afternoon. Tohru thumbed through them, barely able to comprehend most of what was written. She continued searching, spotting names like Honda and Sohma and Hanajima littered throughout, until the texture of the paper changed, and Tohru realized she’d stumbled across several photographs. The first two showed her leaving school, chatting with Sohma. This was odd--she couldn’t remember a day she’d left school with Sohma instead of Hana or Uo--but perhaps she’d simply forgotten. Kyo appeared in the next photo, following behind them at a short distance with a scowl. Again, not something Tohru remembered happening, but not out of the realm of possibility. 

It was the next photo that took her breath away. Tohru’s memory had never been the best; she often spaced out during class and forgot important dates or math equations. Surely she could have forgotten a brief conversation with Sohma as they walked home in the same direction. Maybe she’d been preoccupied with work or school and hadn’t paid much attention. 

But this photo changed everything. Because there, plain to see, was a photo of Tohru walking the same forest path she’d taken every day after school or work to get back to her campsite. Except, instead of showing her alone, ducking off the paved path and into the woods, these photos showed her walking in between Yuki and Kyo Sohma, all three carrying bags of groceries. Sohma wore a soft expression she rarely saw, and Kyo glared in a way Tohru saw constantly, but it was her own laughing face that truly caught her off guard. When had she walked home with these Sohma boys? When had she ever been so comfortable in their presence? When had she gone to the store with them, or even seen them outside of school? 

Because Tohru could not deny the girl in this photograph was her. This girl, with pink ribbons and a hand-me-down dress, was undoubtedly her, but the memories of this moment were...gone. Not faded, not vague, just gone . 

Tohru’s heart sank deep into her stomach. What really happened during those weeks in the woods? And why couldn’t she remember? 

[itskateak]

It’s Been a Long, Long Time

(Bucky Barnes x Fem!OC)

Summary: Stark’s charity events were always a hit, but Bucky never really liked attending any event anyways. Live music changed the atmosphere and he was surprised to find Velika singing a familiar tune. Well, he couldn’t leave her high and dry without a dance, could he?

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma, nightmares, things that go along with PTSD, blood mentions, and tooth-rotting fluff

Word Count: 3,802 (dang)

A/N: If you didn’t see me yelling about my laptop shutting down mid-writing this the first time...now you know. Thank you, Windows for updating a day before I had scheduled you. Haha :) 

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Bucky leaned against the bar, half-listening to what Steve was saying. The glass in his right hand was half full with some kind of smooth alcohol that Natasha had poured for him earlier in the evening, insisting that he try it. It wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t partial to it. He preferred something that burned the back of his throat when he was done. He nodded slowly along to the story Steve was still rambling on about, gaze somewhere trained on the floor.

Music drifted over the low chatter from a live band Tony Stark had hired. The musicians played jazz, blues, and swing like they were directly from that era. But it wasn’t all classic music. They took modern music as well and turned them into classic and vintage songs. He was quite impressed by the musicians and whoever had arranged the music. The main vocalist sounded like he was taken directly from the 30s and Bucky wondered for a moment if he was. It wasn’t like it was impossible with everything that he’d seen.

“Are you even listening to me, Buck?” Steve lightly shoved his shoulder to gain his attention. Though his tone said he was a little irritated, his expression was amused and his eyes were alight with fondness. 

“Of course.” He lied, giving his best friend an unconvincing smile before he cracked a real one at Steve’s arched eyebrow. “I blanked for a minute. Parties aren’t my thing and I’m starting to, well...you know.” Starting to feel anxious and out of place.

“If you need to step out and get some air, you can. Don’t let me keep you here.” He gave Bucky’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze and a soft smile. Steve Rogers, always so kind and caring and conscientious of his needs. He was patient and so selfless. Sometimes it made him want to punch Steve in the face. 

“I’m okay for now.” Bucky nodded and looked back over the crowd of celebrities and his teammates. 

