#bathtub scene was a fever dream

[ball-of-butter]

i come back to say that maven's back had to be somewhat arched in that bathtub scene. he did not take his heat suppressants or something. because like what was that.

[ssreeder]

If you had to pick your five most favorite scenes you've ever written in your fics, what would they be?

Ok time to answer this lol. It’s so hard for me to pick 5 scenes that are my favorite to write, idk why, I’m just an odd person. But I did ask some of my mutuals what their favorite scenes were & they gave me their opinions! (Thanks guys)

1. The tree comfort scene in the first book of LIAB. I remember that particular section of the story was really dark and tense & then POOF we had tree cuddles. It was the first time the boys were cuddly together before things were official between them. Idk it was a nice breath of fresh air before it all went to hell.

2. The first bathtub scene in RIA with Sokka confronting his scars and Zuko being there for him and washing him while trying to give helpful advice he remembered from uncle. That was fun & I know a lot of people enjoyed that.

3. I’d have to say I enjoyed writing Aang & Sokka first meditation scene in ITF because I love meditation & exploring the depth of the human mind. I also loved giving Aang’s character more depth than just a goofy kid. He is wise and experienced so it was nice to give him an area that he was skilled in that allowed him to slow down and help his friend.

4. I gotta say in RIA I liked writing Sokka destroying that RR with a stick. Not just the murder but the conversation leading up to it and the implications the man made and Sokka twisting that around to justify his actions. (Also the man took pity and took of his helmet to seem more human to the boy he was trying to bond with which was his ultimate demise.) & it was cool that on the other side of camp Zuko was also taking control of his situation and killed the archer RR.

5. Last but not least would be Sokka’s fever dream, I enjoyed writing it even though it made me incredibly insecure to post haha. I pack in a lot of strange weird symbolism & hidden meaning & foreshadowing that I just know doesn’t make any sense but does it have to? It’s a fever dream! Idk it was nice & Yue was there so that was awesome.

Soooooo that’s it I guess!! (I do have a few scenes coming up with Zuko & an adult that I’ve already written & I’m really excited about because oh thank god it’s a fucking adult talking to Zuko & he isn’t growling and he is actually SHARING?? whaaatttt??? ;)

Oh & I’m really excited about TWO adults who have some scenes together that make me giggle just thinking about them interacting but that’s future stuff)

Ok that’s it!! Yippieee

[topguncortez]

My friend was cringing during the fun scenes (bathtub, vampire, and grave) and I just had my mouth open like "damn"

The other scenes, I felt like I was having a panic attack.

all the virgins (those who never read fan fic) cringed during the bathtub and the vampire and the grave scene, where us whores we’re like “GIVE ME MORE YAS SLAY”

the whole birthday party scene made me feel like i was in a fever dream and couldn’t get out

[lowtaxsa]

Disney's Marvel's Avengers (2008 to Too fucking long)

Alright, folks, buckle the fuck up, because we're about to dive headfirst into the steaming pile of cow dung that is Disney's Marvel's Avengers. If you've ever wanted to experience the cinematic equivalent of getting repeatedly punched in the face while riding a roller coaster through a landfill, then boy, have I got a treat for you. With a runtime that feels like a never-ending descent into madness, this so-called "franchise" is nothing more than an amusement park ride designed for those who crave the sweet, sweet embrace of childish fantasy indulgence and bootlicking dick-suckery.

So, let's talk about Endgame and everything that's come after, shall we? But before you think I'm gonna let pre-Endgame off the hook, let me be crystal fucking clear: it's just as bad, if not worse.

First off, the plotlines in this godforsaken franchise are about as coherent as a fever dream fueled by bathtub gin and expired cold medicine. It's like the writers got together, threw a bunch of comic book pages into a blender, and called it a day. What's that? You want a cohesive narrative? Well, tough shit, kiddo, because you're getting a never-ending parade of two-dimensional characters and plot twists so predictable, even a blind, deaf, and dumb chimp could see them coming a mile away.

And speaking of characters, holy hell, where do I even begin? It's like a who's who of forgettable nobodies, each one more bland and interchangeable than the last. There's Tony "I'm a billionaire but can't figure out how to use a razor" Stark, Steve "I've got the personality of wet cardboard" Rogers, and Bruce "I turn into a green rage monster because I didn't get enough hugs as a child" Banner. And let's not forget Thor, the god of lightning or whatever, who apparently can't decide if he wants to be a Shakespearean drama queen or a discount Conan the Barbarian. Oh, and the list goes on and on, like a never-ending nightmare from which there is no escape.

Now, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the one bright spot in this unholy quagmire of mediocrity: Guardians of the Galaxy. Yes, believe it or not, there's actually a movie in this franchise that doesn't make me want to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon. And before you start thinking I've gone soft, let me assure you that this movie is far from perfect. But at least it's got a sense of humor, a killer soundtrack, and a talking raccoon that could kick Tony Stark's ass from here to Timbuktu.

But let's talk about the real elephant in the room, shall we? Chris "the fat loser millennial who got everything he never deserved in Parks and Recreation" Pratt. I mean, come on, guys. Is this really the best we can do for a leading man? A guy who looks like he stumbled out of a frat house, still reeking of stale beer and regret? If this is what passes for a superhero these days, then maybe it's time to admit that we've truly hit rock bottom.

The special effects in these movies are about as impressive as a middle school science project, and that's being generous. I've seen more convincing CGI in a Geocities webpage from 1998. And don't even get me started on the fight scenes. It's like watching a bunch of action figures being smashed together by a hyperactive toddler, complete with the requisite grunting and shouting. Real compelling stuff, guys. Bravo.

The dialogue is a whole other level of awful. I mean, seriously, who writes this drivel? It's like they hired a team of angsty teenagers to cobble together a script using nothing but catchphrases and outdated pop culture references. Every time one of these cardboard cutout characters opens their mouth, it's like being assaulted by a barrage of clichés and cringeworthy one-liners. I wouldn't be surprised if the entire writing process consisted of throwing darts at a board covered in buzzwords and hoping for the best.

And let's take a moment to discuss the villains, shall we? These so-called "threats to humanity" are about as intimidating as a wet fart in a crowded elevator. I mean, we've got a guy with a purple chin who wants to wipe out half the universe because he's got some kind of cosmic OCD, a robot with an emo haircut and a God complex, and whatever the hell that dark elf thing was supposed to be. It's like the writers just gave up halfway through and decided to throw in the towel. The final boss? Yeah he's, uh, purple - like Barney the Dinosaur purple, and uhh... he's got a fucked up chin. And he's like a billion Hitlers!

Don't even get me started on the endless parade of sequels, spin-offs, and shameless cash grabs that have been spawned by this monstrosity. It's like a hydra: every time you think you've finally killed it, two more heads sprout up in its place. And just when you think it can't possibly get any worse, they announce yet another movie, TV show, or godforsaken theme park attraction to further milk this bloated, festering cash cow. Can anyone tell me who the intended audience for "She-Hulk: Attorney at Law" is? Because I can't see anyone with a functioning cortex going for that, and I'm pretty sure humans need to have functioning cortices to turn on the TV. Yeah, I'll wait - I'm already dead, so I can wait for fucking ever.

Now, you might be wondering: why am I even bothering to write this review? Well, it's simple, really. I've made it my mission to expose the truth about Disney's Marvel's Avengers and its insidious stranglehold on popular culture. Because, let's face it, folks: we deserve better. Or not, but I actually don't give a fuck about that part I think.

Well, buckle up, kiddos, because now we're gonna dive headfirst into the steaming pile of horse manure that is Avengers: Endgame. That's right, the "grand finale" of the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe – or at least, that's what they want you to think. In reality, it's just another bloated, overstuffed, self-indulgent exercise in corporate greed and creative bankruptcy. But hey, at least it's three hours long, right? That's gotta count for something! And to think, that's roughly the same amount of time it takes for Tony Stark to go through his morning narcissism routine.

Let's start with everyone's favorite smug, snarky billionaire: Tony Stark, aka Iron Man. You know, the guy who basically started this whole mess in the first place. Over the course of the series, Tony's gone from a charming, if somewhat insufferable, genius playboy to... well, basically the same thing, only now he's got a shiny suit of armor and a seemingly endless supply of daddy issues. In Endgame, we're supposed to believe that this self-absorbed, egotistical man-child is suddenly willing to sacrifice himself to save half the universe? Give me a break. Then again, it's probably the only way he could get people to stop talking about how his ego is bigger than his tower.

I mean, come on, have you ever met a Silicon Valley CEO? These guys wouldn't lift a finger to help anyone unless it boosted their stock prices or got them a glowing profile in Forbes magazine. And yet, we're expected to swallow this ridiculous narrative about Tony Stark nobly giving his life for the greater good, like some kind of high-tech martyr? Wouldn't he outsource the giving his life part to a Lithium miner in Bolivia? It's enough to make you want to vomit, and not just because of the terrible dialogue. Seriously, I've seen more believable sacrifices in a kindergarten play about the first Thanksgiving.

Speaking of terrible dialogue, let's take a moment to appreciate the sheer ineptitude of the script. I've seen high school plays with more coherent storylines and better character development than this cinematic monstrosity. The plot is so convoluted and nonsensical you really get to appreciate the comic book salad puree they serve with every fucking movie in this "franchise." Time travel? Sure, why not. Quantum realms? Throw it in there. An intergalactic scavenger hunt for magic space rocks? Hell, it worked for the last movie, didn't it? This script is so bad, I'm pretty sure it was written on the back of a cocktail napkin during a drunken game of Mad Libs.

And don't even get me started on the "humor" in this film. It's like they took all the worst jokes from a Reddit thread, translated them into another language, and then translated them back into English using Google Translate. Every attempt at levity falls flatter than a pancake, leaving you cringing in your seat and praying for the sweet release of death. Honestly, I've heard better jokes at a funeral, and at least those had the decency to end quickly.

But hey, let's not forget the "action" – if you can even call it that. The big, climactic battle at the end is such a chaotic, CGI-laden mess that it's nearly impossible to tell what's going on. It's like watching someone play a video game on the highest difficulty setting while simultaneously suffering from a seizure. And, of course, it all culminates in the most predictable, clichéd way possible: the heroes save the day, the bad guy gets his comeuppance, and everyone goes home happy. Well, everyone except the audience, that is. At this point, I'd rather watch two squirrels fighting over an acorn than sit through another second of this CGI dumpster fire.

Now, before I wrap up this long-winded rant of mine, I think it's important to give some well-deserved "credit" to the masterminds behind this mess. You know, the ones who are really to blame for dragging us all down into this quagmire of mediocrity. Let's take a moment to appreciate the fine work of the producers, writers, and directors who've made this delightful train wreck possible.

I mean, let's start with the producers, shall we? The Russo brothers, Anthony and Joe, who seem to have made it their life's mission to churn out these cookie-cutter superhero flicks with all the depth and nuance of a kiddie pool. I mean, sure, they directed some episodes of Community, so clearly they've got the chops to handle an overblown, self-important franchise like the MCU, right? And let's not forget Kevin Feige, the puppet master pulling the strings behind the scenes, raking in the cash while gleefully pushing out more and more of these shallow, formulaic movies like some sort of capitalist assembly line. I can practically hear him cackling as he counts his billions, completely unconcerned with the damage he's doing to the cinematic landscape.

Then we've got the writers – Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely – who somehow manage to take fascinating characters with rich comic book histories and reduce them to one-dimensional caricatures. Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if they just threw darts at a board full of tropes and clichés to come up with their scripts. "Oh look, it landed on 'heroic sacrifice' – let's just shoehorn that in there somewhere!" They've managed to create a world where every character's dialogue sounds like it was ripped straight from a bad action movie from the '90s, and nobody seems to care because, hey, at least there's a big explosion every five minutes.

As for the directors, the Russo brothers (yes, them again), they've managed to take all the worst aspects of Hollywood elitism and distill it into a single, bloated franchise. It's as if they're completely oblivious to the fact that there's an entire world outside of their insular bubble of wealth and privilege, a world where people actually have to deal with real problems like poverty, inequality, and systemic injustice. Instead, they just keep pumping out these overproduced, self-indulgent spectacles that pander to the lowest common denominator, all while patting themselves on the back for being such "visionaries." It's enough to make you want to grab a pitchfork and storm the gates of their Hollywood mansions, just to remind them that there's more to life than CGI explosions and witty one-liners.

So, there you have it, folks: the creative "geniuses" behind Disney's Marvel's Avengers, a team of Hollywood elitists and ruling class bootlickers who seem to think that their sole purpose in life is to cram as much mindless, soul-crushing entertainment down our throats as humanly possible. And you know what? They're probably right – because as long as we keep shelling out our hard-earned cash for this swill, they're going to keep shoveling it right back at us, one terrible movie at a time. But hey, at least we can take solace in the fact that even they can't keep this train wreck going forever... right?

Now, I could go on for another thousand words about the myriad problems with Avengers: Endgame – the paper-thin characters, the nonsensical plot twists, the complete and utter lack of originality – but honestly, what's the point? We all know that this movie is a steaming pile of garbage, and no amount of snarky commentary or sarcastic quips can change that. So, instead, I'll leave you with this simple plea: for the love of all that is good and holy in this world, stop giving your hard-earned money to these soulless corporate shills. Disney's Marvel's Avengers is a never-ending cavalcade of craptastic cinema that should be avoided like the plague. If you want to waste your time and money on this mind-numbing dreck, be my guest. But don't say I didn't warn you. And as for me, I'll be over here, mourning the death of creativity and originality in modern filmmaking while I drown my sorrows in a bottomless pit of despair and cheap whiskey. Cheers, fuckers.

Lowtax's Score: Plot: -10 Acting: -9 Special Effects: -8 Directing: -10 Music / Sound: -6 Overall: -43 Each category in the rating system is based out of a possible -10 score (-10 being the worst). The overall score is based out of a possible -50 score (-50 being the worst)

[nahoney22]

Uncontrollable*** | part 2/2

Echo X F!Reader

word count: 6.1k

Written In November 2021. Rewritten September 2023.

With his erotic dreams taking over his mind at night, Echo has no choice but to keep his distance from you but this doesn’t sit right with you and decide to confront him.

warnings: NSFW, 18+, more nocturnal emissions, slightly awkward scenes, dreams of blowjobs, sex etc, only one bed trope, dirty talk, fluff, slight angst as Echo talks down about himself, swearing, first kiss, mutual pining (?) Sex heavily implied. Mix between POVs. Mainly Echo but switches to Reader.

Part One of Two

Part Two of Two

This was bad. So bad. Echo's internal turmoil had reached a fever pitch.

For the past twenty minutes or so, he had been pacing relentlessly throughout the ship, his jaw clenched so tightly that it seemed ready to snap.

How could it have been you? You were his friend, and that's how he had always seen you. There was no denying your attractive appearance at all, but these dreams were spiraling out of control.

The image of you wearing his helmet had sent shockwaves through his cybernetically enhanced body, a constant reminder of the Techno Union's meddling that made it impossible for him to even fathom anybody could look at him a certain way. And now, he found it challenging to even look at you. The only time he could bear to face you was when you intruded upon his uncontrollable dreams. Just like that night again.

As usual, the room within his dream remained shrouded in darkness, the crimson mist creeping beneath the solitary door. He didn't see you, but your voice resonated, unaltered this time. "Echo, I missed you. I thought you weren't going to come."

Glancing around, the clone located the source of the voice behind the door. This time, he found the strength to stand by the entrance, his hand hovering over the handle. You spoke again, drawing him further into the depths of his dream. "You can come watch me if you want."

Without control over his actions or thoughts, Echo turned the handle and stepped inside. The room revealed itself to be a refresher, spacious and dimly lit by the familiar crimson hue. He could hear the sound of running water.

His eyes gradually adjusted to the environment as he walked on and on, the minutes passing by in a blur.

Finally, a rounded object emerged in his vision, and he took a few more steps before freezing in his tracks. Chills coursed through his body as he beheld you reclining in a bathtub, enveloped by soapy bubbles and red flower petals. Your head rested against the back of tub's edge, hair soaked and cascading over the ridge, eyes closed as you hummed softly.

The realisation hit Echo like a train as your head tilted to acknowledge his presence. There, in the depths of his uncontrollable dream, he locked eyes with the undeniable image of his friend—a final confirmation that it was indeed you.

"Hi, sweetheart," you giggled, sitting up amidst the sea of bubbles, and Echo silently thanked whatever force was orchestrating these dreams that the bubbles offered a modest veil as you leaned forward, a hand resting under your chin. "I'm so glad you're here."

His mouth felt parched like he had eaten sand as he took in the surreal scene, the crimson surroundings devoid of any context except for the bathtub and you.

"What is it? Do you not like it here?" your voice took on an innocent, tender tone, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for not immediately focusing on you.

"I do," he managed to say, his eyes locking back onto yours as a warm smile graced your lips. "I-I just can't believe it's you."

A melodic, beautiful hum emanated from your mouth, and he watched in fascination as you reached out, your hand gently encircling his scomplink. His body tensed instinctively, apprehensive about your reaction, but your eyes displayed no trace of revulsion as you drew him closer until his thighs met the edge of the tub.

“Why believe, when you can make it a reality?” You ushered softly, wet fingers from the bathwater trailing along the waistband of his pants, pulling them down and letting his cock spring free from its restraint. As expected, he was as hard as metal.

“R-reality?” He stammered through heavy breaths, an aggressive heat attacks his face as he watches you get onto your knees, the water splashing with your movements as your bare breasts were now shown in sight.

“Tell me how you really feel Echo… then I’ll show you.” You tease gently, eyes blown with lust as Echo watches your dream form lick your lips, eyes focused on his now leaking tip.

“I-I…. I don’t know.” He gulps, his feelings for you currently caught in the web of his mind but you only wrap your hand around his shaft at the base, doing an experimental pump against him.

“That’s fine, but for now, I’d like you to fuck me after I suck your pretty cock.” You leaned over the tub, tongue extended as you trail your flat warm muscle along his balls before riding it up high towards his tip.

Echo felt his hips jolt involuntary, his eyes wide in astonishment and adoration as you maintained eye contact with him, taking him all in your mouth, cheeks becoming hollow as you began to suck.

The feeling isn’t like how he would have imagined in reality, but knowing that he would probably never feel this with you, he took the phantom feeling of your tongue around him gratefully. He knew it was wrong but it felt so right.

You finally pull away from him, his head that was tilted back and enjoying the very tender sensation looks back down at you but his gaze travels up as you soon rise to your feet.

Echo was stunned. Your nude body, whether it really looked like yours or not in person, stood in front of him in all its glory. Dripping wet and illuminating red that resembles the colour of his cheeks and the tip of his cock. You step out of the tub, taking slow steps towards Echo who finds himself backing up until he hits a basin that he was certain wasn’t there before.

“I like you, Echo.” Your voice was barely a whisper as your body pressed against his, his cock hitting your stomach. His chest heaves at the close proximity. “And I know you like me too. I’ve always known.” You purr once you lean into his neck, placing a delicate kiss to his skin.

“You’re not real.” He sighed dejectedly, pulling back.

“I am real.” You told him, taking a gentle hold to his cheek. “I’ll prove it to you.”

With that, you jumped up and wrapped your legs around his waist and as you wiggled, Echo found you sinking onto his length where he elicited a delectable moan. “Maker… you feel so good.”

Your arms wrapped around the back of his neck, his arms wrapping around the imagination of you as he helped lift you up and down on his throbbing length.

“Say you love me.”

Echo's legs trembled at your words, his voice caught in a stutter as he struggled to respond. “I…I…”

"Say the words... say it, and then I'm yours. Forever yours," you implored, your tone a tantalising mix of allure and innocence, weaving a kind of seductive spell that was ensnaring Echo.

"I love you," he finally uttered, his words flowing like a revelation, even if it was only within the confines of this dream. He gazed at you, anticipating your response, but as your lips moved, no words came out.

"W-what?" Echo prompts you again, his hold on you tightening as he felt you start to slip away.

"Wake up, Echo."

In an instant, he shook his head, adamant that he could refuse waking up as his grip on you tightened even more, but he felt nothing but emptiness as you vanished from his grasp. Then, his eyes opened.

He bolted upright, panting heavily as his gaze adjusted to the dimly lit ship's walls. No one was there. Cold sweat trickled down his temples, and he belatedly realised that his hands had been down his pants, clutching his aching length while he was lost in sleep, envisioning you.

With a frantic motion, he pulled his hands away and swung his legs over the side of his bunk, collecting himself before making a hasty dash to the refresher to cleanse himself of his transgressions.

Tech was passing by, engrossed in his datapad, but he glanced up at the sound of Echo's hurried footsteps. "Why the rush?"

Ignoring him, Echo zeroed in on the refresher, the door closed. Without a second thought, and failing to hear Crosshair's call that it was occupied, he practically slammed the button to the door that it almost broke, freezing in place at the sight that greeted him within.

There you stood, toweling your damp hair dry while clad in only a bra and work pants. Although shocked by Echo's abrupt intrusion, you remained surprisingly composed. "Oh, sorry, forgot to lock it. I'll be done in about two minutes," you offered with a cheerful smile, seemingly unfazed by his unexpected arrival and the fact that you were partially undressed.

Echo's heavy breathing didn't escape your notice however. You dropped the towel as you observed him with concern. "Are you alright? You don’t look so good," you ventured, taking a step toward him. He, however, retreated, finally tearing his gaze away from you and rubbing the back of his neck.

"I’m fine, I'll uh... I'll go outside," he exhales heavily before hastily departing.

You quickly pulled on a shirt and exited the refresher, crossing your arms as Tech and Crosshair watched Echo practically flee the ship. "What's his problem?" Crosshair inquired, leaning back in his chair with folded arms.

"I'm not sure," you replied, your head tilting slightly. "But he's been acting odd recently."

The celebration was in full swing at a local inn, yourself and the Batch refreshing from a less-than-stealthy mission, enjoying a round of drinks. Hunter had managed to plan this surprise in advance and truthfully, you all needed it.

Wrecker, ever the enthusiastic one, had charged ahead and secured prime seating, a cosy booth in the corner and the rest of the team squeezed in.

You had the choice of sitting next to Hunter or Echo, and naturally, you chose Echo. He also happened to be the closest. Though his recent behavior had raised concerns of me you and you wanted to offer some support if needed it.

As you settled beside Echo, your leg brushed against his cybernetic limbs, and your hand briefly made contact with his own while you moved your drink closer. You said nothing, but you couldn't help but notice how his jaw tensed, his expression one of intense concentration.

Cups clinked together, a toast to the success of yet another mission, and cheers rang out. The group quickly fell into their own conversations. Being at the end of the row, you found it difficult to interject into Crosshair and Tech's discussion of ship improvements or Wrecker and Hunter's recounting of their recent tank takedown. Instead, you sat awkwardly with Echo.

In the past, the two of you would engage in fairly normal and even meaningful conversations. You even cherished the tales from his days in the 501st. However, now it felt strange even to be sitting beside him. You first noticed his odd behavior a few days ago when he saw you with his helmet on. Instinctively, you wondered if that had made him uncomfortable. Perhaps you should have asked him beforehand instead of assuming he'd be fine with it?

But as you sat and thought, there were those moments when you'd stumbled upon him in the midst of a disturbing dream, and more recently, your encounter in the refresher. You pondered whether your attire had contributed to his discomfort. Though you rationalised that you'd seen the others shirtless countless times! You all lived in a tight spot so it was a given and none of them had ever seemed uncomfortable around you. Of course, you had always made sure you were somewhat adequately covered, so you didn't think you had done anything unusual.

"Hey, Echo?" You finally broke the uneasy silence, prompting Echo, who was mid-drink, to splutter a bit in surprise. He winced slightly as he coughed, hastily covering his mouth and giving you a cautious side-eye.

"Yes?" he replied, his voice noticeably more formal than usual. It lacked the warmth and familiarity that had been typical of your interactions. His side-eye held a hint of tension and discomfort.

"Uh, you did good today," you began, offering a friendly smile while your fingers drummed lightly against your half-empty cup. "With the mission and all that. If you hadn't hacked into the systems in time, I'm not sure I'd be here drinking with you," you continued, your tone light, accompanied by a soft laugh that sent shivers down his spine.

"Right. Thanks," Echo responded, his tone still chilly, and he even turned his head further away from you. Typically, he would have offered a warm response, perhaps a clap on your back, and a similar comment in return. But this time, there was nothing.

You didn't want to make a scene, especially when everyone else seemed relaxed and content but you couldn't help but feel hurt.

You had now believed you might have done something to upset him, but you didn't want to ask directly in front of the others. Tilting your head away from Echo, you raised your cup to your lips, but your gaze met Hunter's across from you who appeared just as puzzled as you felt.

Standing up, you made your way toward Hunter with a smile. "Just going to the refresher," you informed him, but he stopped you by grabbing your arm.

"Is everything okay? Between you and..." Hunter subtly nodded toward Echo, keeping his voice low and discreet.

"I don't know. I feel like I've upset him," you admitted quietly, forcing a smile onto your lips just in case the others, including Echo, caught wind of your actual conversation.

Hunter released you, allowing you to step away briefly to catch your breath. After a while, he got up and changed seats, positioning himself right beside Echo.

"Echo?" Hunter began, addressing his brother.

"Yeah, Sarge?" Echo replied, bringing his cup to his lips while he rested his scomp on the table.

Hunter glanced in the direction where you had gone, ensuring you weren't on your way back, then turned his attention back to his newly-recruited brother. "You wanna tell me what's going on? With you and her?"

Echo's throat felt dry, and he feigned a look of confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I just watched you be short with her for no reason... and you've been acting strange for the last few days. Is everything alright?" Hunter inquired quietly, earning a small sigh from Echo, who slumped back against the booth.

It hadn't been Echo's intention to appear this way, but if Hunter had noticed, you surely had as well. He acted this way because he was trying to push away the persistent thoughts of what had happened in his dreams last night, the vivid fantasies of being intimate with you, and even the admission of his love for you.

These feelings were something he wasn't sure he could control, and they were taking a toll on him. He couldn't hide the butterflies that fluttered in his stomach when he thought of you, saw you, or heard your voice. Even witnessing you in battle set his heart ablaze.

"I'm fine. Just… been sleeping badly," Echo told Hunter, which was partially true and also partially a lie. It was true because he genuinely struggled to cope with the transition from his dreams to reality, and it was a lie because he couldn't deny that he was actually enjoying these provocative dreams that nearly had him climaxing in his sleep every morning.