Tony was somewhere out there, talking to a celebrity or rich person trying to swindle more money out of there for the charity. Sam and Rhodey were probably knee-deep in women, trying to one-up each other with getting-out-of-proportion stories. Wanda and Vision were probably on the terrace getting air. Natasha and Bruce had tucked themselves away in a corner to get away from the crowd. And Clint and his wife were somewhere in the conglomeration.

Everyone was mingling, but Bucky was by the bar, hiding. If people wanted to speak to him for some reason, they could find him. But he couldn’t promise to hold a decent conversation. Socialization was not his thing anymore. Not since his run-ins and dealings with Hydra. 

“Have you seen Velika, yet?” Steve asked, glancing over the crowd. “I thought I caught a glimpse of her earlier, but I couldn’t be sure.”

Velika Dante King was one of their team members that joined after the Accords were signed and the chaos with Thanos had been taken care of. According to her, SHIELD and Fury had been after her for years, trying to get her to join the Avengers. She refused for a long time, insisting she didn’t want to be back in the line of duty. As an ex-guardian angel (who worked in the Palace of Light as a guard. Boring job, she’d said), she’d seen enough action for many lifetimes. Not to mention her years as a bounty hunter later turned hitman for the Silver City She had gotten out and had been living a fairly peaceful life. Eventually, she caved and joined the team.

Velika and Bucky got along fine, understanding each other without words. She’d lived a long time, being an immortal and all, and had been one of many people to sit down and catch him up on things he’d missed. She got him in a way he didn’t expect, even with his past and the things he’d done. She didn’t care, having spilled her fair share of blood in ways that would make even the most experienced assassins nauseous. She got what it was like to wake up at night from nightmares and the inability to sleep because of them. She got jumping at loud noises and having bad days and everything that came along with being the way they are.

Velika was always there when he really needed her.

“No, I haven’t seen her. I suspect she’s up near the stage. Told me that she hasn’t seen her brother in months and Stark hired his group.” Bucky responded, taking another sip of his too smooth drink. Why was he even still drinking it? Natasha wasn’t anywhere near them and he was planning to finish it to not be rude to her.

“I heard Wanda and Nat talking about the dress she’d decided to wear. From the way they were talking, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got company.” Steve said, setting his own glass down on the bar top. He had a suggestive glint in his eye which was paired with a raised brow. With all the time Bucky spent with the woman, Steve had decided that there was something more than friendly between them. Ever since he’d found them asleep on the couch together, his head in her lap, Steve had been relentless. It had been a month so far, and he had yet to let up.

Bucky rolled his eyes and shoved his shoulder. “If that bugs you, punk, then you go find her.” He teased, ignoring the twisting in his stomach at the thought of some high-class, snobby man flirting with her. He had begun to feel things for her that were in the territory of more than friends but he was never going to admit that to Steve nor himself. Before Steve could make comment on it, a familiar voice came over the speakers.

“Evening, everyone! Thank you for coming this evening and donating to the charity. We’re very happy to say that we’ve more than met our goal, but don’t let that discourage you from donating more. Relief for those still being affected by The Snap is very important and all of us on the Avengers team have made our own contributions.” Velika had taken her brother’s place at the mic and addressed the crowd with a smile. “I am very proud of my brother, Dakota-”

Indignant muttering (Bucky couldn’t hear it well from where he was, but it sounded like something along the lines of: “You know I hate that name.”) interrupted her from her brother beside her and she laughed, waving the white-haired man off. He crossed his arms and pretended to be mad before he broke out in a truly radiant smile.

“I am very proud of my brother, Dakota King, and his group, The Devil Tones, for their success. These very talented musicians agreed to help me with a special project for some very special teammates of mine. I promised Tony Stark, our generous host, that I would sing something if he paid me a thousand dollars.” The guests laughed as she beamed. “Obviously, since I’m up here, he paid me. Which I then turned around and donated to the charity because I’m not a selfish twit. Stark.” She fake coughed to badly conceal his name.