"Well, don't take it out on her. She's a good one. Anyway, you should be able to sleep better tonight. We're staying here," Hunter announced the last part loudly, eliciting cheers of delight from the rest of the team, including Echo.

"How come?" Crosshair inquired, his excitement at the prospect of a comfortable bed evident.

"It's a treat. I don't remember the last time any of us slept well, and since we have a decent amount of income coming in soon, why not make the most of it?"

The others celebrated this unexpected luxury, and even Echo managed a small smile. However, that smile quickly faded when you returned, running a hand through your hair. Echo's heart leaped at the sight of you, but it came to a screeching halt when Hunter announced the sleeping arrangements.

You. Echo. One room. One bed.

As Echo reluctantly followed you to the room you'd be sharing, he couldn't help but notice the change in your posture. Your usually relaxed shoulders were now squared and tense as you walked ahead, keycard firmly in hand.

Stopping outside the room, you inserted the keycard and the door whooshed open. Echo followed you inside, his sense of dread growing with each step. Sharing a room and a bed with you tonight was a less-than-ideal prospect, especially given his recent attitude towards you.

The room was painted a deep wine-red, with a window on the far side. But it was the bed that caught Echo's attention. It was a double bed, just as Hunter had told him, but the sheets were the exact same shade of red as the ones in his dream. He couldn't help but shudder at the uncanny resemblance. Across from the bed, a door led to the refresher.

Almost on autopilot, Echo made his way to the refresher, opening the door. It wasn't as spacious as the one in his dream, but the tub in the center and the basin to the side were familiar enough to send another shiver down his spine.

While Echo was busy inspecting the refresher, you watched him warily. His behavior had become increasingly jittery, and it made you uneasy. You decided to distract yourself by unpacking your belongings, hanging and putting away your clothes and toiletries even if it’s just for the night. Why not make the most of a somewhat pleasant and unpleasant situation? Eventually, you sat on the edge of the bed and wiggled a bit to test its comfort.

"Comfy," you said out loud, not particularly concerned whether Echo heard you or not. He had moved to the window however, admiring the view of the setting sun.

Minutes passed in silence, with neither of you uttering a word or making eye contact. Embarrassingly, you felt your lower lip quiver, and you stood up abruptly. The mattress beneath you sprang back into place as you crossed the room and gathered some clothes.

"I'm having a bath. I'll make sure to lock the door this time," you announced before heading to the refresher.

Echo turned this time, acknowledging the slight anger in your tone as you entered the refresher and slammed the door shut behind you, causing a small shower of dust to fall from the hinges onto the floor.

Sighing miserably, he rubbed his flesh hand over his face. He felt trapped in a room with the person he was having increasingly explicit dreams about, and the tension between you two was unbearable. He reluctantly made his way to the bed, taking a seat and trying to avoid thinking about the fact that you were now in the room across from him, clearly upset.

As he sat there, his mind couldn't help but drift to the vivid dreams that had been haunting him. The possibility of anything intimate happening between you in reality was slim to none, but in his dreams, it was a different story. He couldn't shake the images and the sensations that came with them, and his body was aching with desire.

He worried about what might happen if he touched himself in his sleep, and the idea of you catching him in such a vulnerable moment filled him with dread. Would you scream? Would you hit him? Would you tell the others, and they would come to confront him? The thought made him break out in a cold sweat, and he considered staying awake all night to avoid any chance of that happening.

Echo tried to push these thoughts aside as he began to remove his armor, figuring that getting comfortable might help calm his anxious mind. He slipped on a pair of black shorts and a gray vest top and sat against the headboard. However, he couldn't help but keep glancing at the door in front of him.

The sound of running water from the tub and the sweet sound of your humming filled the room, providing an unintentional distraction for Echo. He tried to distract himself further by scrolling through his holopad, reading the holonews and anything else that would keep his mind off his desires.

Unbeknownst to him, you had finished bathing and were already preparing to return to the room. As you open the door, Echo's gaze lifted to the doorway, where he - oddly - expected to see you in the sultry attire of his dreams. However, what he saw surprised him.

You stood there, rubbing your eyes tiredly, wearing a shirt that hung low to your knees, bed socks, and your hair tied back uncaringly. When you caught him looking, he quickly glanced down, and you could swear you saw him a little flustered. The tension in the room was palpable, and neither of you knew how to address it.

As you closed the door and walked toward the window, you could appreciate why Echo had been gazing at the view for so long. The scenery outside was truly beautiful, and you took a moment to enjoy it as well.

Eventually, you turned your attention back to the bed and gestured toward it, “Do you mind if I…?”

He looked at you, slightly surprised, but you were focused on the sheets, running your fingers over them. Your request seemed innocent enough, and Echo quickly agreed, shifting slightly to make room for you.

You climbed onto the bed, your legs slipping under the blanket, and a small, satisfied groan escaped your lips as you felt the smooth red satin sheets against your skin. The sensation was luxurious, and the mattress cradled your body like a warm embrace.

Echo swallowed hard, your moan catching him off guard and causing his previously softening arousal to spring back to life. He discreetly propped up one of his cybernetic legs to hide his reaction from you all the whole trying to maintain his composure.

He pretended to focus on his holopad, scrolling through the screen, but he couldn't concentrate. Your presence beside him, combined with the exhaustion from the day's mission and the tension between you two, was overwhelming. He had intentionally sat up to avoid falling asleep, but now he found himself unable to keep his eyes open.

Glancing down at you, he noticed that you had already drifted off into a peaceful slumber. Your soft, even breaths filled the room, and it was clear that you were completely at ease. Echo's eyelids grew heavy, and his holopad slipped from his grasp, falling to the floor with a clatter.

Unable to resist the pull of sleep any longer, Echo lay down on the bed beside you, his body relaxing into the crimson sheets as the two of you succumbed to the embrace of sleep, each lost in your own dreams.

Echo's eyes fluttered open, and he found himself back in the crimson-hued room. He was lying on his back, breathing heavily, but as he glanced around, he realised that he was alone. The sensation of the satin sheets against his skin was both a comfort and a cruel reminder that this was all just a dream

"You're back again. Back with me," your soft voice sang in his ears, and Echo's heart ached at the sound. He tried to sit up to see where you were, but his body felt heavy, and he could only manage to lift his head slightly.

"I'm back, mesh'la," he whispered, his fingers instinctively kneading the sheets beneath him. "Where are you?"

"I'm here," you giggled, and Echo strained to see you as you propped yourself on your stomach between his legs. His flaccid member lay against his stomach, but you traced a delicate finger over his thighs, teasing him.

"I've waited so long for you to come back... why didn't you come back sooner? Why did you leave?" Your voice was so soft, your pout so endearing, that Echo couldn't help but feel guilty.

"I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave," he apologised, watching you lift onto your knees. His eyes roamed over your nude form, his desire building with each passing second as his gaze settled on your perky nipples.

Your head tilted to the side, and you licked your lips before smiling. You leaned down to his shaft, your tongue making a sweet, kitten-like lick along his length. Echo groaned softly, his hands aching to reach into your hair, but he found himself unable to move them.

"Just like that, sweetheart, just like that," he encouraged as he writhed beneath your touch, the pleasure intensifying with each of your sensual movements.

As the dream continued, you shifted and hovered over him, sheathing yourself onto his aching arousal. Echo moaned out your name, the sensations overwhelming him, but he still couldn't move his hands to grip your hips or take control. His eyes never left your face, watching as you moan and grin with lust down at him. The pace became relentless, the soft pressure building to an unbearable peak.

Just as he was about to reach his climax, he woke.

Echo roused from his slumber, the room cloaked in darkness. He cast a furtive glance to his side, finding you still nestled in a tranquil sleep, soft snores accompanying the rise and fall of your chest.

Irritation bubbled within him as he hastily disentangled himself from the sheets and trudged toward the refresher. His movements, however, elicited a reaction from you, stirring you from your dreams.

Turning to your side, you noticed Echo's absence and heard the distant sound of running water from the adjoining room. Rubbing the remnants of slumber from your eyes, you sighed deeply. You had to speak to him. Wether he liked it or not.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, the plush carpet a comforting caress against your bare feet. Determinedly, you made your way to the door which Echo had taken refuge behind, your knuckles rapping gently against its surface. "Echo, are you alright?" you inquired, your voice.

Your words, followed by the thudding of your knocks, caused Echo to jump. He cursed himself silently for unintentionally rousing you from your sleep. "I'm fine. Sorry if I woke you," he mumbled.

Unconvinced by his terse response, you folded your arms across your chest and leaned against the frame of the closed door. "It's alright," you responded slowly, stifling a yawn. "May I come in?"

Echo's heart raced with uncertainty. Why would you want to do that? He contemplated coming up with an excuse like needing to use the refresher, but the thought of appearing disingenuous held him back. Instead, he managed to stammer out, "I, uh, I don't think you should."

Your expression hardened as you stood your ground. "Echo, I won't remain in this room for another moment while you ignore me as if I'm a diseased," you asserted firmly. "Now, talk to me and let me in."

In front of the mirror, Echo glowered at his own reflection, his face glistening with sweat. He averted his gaze downward, thankful that his earlier arousal had subsided, and drew a deep breath. Finally, he relented and unlocked the door.

When the door is unlocked and hisses open, you gingerly step inside, your eyes settling on Echo. But, your heart sank as you took in the sight of his drenched vest, a result of a strange mixture of water from the running tap and the beads of sweat glistening on his skin, remnants of an unsettling dream.

"Echo," you said softly, taking a cautious step closer to him, "what's going on?"

He continued to stare at himself in the mirror, gripping the basin's edge tightly. The turmoil within him kept him from facing you, his mind muddled by the graphic dreams that had invaded his sleep for the past few nights.

Sensing your hand reaching out toward him, he instinctively recoiled, pressing his back against the cool wall. You withdrew your hand instantly, your wide eyes fixed on him, a mixture of concern and confusion evident in your gaze.

"Echo, have I done something?" There was a hint of desperation in your voice.

He shook his head in response, swallowing hard. "No, of course not. It's just... I've been having problems sleeping." He spoke, his voice laced with unease, and his hand moved to rub the back of his neck, but he flinched as his fingers brushed against the cybernetic apparatus that ran from his lower back to his neck.

You nodded slowly, attempting to grasp the situation but still left with questions. Why couldn't he look you in the eye? Why this distance? "But what does that have to do with me? You can't even look your friend in the eye," you sighed, keeping your distance.

It was more than that, and Echo knew it. Friendship was one layer, then there was the raw physical attraction, but the deepest layer of all was the one he was reluctant to acknowledge—the uncontrollable love he felt for you. It had taken just a few nights of dreams to realise this, and he wasn't sure if he was ready to reveal it to you.

With a heavy heart and the sound of his own rapid pulse in his ears, he forced himself to meet your gaze. His honey-colored eyes locked onto your own, and he couldn't help but inhale sharply at your breathtaking presence. The admission was both terrifying and liberating, but he had to be honest. Get it over with.

"They, uh," he began, looking away briefly before returning his gaze to you, "they were about you. It made me think of things. Don't worry about it." He tried to dismiss it, moving to walk past you, but you blocked his path.

"What kind of dreams?" Panic tinged your voice, your concern for his well-being evident. You had witnessed the way he'd thrashed about, heard his restless whimpers and seen the sweat that coated his body. What kind of nightmarish dreams could they be?

Echo froze, keeping a respectable distance as you closed in. "Just... bad dreams," he replied hesitantly.

"Like what, though? Was I dying? Was I hurt?" Your voice trembled with concern, and you couldn't help but imagine dark scenarios unfolding if these dreams persisted.

"No! No," Echo assured you quickly, relieved to see the panic subside from your face, replaced by confusion.

"So... what kind of 'bad dreams'?" You crossed your arms, leaning against the basin. The action caused your shirt to ride up slightly, revealing a pair of shorts underneath. Echo's pulse quickened at the sight, but he managed to maintain his composure.

With a heavy sigh, Echo inhaled deeply, his gaze locking with yours.

You gazed back at Echo, your initial confusion slowly giving way to understanding as you deciphered the emotions hidden in his eyes, an unspoken plea for you to comprehend without requiring further words. A moment of revelation followed, and it hit you like a bolt of lightning.

Your hands fell to your sides, forming an 'o' of realization on your face. Your legs quivered, an odd mixture of nerves, intrigue, and perhaps even excitement coursing through you. Echo interpreted your stunned silence as a negative reaction and felt a profound sense of shame wash over him.

"I'm so sorry, I-I don't know how it happened," Echo confessed, his head hanging in shame. "The dreams wouldn't stop, and... I couldn't stop thinking about you throughout the day." He mumbled, his gaze fixated on the floor between you. He managed a wistful chuckle. "Heh, bet you wouldn't mind if it was someone like Hunter or... any of the others really."

His words cut you deeply, and your heart sank at the implication. "Why would you say that?" Your voice trembled with a mixture of hurt and confusion, your eyes, which were usually vibrant and full of life, now appearing soft and bewildered.

"Because look at me," Echo said, a tinge of self-doubt in his tone. He hoped you'd glance down and notice all the visible signs of his past injuries – the cybernetic legs, the metallic plates on his head, the scomp that had replaced his fleshy wrist, and the scars that told the story of his survival.

You, however, cared about none of that. "I am looking at you," you whispered softly, taking a step closer to him.

His body trembled slightly as you approached, your warmth radiating against his usually cold frame. "I didn't want to tell you... in case it scared you off, so I-" Echo began.

"Thought you could just ignore me?" you teased with a gentle chuckle, drawing a faint smile from him.

"I suppose," he admitted quietly, lowering his voice since you were now so close. "I didn't want you to leave... because of me."

You tilted your head to the side, a warm smile gracing your lips. "Echo," you said his name with such sincerity that he couldn't help but look up at you, silently urging you to continue.

"I'd never leave you."

Just as you had assured him in his dreams.

Something seemed to snap within Echo, a barrier breaking down. His grip tightened on your waist, and his lips crashed onto yours with a hunger that surprised both of you. You could hear the faint squeak of shock that escaped you as your wide eyes met his, and then, as swiftly as he had initiated the kiss, he pulled back, horror and flushed cheeks evident in his gaze.

"Maker, I'm sorry, I am so sorry, I don't know-" Echo stammered.

You silenced him with a soft-spoken yet fervent command. "Shut up, Echo," you exhaled, your hand rising to cup his cheek gently as your lips met his once more, this time driven by mutual desire and longing. The sudden, urgent connection sent shockwaves through his body, leaving him breathless and electrified.

One hand managing to find your waist again whilst his scomp presses agaisnt your back, the kiss gets heated and you’re pushed through the refresher door with your hands tugging on his top and pulling it over his head whilst your lips never parted from his.

He groaned against you, his wildest dreams coming true. The sound he made made your legs shut, just wanting to feel some kind of friction between your legs as your nub throbbed.

“Touch me, cyare.”

Echo melted at your words, the mando’a slipping through your lips like a prayer. But he listened to you regardless. All insecurities of his had vanished as he slipped a hand down the waistband of your shorts, moaning gently as he came into contact with the slick between your folds.

“Look how wet you’ve made me, Echo. And all from just kissing me.” You grin against him with a hum of amazement, your own little precious moan coming out as his fingers worked delicately against your core.

“You feel amazing.” He tells you, shocked beyond belief as his lips part from yours and begin to assault the flesh on your neck; rough sucking, nipping and licking against your skin that made your nipples stand.

Your head tilts back in satisfaction, eyes almost rolling into the back of your head at the tender bites he was giving you and you soon find yourself tumbling onto the bed with him on top of you.

He pulls away from you and looks down, his eyes searching your face as you smile dreamily up at him. “Is this okay? Do you want this?” He asked gently.

You giggle, reaching up and cupping his cheek. “I want you, Echo. I think I always have.” You tell him earnestly, nose nudging against his as you lean up to capture his lips in a soft kiss.

Echo could feel his heart burst, nothing but adoration in his eyes for you. Little did he know that all along he wanted you - and now he had.

“In that case,” Echo manoeuvres his hand under your back, bringing you to him so you were chest to chest with him whilst his scomp trails up your bare legs, “let’s see how you do in reality rather than in my dreams.”

The following events were a blur. All you could remember was the brutality of Echo’s powerful thrusts against your rear, his cock so deep inside of you that stars blurred your vision as your face was buried deep into the satin sheets.

The obscene sounds of his thighs slapping against yours, followed by muffled mewling from you. He praised you like you were everything to him, calling you beautiful, his beloved and much more. Maker, you didn’t even realise that you had moved positions from the bed to the floor until you tried to sit up but to no avail.

Your legs ached from when you were riding him, pushing yourself up and down against his delectable length that made your cunt throb just at the thought of seeing him looking up at you from under your lashes as your juices dripped along his cock. both of your actions were uncontrollable. The way his lips were on your sex, the way your mouth fit perfectly around his length... everything was perfect.

You must have been at it for atleast an hour. A gorgeous whole hour.

Echo had managed to lift you and put you back into the bed, the sun now rising from the window but he didn’t need to sleep any more.

Not after you cuddled into his chest, lips kissing his pale and soft skin of his torso.

Not after you not shying away from his physical form.

Not after you whispered to him in the intimate moments that he was perfect and good enough.

And not after his dreams finally came true.

Masterlist

Part One of Two

Part Two of Two

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[dancing-with-the-madmen]

Touchy touchy

I don't want to be the asshole to hijack someone else's thread, so I'll just put this out here... the idea that Stede is touch-averse, or that he doesn't, as a rule, touch people, and never without permission? Is pure fannon. I KNOW! I wanted it to be true, too! I actually went looking for evidence to support the thesis for an essay I was writing (and that Ed was his special exception), but the more I looked, the more I had to accept that it was one of those things that makes sense emotionally, but doesn't hold up under scrutiny. Stede initiates touches. Stede touches people purposefully. Stede touches people casually. And not just Ed. Eventually I had WAY more screenshot evidence than Tumblr would allow in one of my pic-spam essays. I ultimately abandoned the thesis, but I kept the screenshots. With a little creative collaging it should all fit, so Here We Go:

Episode 1: Stede doesn't hesitate to jump in and pull apart Roach and the Swede when they start going after one another during the flag-making scene. Edit to add (per the eagle-eyed @coccinelf, thank you, my v. dear): Stede pats Jim and Olu VERY high up on the thigh when they sit next to him on the couch in his quarters. Like I would be hesitant to touch someone I knew WELL like that.

Episode 2: Touch-o-rama. Stede rests his hand on Roach's shoulder when verifying that the prisoners have escaped, and then pats Olu on the back when asking for additional volunteers to go find them. He rests his head on the elder villager's lap when getting talked down after his freak-out at the trial. He offers his hand for Izzy to shake (Izzy refuses, but Stede still made the effort). Then on the beach, before setting sail again, Stede offers his hand to the village elder to shake, and claps him on the back afterwards.

Episode 3 is the only one in which he doesn't actually touch anyone.

Episode 4: Touch-o-rama 2; Candlelight Boogaloo The first touch we see is in flashback - the excruciatingly awkward shoulder-adjacent touch Stede offers Mary during their engagement portrait. I'm not counting when she takes his hand at their wedding; he doesn't really hold her hand back - just doesn't actively pull his hand out of her grip.

All the other touching in the episode is in the present, and is either self-initiated or actively accepted. Stede takes Ed's hand to shake in introduction after he comes out of his fever-dream, and shakes the hands of his whole crew while cosplaying as Blackbeard. You could reasonably argue he's not the one to initiate the handshakes since Ed demands that everyone come and shake their captain's hand, but Stede is definitely the one to nudge Ed awake in the crow's nest the next morning, and to offer his hand to shake on the deal to teach one another about their respective worlds.

Episode 5: We're all familiar with Stede touching Ed to tuck the red silk into his breast pocket, but that's not the first touch of the episode. He takes Ed by the elbow when Ed introduces himself as Jeff the Accountant, and then later Stede palpates Antionette's head to solidify his phrenologist cover story.

Episode 6: Lighting is actively fighting us in this episode, but when Stede runs Ed through, his other arm comes up behind Ed's back and cradles his body (just like Ed wanted, the sly dog), and then after he gets the sword out, you can see, blurry, over Izzy's shoulder as he freaks out over what he assumes he overheard, Stede helping Ed back to his cabin with Ed's arm looped over his shoulder and his arm around Ed's waist (photo from publicity stills, as the screenshot is wholly useless). When he puts his hand on Ed's shoulder in the bathtub, it's not the barely-brushing affair of the Mary shoulder touch from episode 4, but full, solid contact, thumb to the front of the shoulder, and fingers to the back.

Episode 7: Stede casually swats Lucius' arm when Lucius give him shit about how much money he dropped on the map. When he fishes the snake bit out of Ed's beard, he's totally the initiator; he beacons with his fingers, and then picks it out when Ed leans in to his touch.

Episode 8: We see Stede extend a welcoming hand to Jack, and there's the boot touch where he rubs Ed's foot back after Ed nudges him, but the real surprise is that when Jack hugs Stede after Stede offers to go to Dead Man's Cove, STEDE HUGS JACK BACK. Like, Stede was trying SO HARD to like his boyfriend's awful beffie.

Episode 9: The kiss! The kiss where he kisses back! The kiss where he moves his arm to touch Ed back, even if it's out of frame! Then after, when he snuggles into Ed's side while Ed keeps him encircled in his arm. And then after after, when they sit side-by-side and hold hands, and Stede actually holds his hand back instead of letting it loll like a dead fish the way he did to Mary at his wedding.

Episode 10: Stede reaches out in his sleep, and Mary has to move his hand off her hip. He pins Doug to the table at Mary's art show. Then, after the near-murder, Stede and Mary share a very sweet hug. And finally, even though Doug is in the room, Stede is the one to shake Mary awake to tell her about the plan for his imminent demise.

So yeah. Stede touches a pretty normal amount. He initiates. He's a consummate glad-hander. Friend or stranger or lover, it's all fair game. It's just that Toucher Ed is an outlier against whom anyone would look reserved in comparison.

[kim-poce]

Office Relationship 5

Previous | Next

Masterlist

This one was written by Kathea!

CW: sickness, implied past torture, cold, fear of future torture, hallucination.

=====

Stephen lay on the hard floor of his bathroom, soaking wet, shivering with cold and fear. His hands were still tied, and even if they weren’t, he would be too weak to get up. His lungs burned. He couldn’t stop coughing. He lied there and tried not to choke, tried not to die.

Long after the door had closed behind her, he would hear footsteps on the stairway and his whole body would tense up, his breathing getting faster –she’s coming back, she’s going to hurt me– … but no one ever came.

After a while, his breathing became a little easier, he was still shaking, but he was so exhausted that he would fall asleep, fall into a shallow, restless sleep full of horrifying fever dreams, from which he would occasionally be woken up by a coughing fit so strong he thought he was going to spit his lungs out.

He kept hearing footsteps, he wasn’t sure if they were real, a hallucination, or a fever dream.

He was not even sure if this was all real, if he was really trembling on the floor of his bathroom after almost being drowned to death, or whether he was lying in his bed, ready to wake up from a long nightmare.

The sun had started shining through the window when he heard footsteps again. He paid them no mind, surely it was just another hallucination. He was too focused on his breathing to worry about them.

Keys turned in his door. Then he heard the voices of Dina and Lilly, his ex-wife and daughter.

He remembered.

Today was Saturday, the day he was supposed to take care of Lilly. Dina called out his name, but he could not answer. Something was weighing down heavily on his lungs, and it was not the water.

He prayed they would go away, he knew that he needed help, but he didn’t want them to witness this… He would rather pretend he wasn’t home, but he couldn’t stop the cough, it was out of his control… The footsteps kept getting closer and closer to the bathroom—

“What the hell?!” his ex-wife cried out.

“Daddy, why are you sleeping on the floor?”

He closed his eyes with a pained grimace. No, not her, I don’t want her to see this…

Dina turned to the little girl with a badly hidden shock in her voice.

Lilly, go wait for daddy in the kitchen, okay?”

“But-“

“No ‘buts’!”

“Okay…” Lilly’s little voice said resignedly.

Dina turned back to him, staring at the scene in disbelief. The only thing he could do was shiver on the floor and try to breathe. The anxiety made his lungs even smaller, and he felt like he was choking again.

“What the hell happened?” she exclaimed. “Did you get involved with some gang?!”

He closed his eyes, he couldn’t answer her, he was too ashamed of his powerlessness, too terrified of Rhea’s revenge; and even if he did tell the truth, she wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Dina got down at his side and started to untie his hands. “Jeez… I knew it was a mistake to marry you, but… I didn’t know I was this much right.”

This remark stung in his heart. He wished to tell her that she was wrong, but… how would he explain this?

She helped him sit up, resting his back against the bathtub. He was shivering and coughing uncontrollably.

Kneeling in front of him, she inspected him more closely. “You look horrible…” she said with concern, her voice getting softer. “How long have you been lying here?”

“Si-since…” he choked out between coughs, “… evening… yesterday…” It was hard to speak, he barely had enough air to stay alive, let alone to talk. Each cough and each breath sent a wave of pain through his chest.

She leaned closer to him and gently placed a palm on his forehead. “You’re burning!” she gasped. She grabbed the nearest towel and wrapped it around his shoulders.

“I’ll get you some dry clothes.” She got up and left the bathroom. He buried his face in the towel, clinging onto it for dear life. It didn’t bring much comfort. He was still shivering from the cold.

When she returned with his clothes, he sent her a desperate look from beyond the towel. She propped him up and helped him get up to move to the side of the room that was somewhat dry. She had brought him some comfortable sweatpants, T-shirt, and a hoodie, which he only wore at home.

He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, but he was not able to get them open, his fingers were clumsy and he could barely keep his arms up. Even this little bit of physical exertion rendered him out of breath, made him feel like he was choking again. He let his arms fall to his side.

“Please… I can’t breathe…” he begged.

She helped him get dressed, her face a mix of a disapproving look and genuine concern.

As she was putting on his socks, she spoke, without looking into his eyes.

“Okay, I’ll take you to the hospital, but after that… I don’t want to see you again. I don’t want our daughter to see you again.” Tears filled his eyes.

“N-no… I…” he choked out before he was overcome by another coughing fit.

“I’m sorry, but if you have ties with dangerous people, I can’t let you anywhere near her.”

Stephen was drowning in his tears. He couldn’t breathe and his head began to spin.