“Not fair, Velika! I will dock your paycheck!” Tony yelled from somewhere in the crowd, though his voice was full of amusement.

“This song is a lovely post World War Two tune that tells of a wonderful homecoming. My brother arranged a beautiful rendition featuring himself on trumpet and Anthony Grey on saxophone. So, to our resident fossils on the Avengers team...wherever you are....” Velika scanned the crowd with her unnaturally blue eyes and spotted the pair at the bar. She waved to them and grinned. “We dedicate this to you. I hope you enjoy.”

Bucky spared a glance at Steve. So, she’d prepared a song for them. He had never heard her sing, knowing that she had trouble with crowds and being in front of an audience. It was admirable that she had stepped out of her comfort zone to bring them a gift. 

Velika conducted a measure before cueing the band in. 

Immediately, Bucky recognized the song and a smile involuntarily crept up on his face. It’s Been a Long, Long Time was a classic post-war song. He had never listened to it before he had been shipped off to the frontlines. And after Hydra had gotten a hold of him, he hadn’t had the opportunity to listen to it. Steve had played it for him when catching him up on everything he’d missed. It was one of his absolute favorites and Bucky had learned to appreciate it. 

The band was phenomenal together. Everything was balanced so that moving lines were heard overtop the rest. The strings were (thankfully) in tune and the drums didn’t feel like they were clashing with the rest of it. The trumpet player, King (as he apparently liked to be referred to by last name rather than first) sounded exactly like the recording, and Bucky was almost convinced that he had been the one to play it in Steve’s record. The tone was so clear and warm and the sound enveloped the entire room without ever being too much.

People started to slow dance with each other, the sentimental message of homecoming drawing them together. Tony found Pepper and drew her close. Vision and Wanda took the floor together. Clint grabbed his wife’s hand and urged her out with a smile. Sam and Rhodey chose one of the women in their audience to sweep off their feet. 

“I’m going to go find Sharon before someone steals her away. Can’t pass up an opportunity to dance.” Steve clapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder before disappearing into the crowd to find the woman. 

Alone, Bucky watched Velika perform with fascination. She had such an air of charisma that anyone who didn’t know about her aversion to performing would think she was most comfortable on stage. She had a beautiful voice, he realized. It was smooth with a hint of smokiness to it, like a good whiskey. 

“Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again. It’s been a long, long time. Haven’t felt this way, my dear, since can’t remember when. It’s been a long, long time.” Velika swayed side to side, a smile on her face. Her platinum blonde hair was curled loosely and hung over her shoulders and back like a veil. She looked everything in the world like she had just walked out of a speakeasy during Prohibition.

Bucky downed the rest of his drink, pushing the glass towards the bartender and nodding to say he was finished with it. He shoved his hands in his pockets, tilting his head as the performance went on. It really was a nice gift, and the arrangement was done wonderfully. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine being back in a club before the war. Even if the song was post-war.

Steve was right, though. The dress she had worn was beautiful. It fit her perfectly, showing off her body in all the right places. It was a deep blue that offset her light eyes and hair. The floor-length mermaid gown had sheer sleeves with lace decorations that wound up her arms like vines. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’s been fending off men all evening. He fought a sneer at the thought.

“It’s been a long, long time.” 

The saxophone player began his solo as she backed away to give him the spotlight. If anyone had any doubts that Anthony Grey loved what he did, they just needed to watch him. Each note he played was like a bit of his soul, and if it were liquid, it would be pooling at his feet and flooding the floor. Something about a good saxophone solo healed the soul. His tone was rich and clear but had the trademark raspiness of a jazz sax player.

Velika swayed along to the beat in the background, not detracting from the attention, but holding Bucky’s regardless. The lights made her appear like she was glowing. If she had stepped down from the stage, he surely would’ve asked her to dance. But she claimed she had two left feet and therefore would’ve likely turned him down.

The song ended faster than he expected or wanted and he applauded the performance. King hugged his sister and said something to her that made her throw her head back and laugh. Damn, Bucky thought. Under the spotlights, that had been gorgeous. 