Rhea had taken everything away from him, his dignity, the safety of his home… and now his daughter?!

=====

[gayacademicwriter]

a snippet | still dreaming | hero & villain

trigger warnings: death, blood, corpses, suicide, knives, mention of drunk driving

The nightmare was a fever dream.

Without pulling herself to her feet, the hero looked out over the landscape—dotted with fresh blood and bodies, the farthermost ones could have been poppies, save for their stillness. The air was awful, the smell of the thousands of decomposing bodies enough for there to have to be a forcible effort to keep the contents of her stomach from regurgitating, the wind that was breezing past the area not enough to clear the stench, only enough to blow her hair in her face. A face nearly identical to hers stared up at her from the ground, the cold, limp fingers entwined with hers, the feeling almost disgusting. Her brother was dead from a stab wound to the chest. The world tilted, and spun, blood and grass and death blurring together, before going black.

The hero was in a living room now, the Persian carpet soft beneath her bare feet, the fireplace roaring, making the room stifling hot; her mother in the rocking chair, the rocking chair not rocking. Despite the heat, her face was pale, her eyes were closed, and when the hero checked, she had no pulse. This time, the world went dark of the hero's own accord: in her dream, she fell to her knees and closed her eyes, and felt tears fall from the corners of her eyes down her cheeks, leaving their cold trail of despair as the scene around her changed.

Marble replaced the carpet, and the hero was scared to open her eyes. The swish of water back and forth caused her heart to sink. Opening her eyes barely a fraction, she saw the filled-up bathtub, the head slumped forward into it, the brilliant mind gone, the dark hair staining the water, the locks she had so enjoyed running her fingers through before looking for soft lips with hers. The bathroom was cold. That was all the information she needed as the dream pulled away from her again, dragging her mercilessly on.

The hero stood in front of the mirror. Her hair was shorter. Her eyes were empty. Her hand positioned the knife just above her heart.

The knife slid home.

She woke up.

Stumbling over her own feet as she woke up, she pushed the covers from her body, sitting up and staring at her hands that didn't quite look like hers.

She was still dreaming.

She was awake.

Head spinning, she shuffled to the bathroom. Was that her? Touching things didn't feel real. Perhaps she really was still dreaming. Her mother, and her brother, and her girlfriend weren't really dead, were they? That had just been a nightmare. She didn't know the truth. Weren't they coming over for dinner?

Brushing her hair, she felt vaguely like she was watching someone that looked like her. She dressed, and set the table, mumbling to herself all the while. She ignored the hero's outfit in the corner. She wanted to see her girlfriend again.

—

The villain crossed his legs, seated on the rooftop, checking his watch. No hero. She was supposed to show up to stop him in thirty seconds.

Twenty.

Ten.

Now.

No hero.

Frowning, he rappelled down the side of the building and set off towards the hero's apartment. If she was bringing backup, he would seriously have to reconsider showing up. Skirting around the main roads and sticking to the laneways, he made his way to the alley that the hero's fire escape emptied out into. His fingers touched the freezing metal as he hoisted himself up and he cursed silently, berating himself for not having brought gloves. The crisp fall air was intent on chilling him to the bone today, it seemed.

Clambering up to the fifth floor, he peered inside the hero's window. No crowds of police in tactical gear, the hero barking out instructions like a drill sergeant. No extra guns. The hero herself wasn't even in gear. She was sitting at a dinner table set for four, the plates void of food and the seats void of people, mumbling to herself as she put a hand out in front of her and stared at it curiously, as if unable to believe it was hers.

The villain shoved the window sash up and climbed in, wondering if the hero would even notice him. She did, but didn't seem to care.

"You must be really out of it if you don't care that I'm in your house," the villain said by way of greeting, pulling out the seat opposite her. Her eyes were eerily blank, with no sign that she recognized him.

"You're in my girlfriend's seat," she said.

That raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"Annie will be here soon. You're taking her seat."

Annie, or Anna, had been the hero's girlfriend of six years, if he recalled correctly, before she had drowned herself in a bathtub after hearing that her father had been killed by a drunk driver. That had been a year ago.

"Hero," his voice was low as he spoke, "are you alright?"

"Hmmm?"

Her response settled it. She was dissociating hard, if not suffering amnesia.

"Annie couldn't make it. She had to help out her aunt with the baby."

"Oh." The hero's voice was so small. "What about Mam? And Ben?"

"They both couldn't make it either," the villain lied, recalling that both the hero's mother and brother were gone.

She stared sadly down at her plate. "They were supposed to come over for dinner."

"Another time," the villain promised, seriously hoping that she wouldn't remember this conversation. "Here. Let's go sit on the couch."

She did not seem inclined to move. He picked her up and put her on the couch. Her eyes were still blank as she looked up at the ceiling.

"Will they be okay?"

"Definitely." He really hoped that she wouldn't remember this. "Have you eaten today?"

She shook her head. The villain chanced a glance at the nearby clock. Three in the afternoon.

"Okay. You," he pointed at her, "stay here, and I will make you food."

"You're the best, Annie." She curled up and closed her eyes. The villain stumbled back into the kitchen, feeling out of it himself.

The hero woke up as the sun was setting, her sleep having been undisturbed by memories. There was mac 'n' cheese in a pot on the stove, and the table had been cleared. Why was she up so late? Why was she on the couch? Hadn't she set the table this morning for a reason she could no longer remember? The entire morning was a blur that she'd forgotten. She had missed her fight with the villain, too. Hopefully the agency would forgive that. Sighing, she ate dinner. The mac 'n' cheese did not taste like when how she made it. Perhaps in her hazy stupor of the morning, she'd done something differently.

The hero would never remember that morning. The villain would never forget it.

—

if you enjoy my writing, please consider buying me a coffee!

[heysoftiexo]

🌸Fever Dream: A Leviathan x Reader Oneshot🌸

Warnings: insecurities and depression mentioned, cursing, unrequited love, jealousy.

no matter how much he gazed over towards you, no matter how much he hoped you’d see him, no matter how much leviathan prayed that what he saw was a lie, he knew it wasn’t. purple eyebrows furrowed in both anger and sadness, the avatar of envy gazed away from what he saw. there you were, seated right beside lucifer in the common room; the both of you exchanging sweet kissed and gentle touches.

leviathan watched in utter disgust and jealousy as his eldest brother held the girl he had fallen in love with over the months you’ve been in the devildom. he hadn’t seemed to notice the choked sob that escaped from his throat; or the salty tears that flew down his face. that was—, until both you and lucifer had turned around; eyes wide as the both of you noticed the male watching the two of you.

“levia-“ you began, only to get interrupted by the purple headed male. “y/n, what did i do?” he choked out, eyes wide as he continued to stare at the two seated on the couch. before you could even get a word out, leviathan spoke once more.

“i-i thought what we had was special, y/n. i thought you loved me. i thought i was doing everything right to get you to fall for me; why can’t it be me for a change?” leviathan sobbed out as he stared at you with nothing but pure sadness in his eyes.

you couldn’t help but stare in utter shock and sadness as you listened to your boyfriends brothers words. leviathan— the avatar of envy, the brother who you thought wasn’t into real life relationship; had feelings for you?

of course, maybe if you weren’t with lucifer; you would’ve possibly ended up being with leviathan, but the male was too late with his whole confession. you had fallen in love with lucifer; the eldest of the brothers.

lucifer ended up clearing his throat as he gazed his his brother. “leviathan; i think you should go to your room and calm down.” he spoke quietly, his gaze held nothing but pure anger towards his brother for turning such a sweet moment into such a sad and upset moment. with tears streaming down his pale face; leviathan turned to lucifer and sobbed.

“i don’t get it. what did you ever do for her to make her fall in love with you?!” leviathan spoke in such anger; you thought for sure lucifer would have his head for it. but, all your boyfriend did was stare at his younger brother as he continued to speak. “i tried everything to get her to see me, to notice me! to at least acknowledge me!” leviathan sobbed out; voice cracking up as more tears ran down his face. “why am i always the second choice?! why can’t i have someone call for ME for once, lucifer?! why’s it always everyone else? why not me!” he cried out; his heart breaking more and more by the minute.

“for fucks sake leviathan; please, go to your room and calm down. we do not need you here acting up like this; please, before you hurt yourself, or y/n, go to your room.” lucifer ordered; crimson eyes boring into leviathans sobbing form. all leviathan could do was turn as he sadly walked off to his room; continuing to cry as the scene he had seen played over and over in his head.

why wasn’t he special? why couldn’t someone fall in love with leviathan for once? more intrusive thoughts filled the young mans head as he slammed his bedroom door shut.

“this is what you get for letting yourself fall for a normie like them..” leviathan sobbed out to himself; gazing down with a frown on his face. “you’re nothing but a worthless otaku anyways; why would someone as ethereal as y/n fall in love with you?”

words just continued to spill out of leviathans mouth as he spoke to himself. truly; leviathan wasn’t angry at you. he understood why you didn’t love him the way you loved lucifer. it still hurt him though; what was he missing that lucifer had?

completely ignoring his running PC; leviathan went right to his bathtub bed; getting inside of it; he stared up at the ceiling of his room, watching sadly as the many different types of fish swam around. another sob left his throat as he covered his face with his hands.

“please…just let this all be a fever dream..”

[luna-nigthshade-wood]

What they don´t know, will hurt them

Summary: Dean Winchesters attempts suicide on a dirty motel bathtub, ending brain dead on a hospital. A trickster promises John and Sam that he will save him for “free”, as long as they both get through watching a series of Dean´s memories, good and bad. The twist is that they will feel everything Dean did at the time and they can stop it at any time, but then Dean will die. They both accept thinking it cant be that bad. Spoiler: it is worse.

Mayor trigger warnings for sexual abuse, prostitution, self-harm foul language and child abuse

Chapter 16

The screen lights up, this time showing a man in his 40´s laying in the center of a bed, clearly naked under a blanket, sipping on a beer while a young Dean is collecting his clothes and getting dressed, his hips covered in bruises.

The scene makes Sam want to claw his eyes out, he cant bear seeing these scenes of Dean selling his body with the knowledge that his big brothers did it for him, so he would never go hungry, so he could have everything he needed. Sam wants to hunt every single one of these pervs that paid his clearly underage brother, he wants to make them suffer like they clearly made Dean suffered. The small voice inside his head, the one that has always been present inside him (the one that scares him), whispers to burn the bastards alive and dance on their ashes, but Sam quickly shuts the voice off, even if the idea has its merit, that wont help present Dean, it would only be an outlet for Sam´s anger.

John feels impotent watching the scene and he knows there is no one to blame but himself. The numbness and detachment Dean is feeling at the moment makes it even worse. John was never once to talk with his sons about their feelings and emotions, but he would give everything he has to go back in time so he could hug Dean strongly and talk and comfort his eldest, then maybe the present would be different, but those are only fever dreams and the regret John is feeling was too little too late.

 -Are you sure I cant tempt you to stay here all night?- the man on the bed asks Dean- I can reimburse you for your time- the man says with a lecherous smirk.

-Can´t do, honey- Dean answers, with a fake seductive face- Wish I could, though. But I have responsibilities- Dean says, feigning regret, inner feelings betray him, he feels anything but. Dean tries to make a retreat but the man on the bed catches his wrist with a bruising grip.

-Responsibilities other than looking pretty?- he asks, making all the red flags in the Winchesters (past and present) go off- You should let me take care of you, baby. You wouldn’t have to worry about a thing, I would give you everything your heart desire. You would only have to be available for me at any time I wanted you- the man says, patting down Dean´s crotch with his free hand, the other one still griping Dean´s wrist tightly- Imagine it, babe. Me returning to the house to find you tied up and naked in my bed, all eager for me- the man finishes, finally letting Dean´s wrist go.

-Sorry, honey- Dean answers clearly spooked, but with the fake smile still on his face- I could never just settle for one person. I am much of a slut for that- Dean tells him

-I guess you truly are. But still, such a beautiful whore you are that I had to offer. Here- the man says giving a card and a wad of cash to Dean- A tip for your services and my number in case you change your mind.

Dean takes them, mumbling a thanks before hastily leaving the room. He walks at least three blocks, before he gets inside an alley and loses his stomach.

 And lose their stomachs John and Sam do.

John´s brain is short-circuiting. Terrible thoughts running wild in his mind. John knew his son has been in danger before, hell, the only thing that somehow mollifies his angst is knowing that Dean “survived” all that. But that doesn’t stop his thoughts from running wild when he sees the deadly grip the perv has on Dean´s wrist. What would have happened if the man (or any other) had decided to carry out his desires, Dean´s consent be damned? What then? Would John have had a chance to save his son? Or, and this is the thought that terrifies John, would he have eventually gotten a call from some police officer asking him to identify a body in a morgue in some forgotten town? A body with injuries that no one should have, let alone a boy, his boy? Or even worse, would he have returned to the motel, a worried Sam receiving him, telling him that he hadn’t seen Dean on days? Would they have found his body? Or would have Dean become a statistic, just another missing person, whose family never have a closure? These particular fears never crossed John´s mind but they are now seared in his brain, reminding him of how close he had been to lose everything.  

Dean´s terrified face will forever be seared in Sam´s brain. Sam can still hear Dean´s speeding pulse in his ears. All color drains from his face, how close were they from losing Dean? How long would it have been before they realized Dean was missing? Would they have ever found out what had happened? Would they have even looked? Or, and Sam is ashamed of thinking this, would he have wrongfully assumed his brother had bailed, moving on in their lives none the wiser of the horrors Dean had suffered? That thought itself, makes Sam’s head spin.

 On the screen, Dean rests a little before standing up in wobbly legs and walking in the dark night, finally stopping in front of a motel room, the boy takes a deep breath before quietly opening the door of the room. Surprise makes him (and the viewers) jump when they heard a small voice said:

-Where were you?- Sammy asks from where he is sitting in the motel room with only a lamp and various papers covering a table.

-Out- Dean responds with a shaky smile- I was hustling some cash.

-Yeah right- Sammy responds shortly

-What is that supposed to mean?- Dean asks defensively, fear clouding him

-I am not an idiot, you know?- Sammy says- I know you were out with a girl.

-Well- Dean says after a pause, fake smile in his face- you know me, but I did hustle us some cash to last us until dad is back

-Yeah, and when will that be?- the youngest asks angrily crossing his arms

-I don’t know, Sammy. Probably soon- Dean responds trying to placate Sammy

-Oh good, so only a few days until we have to leave, again, to another school, again- Sammy mumbles sarcastically.

-Hey, man, calm down- Dean says, approaching the boy at the table- what is the matter, buddy?

-What is the matter? You wanna know what my fricking matter is?- Sammy yells standing up so fast that he knocks Dean- My freacking problem is dad and his stupid rules.

-Sammy…- Dean says shocked from the floor

-No, don’t you Sammy me. I am sick and tired of dad and his hunts and him leaving us in motel rooms in the middle of nowhere and us having us to move all the time. I am sick off starting in a new school every month and trying to make friends only for losing them in a short amount of time. I hate that I miss all the important lessons and tests. I just want to be normal- Sammy says finishing his tirade.

-Look, Sammy- says Dean slowly getting up- I understand this is though but…

-You understand? You? Understanding? Don’t make me laugh. You may not want to do anything with your life but I am different- Sammy interrupts once again

-What is that supposed to mean?- Dean asks, expression numb

-It means that you don’t know what you are talking about. All your life the only thing you have ever done is doing what dad tells you to do. Do you even think for yourself? Do you use your brain at all?- Sam says crowding Dean´s space, not noticing the fear and sadness Dean´s is feeling at this moment, the Sam of the present doesn’t have that problem and feels horrified- Honestly Dean, you are only good to follow orders. The only other two things you use your brain is for eating and fucking. Honestly how could you expect to know better if you don’t even go to school, I mean at the rate you are going I will finish high school before you. All my friends think you are stupid or something and honestly I think I agree- Dean looks as he has been slapped, he makes a noise but Sammy finishes by saying- You are nothing but dad´s puppet and I refuse to be dragged with you. I am going out to get some ice- he finishes before storming out, leaving a numb Dean behind.

Dean, face full of tears, despair emanating from him, mechanically stands up and shuts himself in the bathroom, where he pulls his pocket knife and starts slicing his forearms, dead eyes looking intensely into the knife.

 Just when Sam thinks the scene can´t get worse, it flash-forwards to the next morning when Dean, broken smile in his face and numb to his bones, goes to their then high school to ask for his papers, officially dropping out, his eyes looking deader after the paperwork is finished. The scene ends shattering Sam´s heart.

Fuck, Sam thinks, he never meant for this to happen, he was just so angry all the time when he was younger, he never once appreciated what his oldest brother was doing for him. Sam wants to crawl his eyes out watching Dean´s broken expression and knowing he contributed to put it there. He may blame their father for the situation that they are in at the moment, but the truth is, deep down, Sam knows that while John put Dean at the edge, he was the one that push his big brother. Sam pushed when he should have pulled Dean up and isn’t that even worse? Sam failed Dean, he took his anger out of him and now he has to do the one thing he has never done and that is face the consequences of his actions, without his big brother to make everything better.

John is speechless, he looks subtly at Sam, he wants to shake his son and ask him how he could have said such cruel things to Dean? Wasn’t he supposed to be the one between the two of them to know better? But then again, where would have Sam learned any better with him as an example? John that always berated Dean the minute things went even slightly wrong, John who always told Dean to suck it up and swallow his emotions, John who never once thank Dean for anything he did, John who barely rarely if ever showed Dean any sign of affection, John who never apologize. The thing that makes him angrier about the situation is knowing Sam is only repeating what his father taught him, what he saw his father do. John wants to go back and hug Dean, to thank him for everything he did, to apologize for all the harsh words and punishments Dean didn’t deserved, more important he wants to go back and be a better father for his sons, but know he might never have the chance.

 The scene moves on, this time showing Dean and a young Sam in yet another motel room. Present Sam´s blood runs cold, he recognizes this motel room, he knows what happens next, he knows what he did, but it cannot have been that bad, right? (in a couple of minutes, he will regret even tempting fate)

On the screen, Dean is washing the dishes while Sammy seems to be struggling with his homework. Dean finishes the dishes and approaches Sammy, saying:

-Hey, Sammy- Dean says, soft smile in his face- Time to go to bed, kiddo

-Its Sam, not Sammy- Sammy responds moody- And back off, cant you see I am busy?

-C´mon man, you have to sleep to be ready for school tomorrow- Dean says calmly

-What I need is to finish this last problem, otherwise I wont be able to turn in this- Sam says angrily, Sam´s anger doesn’t deter Dean who asks

-Need any help?- Dean´s expression resembles a rollercoaster with the way it changes, when Sammy starts to laugh at his suggestion

-Ohhh that is a good one Dean- Sam laughs- I tell you I am struggling with this and what?- Sam asks sarcastically- You think you can do better?- Sam says still laughing, not noticing the way that Dean´s smile become more forced, his self-hate evident (and filling the viewing room)- Good laugh, though.

-Yeah, hmm, you are right- Dean answers- you are the genius- he says broken tone in his voice

-Hey, Dean- Sammy asks after a small silence- I need some cash, about $200

-What?- Dean asks startled, both present Winchester can feel the desperation Dean is feeling- Why?

-I need to pay some trip for school- Sammy says

-Sammy, I… We don’t have that money, I am sorry- Dean says, guilt filling him (and the room)- Besides, dad wont give you permission to go, you know that- Dean finishes

-I don’t see dad anywhere- Sam says petulantly- Besides, it is mandatory, I have to pay for it, whether I go or not- Sammy lies- and not going would affect my grade, I know dad and you don’t give a crap about that, but don’t drag me down with you, I actually do plan to do something with my life.

-I…- Dean says tired- I will do my best to get the money, Sammy. But I can´t promise you anything

-You are unbelievable, you know that?- Sammy says angrily- What? You are a worthless fuck up, so you want me to be just like you?- Sam screams at Dean- Where the fuck are you going?- he says watching Dean reaching for the door.

-I am going to see if I can hustle some money for you, bro- Dean says- You are right, I wouldn’t want for you to end up like me- he murmurs

-Thanks- Sammy says before Dean closes the door

-You are welcome- Dean tells the closed door- Even if I know you are lying to me- he whispers

 And just when current Sam though it couldn’t get worse, he realizes where Dean is heading.

On the screen, Dean arrives at a truck station where girls and a couple of boys are loitering around, in his naivety Sam forgot what was Dean method to make money to support themselves, fuck does he is feeling guilty at the moment for what he did. John, once again, feels like shaking Sam around until he explains just what exactly was he thinking, and he knows, oh does he knows, that Sam wasn’t entirely guilty, but he needs someone to blame, because he also knows what happens next and it isn’t pretty nor was it fair.

 A trucker approaches Dean, giving him a once over before crowding into his space:

-Hey sweetie, what is a beautiful thing like you doing here?- he leers, and John wants nothing more than rip the fucker´s eyes out.

-Looking for a good time- Dean says batting his eyelashes

-Name your price beautiful- the guy says

-$250- Dean automatically responds

-That is too expensive for a slut, kid- the trucker tells him, beginning to walk away.

-Wait- Dean says- $200, and you can do anything you want to me.

-Whatever I want?- he asks

-Anything, handsome- Dean answers

-Alright, then follow me, I will show you a good time whore- he replies and stars walking, Dean quickly on his feet.

 What follows is a recollection of the most brutal sex, either of the adult Winchesters had ever seen, the scene making them nauseous. The scene speeds a little, until the trucker stops his assault in Dean´s teenage body. The man retrieves the money from his wallet and throws it at the floor where Dean is. The man leaves and only after he strays out of view, does Dean starts to violently sob. He slowly picks up the money, tears still on his face, and gets to his feet, with wobbling steps he finally reaches the motel room, he enters the room and sees Sammy already sleep, he smiles slightly before putting the $200 inside his backpack. Sam´s homework catches Dean´s eyes, he checks it and corrects the mistakes Sam has made, before putting it back inside and passing out in the bed, still crying. There is no words left from any of the Winchesters to say.

 Desperation. That is what fills the room before the scene even begins. When it finally does, it shows a desperate Dean showing Sam´s photo around the establishments close to the motel, it doesn’t take a genius to understand when this happened, and Sam can´t help but feel extremely guilty for putting his big brother to such distress.

The scene seems to speed up showing an increasingly more worried Dean trying to find Sammy, it finally stops, showing Dean sitting at the edge of the bed of the motel room, head between his hands, despair, fear and dread filling him, before he pulls his phone out and dials his father´s number.

-Sir- Dean says, tears coming out of his face- It´s Sam, I cant find him anywhere, I am so sorry to interrupt your hunt, but I already tried everything, I don’t know what happened, I swear I was taking care of him, please, I am scared something has happened to him. Please, dad, help- he finishes hanging up, crying bitter tears- Please be okay, Sammy, I cant do this without you- he pleads to an empty room

This is what you did, Sam´s brain tells him, after everything he did for you, you abandoned him, your brother, your suicidal brother, anything that happens afterwards is on you.

 On the screen, a loud bang is heard, before John slams open the motel´s door, making Dean jump.

-Sir, I…-the poor boy attempts to say but his father doesn’t give him a chance to finish before he slaps him, alcohol clearly in the older man´s breath.

-What the fuck happened?- John screams

-I am sorry, sir, I was just in the shower and when I got out Sam and his things were gone- Dean says, scared expression in his face- You don’t think that something got him, do you?- he asks with fear, voice quivering

-Of course nothing got him, you moron- John screams shaking Dean- Your brother obviously give you the slip. How could you let this happened?

-I don’t know, sir, I am so sorry, I…

-I. Don’t. Care- John yells- Damn it, Dean! How can you be so useless? First the stunt with the stolen bread and now this. How am I supposed to trust you when you are nothing but dead weight?  

-I don’t know- Dean murmurs, expression broken, tears in his face, that don’t go unnoticed by a drunk John, who towers over his son, beer bottle in his hand

-And now you are standing there, acting like a pussy. What the actual fuck is wrong with you??? Either you sharpen up, or I am leaving you at the side of some abandoned road to fence for yourself, and why the fuck you are crying, you sissy? Want to cry about something? I am giving you something to cry for- and before Dean even has time to react, John smashes him with the almost empty beer bottle, breaking it in the process.

That doesn’t seem to satisfy a drunk John because he takes his belt and starts to hit his son with his belt, not stopping until the alcohol makes him pass out, leaving Dean crying on the floor, with a redden back, a swollen left wrist and welts all over his backs and thighs. And yet the words are the things that hurt him the worst.

 Sam is petrified, he remembers, damn does he remembers pretty well his stunt to Flagstaff, he remembers feeling so clever by running away, he remembers feeling excited at finally being free even for a little, he remembers feeling great about himself… he doesn’t remember feeling guilty, not even a little, he doesn’t remember thinking the way his actions might have affected Dean, he doesn’t remember asking afterwards, and he doesn’t remember his brother even resenting him about it. Cold and numbness fill him and what used to be a great memory suddenly tastes like sand in his mouth. Anger suddenly starts to fill him as well, anger directed at his father, how could he have done that to Dean? Where did he get off treating him like crap? How could he have beaten the son he was supposed to love within an inch of his life?

  Unknown to Sam, those same thoughts start to invade John, how could he have done that to his little boy? How could he have treated his son so badly? Why did, after all of this, his son stayed? He is ashamed to say he doesn’t even remember half of this fight, he was too drunk to remember, oh, he knows what he did, boy those he knows, only that the knowledge came from waking up to see his son beaten and still bleeding from what he did, what he does remember is that he never even apologized and Dean never asked him to. In a drunken rage, he had destroyed what little was left of his son´s confidence and he couldn’t even be bother to acknowledge it. His failures as a father are coming back to haunt him and he cant do anything to avoid them, just like he cant avoid the unknown being that appears in the room, and then it is lights out for John.

First chapter <<Previous Next>>> AO3

[amarits]

Tim tiptoed down the hallway. The light filtered out the further from the windows he traveled, coloring the hallway a gradient of light blue to black. He flipped the night vision in his mask on and the outlines of four doors materialized in a sickly green.

Only one of the doors was open. He glanced in. Tiled floor, porcelain sink, tub. Bathroom. Decent quality for an apartment in this area. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to see what happened in the bathroom, even if it did involve cutting up bodies in the bathtub, so he didn’t leave a bug.

That left three closed doors. One was clearly the exit. He carefully leaned against another, putting his ear to it and listening closely. One minute, two. Nothing. He very slowly turned the doorknob, keeping his ear close as he inched it gingerly open.