Velika approached the mic. “Thank you! I hope you all enjoyed that. I’ll hand the microphone back over to my brother and let you get back to your evening.” And with that, she backed away to leave the stage.

“Thank you, Vel. After that touching song, why don’t we pick things back up?” King said before the band struck up with a swing version of I Wanna Be Like You, which Bucky remembered was originally made famous by Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. It was a group Velika had introduced him and Steve to as they played similar music to their era. 

King had much more charisma onstage than his sister. He moved with the music and had a presence that reminded Bucky of Cab Calloway. He watched him, amused and amazed, as he wasn’t aware the male body could move that way. He swung his hips side to side in such a fluid motion that he almost expected him to be made of liquid.

“Are you checking my brother out?” The teasing lilt of Velika’s voice drew his attention and he found her standing beside him, a broad smile on her face.

“Mm, not my type.” Bucky teased back, turning to her. “That was incredible, by the way.” Up close, she was far prettier than he expected. Whoever had done her makeup (as she had confessed she had no idea what to do earlier that week) had done it perfectly to suit her features and bring out her eyes. He knew there were challenges when it came to doing makeup on monolids. A girl back in the day had complained about it to her friends one time and he happened to overhear it. 

“Thank you.” She ducked her head sheepishly and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I spent so many hours trying making sure I did it some justice instead of butchering it horribly.”

“You did it more than justice, Vel. How’s your evening going?” Bucky felt his nerves and out of placeness return, not realizing that they had been washed away during her performance.

“It’s good. Though, I was regretting my choice of attire earlier. I kept fending of guys and their compliments and flirting. Ugh.” She rolled her eyes in annoyance but still had a smile on her face. “I’m feeling a little anxious now that the performance is done and my adrenaline has worn off.”

“I don’t s’pose you’d mind if I steal you away for some air, then? I’ve been feeling closed in, too.” Bucky straightened up. “The roof should be open.”

“Shall we then?” Velika offered her arm up to him and he looped his through. Together, they headed for the elevator.

———————————————————————

“Oh, God. I regret wearing these shoes.” Velika used Bucky’s arm to keep her balance as she slipped her heels off. She ditched them by the elevator doors. “My knees hurt.”

“Why did you wear them, then?” Bucky asked, shaking his head slightly in amusement.

“Because I’m short, Barnes, and I’d trip over my dress if I didn’t!” She lightly socked his bicep, causing him to laugh. She wandered to the railing, staring out over the city.

Bucky joined her, the light breeze ruffling the ends of his hair. It was quiet up here, as the party was four or five floors down and the levels muffled the music until it was just a whisper. The city lights were different from the stage lights and lit up Velika’s eyes like stars. 

“Did you find some dame to dance with?” Velika asked, shifting her hair over one shoulder. She quirked a brow with a smirk, having put on a heavy New York accent to badly imitate a young Bucky. He playfully shoved her shoulder.

“I would’ve asked you, but you were busy providing the music.” He admitted with a smile.

“Well, you know I have two left feet. I wouldn’t want to step on your foot, hon’.” Velika turned around and leaned her back on the railing. “I do kind of wish I’d gotten to dance, though.”

“Miss King, would you do me the great honors of joining me for a dance?” Bucky made a show of extending his hand to her, putting on his best posh accent to make her laugh.

“Here? Now?”

“Well, I can’t leave my best girl without a dance.” He leaned forward a little more, urging her to take his hand. She did with a smile and pulled him away from the railing to a more open part of the roof.

“I’m your best girl now, huh? Don’t let Nat hear you say that.” Velika swung their hands a little.

“I couldn’t care less about what Nat thinks.” Bucky rested his metal hand on her lower back, clutching her other hand tightly. Her hand settled on his upper arm. He was about to take the first step before he realized they were missing something. “Are we going to awkwardly sway or is there some music you’re gonna magically put on?”