“What are we looking at?” a voice asked from the opposite direction of what he’d been expecting. He jumped a foot in the air and turned, raising his hands in one of the defensive positions Batman had taught him.

A girl, barely taller than him, stood there in a sweater dress that hung to her mid-thighs, a belt, leggings, a leather jacket that had seen some wear and tear, and what looked like a Zorro mask, or at least like a scarf with some holes cut in it. The giant poof of hair sticking out of a large headband was a familiar blond.

“Steph?” he hissed.

“It’s Robin,” she corrected.

“Wha..? I… You’re not Robin!” Was this a dream? Was this some really weird Canadian bacon, onion, and artichoke pizza dream caused by the guilt of too many nights wearing someone else’s costume? The green glow cast over everything certainly added to the dream-like feel. He turned off his night vision and flicked on a flashlight instead. The leggings and jacket stayed green, but the sweater dress changed to red and the belt was yellow. It was a painfully familiar color scheme.

“I think I would know better than you whether or not I’m Robin,” the fever dream standing in front of him said.

His mouth flopped open and closed like a dead fish. What was she..? How was she..? Why?

A grin broke out across her face, serious façade dropping. “Oh my god, you look so stupid right now. Close your mouth before you swallow a bug.”

“I… I don’t understand…” He realized a minute too late that he was supposed to be Robin right now, and that Robin definitely should not know who Stephanie Brown was.

Well, he did, but Steph wasn’t supposed to know that.

He lowered his voice the same way Jason had when they’d seen him on the museum roof. “I’m sorry, citizen, but you shouldn’t be here right now. This is a potential crime scene.”

He could very clearly see her rolling her blue eyes through her mask holes. That was not a disguise. It was the opposite of a disguise. It was a hey-let-me-show-off-my-features-so-you-can-recognize-me-more-easily-later outfit. “I know it’s you, Tim.”

“It’s Robin,” he said weakly.

“That’s the spirit!” She peeked in the open door behind him. “So what are we looking for? ‘Cause this looks like a closet.”

He followed her gaze. It was, indeed, a closet, but instead of coats, there were large tanks, like what you’d use to fill helium balloons. It stank of a scheme in progress. Scarecrow maybe? If so, they definitely shouldn’t stick around long. Each of the tanks had a label, but instead of words they were stamped with card suits: a heart, a diamond, a club, and a spade.

“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “I’m just leaving cameras to watch later. Something’s been happening, but I’m not—what are you doing here?” he cut himself off. She might have briefly distracted him, but that was still the most pertinent question.

“I saw you sneaking around by yourself and thought you could use some help.”

“I’m not by myself,” he said immediately. It’s what he’d planned to tell any bad guys that caught him, but blurted out like that, he had to admit it didn’t sound particularly believable.

She pointedly turned her head to look up and down the hallway.

“Okay, fine,” he said, frustrated, “but that doesn’t mean you should be here. It’s dangerous.”

“Exactly,” she said. “It’s dangerous, and I know Batman’s distracted right now, so someone needs to keep you from doing something stupid.”

“I’m not…” He stopped, replaying her words. “You know Batman’s distracted right now?” he asked slowly.

She hesitated, tugging on the sleeves of her jacket. It looked a little too small for her, probably why he’d never seen her wearing it. “I heavily suspect Batman’s distracted right now,” she said. Something about the way her eyes were peering at him through the mask felt surgical, like she was waiting for the answer to a question that hadn’t been asked.

He looked away, at the still closed door. It would be easy to agree that Batman was distracted, to confirm without confirming, but he couldn’t. “Sometimes he’s busy,” he said instead. “He has a lot of cases.”

She turned her face, and he couldn’t seen her expression in the shadows. He remembered the angry hurt splashed across her face when he pushed her away after Jason’s attack. He didn’t want that, but he couldn’t just give away all of the Bats’ secrets because he didn’t want to hurt his friend’s feelings.

“So that’s why you need me!” she said, turning back to him with an enthusiastic smile, like the emotions she’d felt in the shadows had never existed.

“Look, Steph.” He rubbed at his mask, grinding the lenses painfully against his face. “You know I like you—”

“You do? Wow!”

“—but this isn’t up to me.” He flicked his hand in the air like he was throwing something away. “Like, at all. I have no power here.”

“You’re literally wearing the Robin costume right now,” she said, deadpan.

“I know, but it’s all pretend. I’m not Robin any more than you are.”

“Then I have very good news for you,” she said, leaning forward and putting her hands on his shoulders, “because I am totally Robin.”

[bisexual-horror-fan]

I haven’t watched nightmare on elm street in years so correct me if I’m wrong but

Is there a scene in a bathtub where his hand kinda comes out of the water? Was that a fever dream or did I actually see that somewhere

Oh no yeah that happens to Nancy in the first Nightmare On Elm Street. Super iconic moment, has been parodied and re-drawen like a million times. You did not imagine this, it fully happened.

And I love it.

I look at Nancy and am just like "God I wish that were me."

Okay but that would be a fun one-shot tho. Snapshots of moments from ANOES but slappping the reader in there and making them MUCH more explicit.

[aion-rsa]

How Alias Anticipated Modern Superhero Storytelling

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J.J. Abrams’ spy drama Alias, which turns 20 this week, was a lot of things: high-octane action-adventure series, twentysomethings relationship drama, occasional National Treasure homage. It was also, surprisingly, a spiritual predecessor to today’s hyper-saturated superhero movie and TV universes: A preternaturally gifted fighter, Sydney Bristow (Jennifer Garner) inhabits comic-book-esque alter egos to infiltrate secret missions related to ancient artifacts and promised immortality, all while ensuring that her nearest and dearest don’t know how many times she’s saved the world—or which side she’s really on.

Like the series’ MacGuffin-generating Nostradamus figure Milo Rambaldi, Alias has proven to be somewhat prophetic itself about what makes for the kinds of superhero stories that land today. With some 20th-anniversary hindsight, let’s look back at what made Sydney’s story so super and what lessons Abrams’ ridiculous(ly fun) series can still impart to the current crop of superhero sagas.

The Secret Identity as Kiss of Death

The highest priority that spies and superheroes share is that they cannot get made—that is, have their identity as a larger-than-life individual linked to their “normal” selves. They must always keep their personal and professional personas separate, lest they risk losing the people who know both sides of them. Alias establishes this difficult lesson in the first half hour of the pilot, when Sydney reveals her true work (she thinks SD-6 is just a covert branch of the CIA) to doctor fiancé Danny, only for him to blab about it later and get bloodily taken out in their bathtub. It’s the first time that SD-6 treats its sweet protégée harshly, making clear the consequences of her actions should she open up to anyone else in her life. And then she defects to the CIA, which will be a death sentence for her if SD-6 ever finds out.

Yet beyond the specter of grisly assassination, what the series really digs into is Syd’s growing ethical dilemma about being a double agent where it concerns the actually good people at SD-6, primarily her longtime partner Dixon (Carl Lumbly) and sweetly awkward Q stand-in Marshall (Kevin Weisman). It would be too easy if the series were only about her getting long-game revenge on SD-6 director Arvin Sloane (Ron Rifkin); the real conflict comes from Sydney lying to Dixon’s face on every stakeout, knowing that he still thinks he’s working for the good guys and she can’t ruin that fantasy for him without potentially turning him into collateral damage.

Similarly, the moments in which Sydney’s two (or three) lives begin to collide have other heartbreaking consequences: While the scene in which her best friend Will (Bradley Cooper cast as the friendzoned buddy, amazing) gets kidnapped and sees Syd saving him, is one of the decade’s best laugh-out-loud moments, it also leads to Will going into the Witness Protection Program. His life ends, in a sense, because Sydney couldn’t keep everything compartmentalized. And we haven’t even gotten to the awful fate that befalls her best friend Francie (Merrin Dungey)…

What Alias Predicted: The beating heart (or arc reactor) of many a superhero story is this tension between selves—which means that the big reveal of a secret identity has to be carefully timed and deliberately presented. It’s as emotional as Peter Parker’s (Tobey Maguire) mask getting ripped away when he saves the subway car of people in Sam Raimi’s Spider-Man 2, as big as Spider-Man: Far From Home doxxing that Peter Parker (Tom Holland) in a commentary on fake news, or as pure and simple as Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.) outing himself as Iron Man in the very first installment of the MCU. You cannot unring that bell, so it better be a memorable moment.

What Superhero Stories Can Still Learn: Rev the secret identity stakes back up! Captain America: Civil War ably took on the game-changing Marvel Comics arc of the same name by having heroes collectively unmask, and movies like Spider-Man: Far From Home are still playing out those ramifications. But mostly we see the dangerous ramifications of heroes doxxing themselves, without really digging into the strain for heroes to constantly have to lie about the things that truly matter to them.

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Campy Disguises and Clever Aliases

If you’ve watched Alias or were even vaguely aware of it, no doubt the first thing you envision is Sydney in black leather and bright red hair, a.k.a. her iconic look from the pilot. Her non-SD-6-sanctioned, under-the-radar disguise (impersonating Will’s sister) displays her ingenuity and establishes the series’ brand: attention-grabbing hair paired with increasingly ridiculous outfits, from chain mail waitress ensembles to rubber dresses. She’s played punks, rich bimbos, alluring businesswomen, escorts, and all manner of female personas upon which her marks would project their assumptions—all of which belied her true strength and cunning.

Even when future episodes riffed on the color wheel with teal, magenta, purple, and good old-fashioned blonde wigs, it was still within a clear spectrum established on that pivotal mission, when she channels a silly girl who cares more about the color of her hair than her safety, only to pin her torturer with the same chair to which she’s bound.

What Alias Predicted: I would hazard a guess that Natasha Romanoff’s first appearance in 2012’s The Avengers—a seemingly helpless redhead tied to a chair, about to be nastily interrogated—was a nod toward Sydney’s triumphant pilot mission. What’s more, despite the first ten years of the MCU leaning toward sleek costumes, later phases (like WandaVision‘s cheeky Halloween callbacks) have realized that they can embrace the bold colors and campy designs of the comic-book source material.

What Superhero Stories Can Still Learn: Better to lean into the bold colors and campy designs of the comic-book source material than to go for more sleek and cool. WandaVision did this, albeit cheekily and using the excuse of Halloween, but the nod toward Scarlet Witch’s original outfit was well received. Because any superhero can look cool in leather, but only the standouts can rock color.

Rambaldi Artifacts, Immortality, and Clones

While replicating the romantic dramas of Felicity, Abrams was also playing with early iterations of his signature “puzzle box” narrative style: The pilot has Sydney chasing after the mysterious Mueller device, which turns out to be… a floating red ball… which bursts into water the moment she tries to remove it. That head-scratcher of a device is only one of many inventions belonging to Milo Rambaldi, a fictional Renaissance-era philosopher whose sketches and writings all pointed toward the ultimate endgame: immortality. You know, just normal spy thriller things.

The series saw Sydney and co. chasing after all manner of Rambaldi MacGuffins, from a clock to a kaleidoscope to a music box to flowers that either demonstrated proof of eternal life (by never wilting) or amped up human aggression. Through all of this, it becomes clear that Sloane helped found SD-6 in order to collect all of Rambaldi’s artifacts and capture immortality for himself—even and especially at the cost of people like his daughter, Sydney’s half-sister Nadia Santos (Mía Maestro).

Before we get more into Rambaldi’s prophecies about the sisters, we can’t forget the parallel fever dream of the series: clones! Or, rather, secret agents genetically modified to look like anyone—which means everyone is a suspect. This constant paranoia quickly got out of hand on the series, but its first reveal was perfect TV drama: There’s not an Alias fan who doesn’t remember “Francie doesn’t like coffee ice cream” and the complete devastation that followed—the knock-down, drag-out fight that destroyed Sydney’s apartment just as badly as Danny’s death, but also Sydney’s heartbreak upon realizing that her best friend was already long dead.

What Alias Predicted: The Infinity Stones themselves are less interesting than in various superheroes’ personal connections to them: Loki (Tom Hiddleston) tempted by the tesseract in Thor: Ragnarok; Star Lord (Chris Pratt) and the Guardians of the Galaxy channeling their friendship to withstand the effects of the Power Stone; Wanda Maximoff’s (Elizabeth Olsen) stages of grief as she copes with trying to keep the memory of Vision (Paul Bettany) alive even without the Mind Stone. In short: grounding the most out-there plotlines in the personal ensures they will always land.

What Superhero Stories Can Still Learn: Ground the most bonkers of plotlines in the personal, and they’ll always land.

The Chosen One and the Passenger

This is when the Rambaldi business started getting less National Treasure levels of charming and more outright weird. Turns out the team wasn’t just recovering a treasure trove of artifacts, but also Rambaldi’s prophetic writings—including the mysterious “Page 47,” which featured a drawing of a woman known as the Chosen One… who bears quite the resemblance to Sydney herself. That would be easy enough to dismiss as a strange doppelgänger coincidence, but then comes the reveal of “Project Christmas”: When Syd discovers that she didn’t just stumble into the spy life on her own, but was actually trained as a sleeper agent from childhood, it only amplifies her fears that she has no true agency over her life.