“Give me your phone, you dork.” She giggled and began navigating through it once he’d passed it to her. “Do I have to do everything?” 

“I will throw you off this roof, Miss King,” Bucky responded. Despite it being a threat, he was trying to conceal laughter.

“Is there a specific song you’d like me to play?” She asked after shoving his shoulder again.

Bucky considered it, thinking of all the songs he’d heard that would be good to dance to. He only wanted to slow dance, as that would minimize the risk of injury from his two-left-footed partner. At least she wasn’t wearing the heels, so it wouldn’t hurt him. “Ella Fitzgerald and Bing Crosby. Dream a Little Dream of Me.” He finally said.

“Oh, good choice.” Velika turned the volume up on the song and tucked it into the pocket on his chest, resting it against the folded handkerchief. She took up his hand and settled her hand on his bicep again.

Bucky gently laid his metal hand on her lower back again and began to sway from side to side. The tempo was perfect for a relaxed dance. There was no one to impress. No one to watch (other than FRIDAY through the cameras) and no one to point out that they were far closer to each other than was really necessary for a simple dance like this. 

Velika stepped on his shoe and broke into giggles. “Glad I took my heels off?”

“I’ve been hurt worse.” He let go of her hand and brushed a strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. “How is someone as graceful as you so bad at dancing?”

“I’m a fighter, not a dancer! They never taught me to dance, jerk.” She lightly slapped his chest. “My brother’s the dancer.”

Bucky slowly spun her under her arm before pulling her back in. She looked beautiful that way, smiling at him over her shoulder in the light of the city. 

Velika raised a brow as her hand slid down to his elbow rather than his bicep. “You’re staring.”

“Sorry, can’t help it.” Bucky chuckled. “You’re beautiful. Used to seeing you all strapped in and ready to fight. Can’t blame me if I just want to take it in.”

Velika shook her head but smiled nonetheless. He seemed to be getting her to smile a lot tonight, but that wasn’t a bad thing. He adored her smile, even with the fact the left side didn’t rise as much as the right. She leaned her head on his chest, eyes closing. 

Bucky wrapped his left arm completely around her waist, pulling her closer. Something felt right about this, and all feelings of being out of place and on edge left. He was sure she could hear his heartbeat steadily increasing. He never would have imagined that the woman he met a year ago, jaded and untrusting, would be in his arms, dancing with him on the roof. 

It felt peaceful, domestic. For once, Bucky felt like he was entirely human again. Like he wasn’t always walking on eggshells with himself to avoid relapsing into his old ways, even after T’Challa had his team had helped remove Hydra’s programming. And for once, he felt that he could leave it behind and start a life.

The song was ending far too quickly for his liking. He wanted this moment to last forever because he didn’t know if he’d ever feel like this again. If they’d ever be like this again. As the song came to a close, he spun her under her arm again and brought her into a gentle dip, supporting her with his metal arm.

Velika looked back up at him, hands holding onto his shoulders with a loose grip. She trusted him to not drop her. Her unnaturally light blue eyes flickered between his, judging his expression. One hand came up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. It lingered on his cheek.

Bucky leaned in tentatively, heart in his throat. Was he really going to do this? This could destroy the friendship they’d built over the last year. He couldn’t keep it in any longer. He liked her more than a friend and he wanted to hold her like this all the time. He hadn’t realized he’d been hovering a hair away from her until she pulled him down.

Velika kissed him, the hand still on his shoulder wrapping around his neck. Her lips tasted like strawberry chapstick and some kind of alcohol that she had had earlier. They were soft and moved against his own like a perfect match. A missing piece in a puzzle finding its place. A wandering warrior finding their home.

He broke this kiss and leaned his forehead against hers, watching those bright blue eyes flutter open. He couldn’t help the smile that broke out on his face. She returned it with a soft giggle, her teeth catching her lip.

“Can I...can I kiss you again?” He asked, breathlessly.

“You can kiss me as much as you want and whenever you want, James Buchanan Barnes.”