Further Rambaldi writings center Sydney and Nadia into predestined roles as the Chosen One and the Passenger: supposed foes who are fated to clash, with one dying. Nadia getting injected with “Rambaldi fluid” in order to tap directly into the long-dead man’s consciousness (contained within another artifact known as the Sphere of Life) only earns her some nasty apocalyptic visions. But despite their genuine friendship that comes from bonding over their fucked-up childhoods, Sydney and Nadia are forced into that preordained confrontation when the latter is injected with a compound that reduces her to a mindless killing machine… all while a giant red ball is hovering over a city in Russia, because why not. Even after Nadia dies, and is brought back to life, then dies again, with her ghost haunting Sloane as he finally attains immortality, she remains a presence on the series.

There are certainly echoes to Black Widow and how it handles Natasha and adoptive sister Yelena’s (Florence Pugh) strained reconciliation after the older sister got out of the Red Room while the younger was still caught in its web. Their bickering banter about vests and poses, their differing memories of their false childhood, and their respective feelings of abandonment are what elevated Black Widow’s standalone outing—and made it even more tragic, on multiple levels, that this was the only time we would see the two of them in a movie together.

What Alias Predicted: Sister stories are gold! The Rambaldi storylines would mean nothing if they didn’t hinge on a tragically preordained confrontation, just as the MCU’s Red Room depiction seemed overdone until it was presented within the context of multiple generations’ differing experiences with its bloody legacy.

What Superhero Stories Can Still Learn: More stories about sisters! With Nat dead not long after she and Yelena had just started to bond again, it’s vital that Yelena’s future MCU appearances show her still grappling with the little time they got together.

After all, the best superhero stories are the ones that can feel just as fresh now as they did 20 years ago.

Alias is currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video.

The post How Alias Anticipated Modern Superhero Storytelling appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[mimiplaysgames]

A Powerful Enough Dream (Ch. 6)

Pairing: Terra/Aqua (eventually) Rating: T Word Count: 6,014

Summary: Riku and Sora drag Aqua to Yen Sid’s in order to hash out a plan to save Ven. But Aqua is having none of it.

Read on AO3

A/N: Hi!!!! It’s been a long, long time, I know. I’m sorry for not updating this more often. My other WIPs take up so so much of my time, and I don’t have enough to spare this collection. I’m nervous about continuing this, I mean: it’s no longer relevant because of KH3, and sometimes I think the Terqua fandom has died??? I’ll have to see what people think of it. I know there’s readers for this piece and I HEARD YOU. I HEARD YOU. I have the next two chapters lined up already, so we’ll see!

~*~*~*~*~

Betrayal

Riku shows her to her room: a small thing held together by enormous stones, with a bed at the center, a wobbly nightstand, and a door leading to the bathroom. A thin window sits high on the wall, through which Aqua can see this tiny, dark world that Yen Sid calls home. 

In the corner of the bedroom is a dusty outline on the floor where something once stood. A mirror, most likely. She peeks into the bathroom to find that the mirror screwed to the wall above the sink has been removed as well, leaving a rectangle of slime-free tile.

What she appreciates the most is how Riku doesn’t make a big show of what he does for her. 

“I’ll come get you when Yen Sid’s ready to see you,” Riku says, reaching for the door knob. “Hope it’s comfy enough.”

Nothing about this trip is comfortable. 

The Mysterious Tower is just as she left it: a speck far in the distance, too far for darkness to do any real damage. Protected by a sky of stars and magic that bubbles deep into its earth, this place breathes light. Aqua braces her fingers against the stone wall - instead of something cold built by man, she feels sparks of magic scatter across the surface, from memories of mischief and self-discovery.

She lets go and prepares herself to wash up, maybe find some food in one of the tower’s quirky rooms, when Riku knocks on her door.

“That was fast.”

Riku looks at her questioning face and shrugs. “I figured… considering how Terra’s visit went, we should probably get this over with.”

~*~*~*~*~

Yen Sid lounges in his office at the top of the tower. Everything is the same - maybe the notes on his board are different, but the pile of books, most with dust that gathered over years, still sit where they live. The candles burn as though they will never run out of wax. Yen Sid himself doesn’t seem to age. 

Riku and Sora flank Aqua, and she stares at the tremendous wooden desk in front of her. Twelve years ago, she slammed her hands against it, adamant that Terra would never do anything to hurt the Master. Something in her gut questions whether Yen Sid has even left his damn chair since.

“I am delighted to see you safe, Master Aqua,” Yen Sid starts, his voice polite, which is the basic minimum for anything professional: solemn, well-mannered, detached.

Initially, she says nothing in return. Eraqus would not have approved of such rudeness, so she swallows her pride. “Thank you, it is good to see you again, too.”

“I assure you will get a decent amount of rest in time.” He folds his hand neatly over each other. “For now, we must eagerly discuss the state of affairs.”

Eagerly, he says, but he talks too slow to understand the meaning of the word.

“Well,” Riku starts.

Aqua feels him taking side glances at her but she keeps her mouth in a firm, straight line. 

“We lost Terra,” he says when she doesn’t volunteer, “to the Realm of Darkness.”

Yen Sid grumbles, “With the King.”

“Yeah.” Riku sighs. “I like to think they’re taking care of each other.”

Yen Sid doesn’t seem pleased or agreeable to this. A sick thought crosses Aqua’s mind: He doesn’t think Mickey is safe with Terra. Which isn’t fair.

“We must hurry to the King,” Yen Sid says, and Aqua’s stomach churns that Terra is an afterthought. “Now that we are aware intent to enter the Realm of Darkness is certainly true to statement, we must act swiftly to find another Door to Darkness, as long as we do not sacrifice a world to it.

“Sora,” he commands, “have you made arrangements with the sky pirates to do this?”

Sora fiddles with two of his fingers, staring hard at them. They won’t give him the courage to speak, so there’s no reason to find it there. 

“Balthier won’t take my munny.” He frowns. “He demands more from me if I’m going to waste his time searching for something without any direction.”

“What does he call direction?”

“If Fran can track something, then he’ll only do it if the plunder’s good enough for the job.” He shrugs his shoulders and throws his hands in the air.

“Pirates,” Riku mutters.

“Balthier saves people, too!”

“When a world is falling. He takes their riches along with their medicine, food, and weapons… but Traverse Town doesn’t need that anymore.” 

Aqua scoffs. Her impatience bubbles, and it takes all her effort to swallow it down.

Sora steps away from her. He’s shocked to see her terrible mood.

“We shan’t wait too long for a world to deteriorate to that state,” Yen Sid says. “Sora, I will pay the pirate more if that is necessary to find an entryway sooner.”

Such quick and decisive action for Mickey. 

“Now that we have discussed one path forward, let us continue on to other matters.” If he hasn’t noticed her attitude, he will soon. “Master Aqua, I understand there is trouble getting to Ventus. Anything I can do to aid your efforts?”

Aid, he says.

She creases her lips. 

“How long have you known?” she asks quietly.

“Pardon?”

“How long has it been since Mickey found me?” She raises her voice. 

Sora shifts with a whimper. Riku crosses his arms, not surprised and not even totally into the conversation. Best to get it over with.

Yen Sid takes his time to study her first before he answers: “Two years.”

Aqua grips her hands into fists, hiding them neatly in her sashes so that the old man doesn’t notice. “Why-”

“Mickey was not yet a Master,” Yen Sid says, his brittle voice finding strength. “Sora and Riku were brand new to the Keyblade, and needed friends, guidance, and training. We did not have the power yet to pursue such a dangerous task.”

What he said should have insulted her, but strangely, she feels serene, empowered by something knowing, something cynical, something that gloats in how tense he’s becoming under her scrutinizing gaze. Yen Sid doesn’t deserve anything she has to offer. 

“And what did you do all this time?” she asks with bitter sweetness. “Twiddle your thumbs and eat out of your chair?”

Riku rubs his chin. She’s impressed with how quiet he could stay in a scene like this. Sora stammers like he’s been kissed by a frog.

“Master Aqua…” Yen Sid tries softer this time. “I understand the disappointment. Please, let me offer what I can to help-”

“I don’t need your help to find Ven.” With that, Aqua gives a mock curtsy before turning on her heels and briskly leaving the room.

Behind her, she hears Riku tell Sora to Let her go, each word fading as she runs down the long steps to the bottom. 

The audacity of that old, stuffy man. 

Aqua is fuming, replaying sentences in her mind again and again: things she could have said to make him really sorry, what he might be saying now to those two young boys. She’s descending so fast that her ankle twists, and she grabs the railing to stop herself from toppling all the way down. 

It snaps her out of her stupor.

Riku is so well-mannered for his age, not blinking at the signs of her episode; he’s someone a good Master ought to behave like. Sora doesn’t judge, completely motivated with the need to make everyone comfortable and easy-feeling. 

And Aqua embarrassed herself in front of them. 

Leaning on the wall behind her, she breathes deeply. The stone is freezing against her skin, too much for her to be at a normal temperature. She palms her forehead to check for a fever; she has none. But her mind is in a hot fury, willing to climb back up and roast Yen Sid with all the insults she still has blurring in her brain - starting with how crusty that beard is.

“You can’t just say whatever you want, Aqua,” she says out loud, hugging herself. “This isn’t like you.”

It’s unbecoming of a Keyblade Master, is what Eraqus would have said. 

Aqua decides to descend the rest of the way slowly. Getting mad won’t do anything for Ven, and while she doesn’t have a good lead in creating a pathway back home, she’ll find a way to do it without giving Yen Sid the honor of listening to his advice. She has to. 

The last time she was here, she never got a good chance to explore this world. While the front entrance only leads to an outcrop overlooking deep space, the back entrance leads to a garden, awnings making way over the shrubbery until it circles a pool. 

Aqua stiffens. It’s not long enough to swim in, so it couldn’t be deep enough to get up to her thighs.

But it’s big enough to drown in, and that’s the worst part. 

The water is as still as glass, but it doesn’t mean it’s peaceful or safe. If she’s careful enough, Aqua would be able to see her reflection if she stood over it. 

She doesn’t dare try. Instead, she sits on a stone bench far enough away that the pool couldn’t get to her. There isn’t a good reason to sit here, really, except for the fact that she misses the idea of enjoying water: of being at the beach, of swimming against Ven in a race, of splashing it on Terra’s face when he isn’t looking. Showering in a bathtub doesn’t compare… a dark voice in her mind tells her that she’ll never experience water the same way anymore.

“Are you Aqua?” 

That voice belongs to a girl in a short pink dress, who helps herself to the stone bench even when Aqua doesn’t immediately reply. 

“I am.”

The girl stares up in awe. “You were the one Terra was looking for? Wow, I didn’t think you’d be the same person…”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I’m Kairi.” She holds her hand to her chest. 

Aqua gasps. “Kairi?” It’s true. There’s the same necklace she charmed years ago, draped around her neck. Aqua almost brushes it with her fingers, but thought better of it. At least it kept Kairi safe. At least this is one success she could account for. 

Kairi is so unrecognizable now, but it makes sense: the cropped auburn hair, the round violet eyes, a curious smile. And a heart that is unmistakably brighter than anyone’s here. 

“You were so little,” Aqua says quietly. “I can’t believe you remember me.”

“Um, not really.” Kairi sheepishly rubs the back of her head, then waves her hand in the air as if imagining something. “All I remember is something really tall… and blue.”

Aqua has to laugh. Kairi is quite small. Still.

“But when I heard that Aqua was here, I had to see - never in my life would I have made the connection that Blue and Aqua were one in the same.” Kairi smirks, leaning forward to study Aqua in the face. “No wonder Terra was so obsessed with finding you. You’re really pretty.”

“Uh-” Nothing useful comes out of her mouth. That can’t be the reason. Aqua hides the heat in her cheeks with one dignified hand as though she isn’t affected by it. 

“Terra acted the same when he talked about you,” Kairi grins, patting Aqua on the knee.

But her excitement deteriorates soon after, her hands finding each other at her stomach as though she’s swallowing something rotten. “I heard about what happened to him…” To Aqua’s surprise, tears develop in Kairi’s eyes, trailing down without much effort on her part to produce them. 

They even surprise Kairi. “I’m sorry.” She wipes them off her face, sniffling. “I don’t know where that came from. I didn’t know him long.”

Aqua more than understands, she’s just much more practiced at roping it in.

“He makes a strong impression on anyone he meets,” Aqua says, brushing her hand lightly over Kairi’s head. 

A small smile curls at Kairi’s lips despite the onslaught out of her eyes. Kairi hangs all of her expressions at the edge of her nose. Her sincerity is something to be admired. 

“He’s a lot kinder than what he gives himself credit for.”

“Yes.”

“He was really helpful and sweet when he trained me.” Reality strikes her, and the tears dry up. “Would you mind teaching me a bit?” Then shame makes its way, as though she asked for too much. “I- I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”

A Princess of Heart fighting? A brilliant idea. “Of course, it’s not a bother at all.”

Kairi takes her inside to a large ballroom equipped with destroyed furniture: hollow sofas, the shells of cupboards, the foundations of bookshelves, dilapidated bedposts. Pots and pans. Chipped plastic. From what Aqua can tell, they were used for target practice. 

“Terra was really particular about my posture,” Kairi says, summoning her Keyblade - frilly, like the heart of someone who carries the joy of life with her. She sinks low into her knees. “But we focused mostly on my ability to block attacks. The rest is basic stuff.”

By the looks of her stance, he’s done good work.

“Then let’s talk about what you really want out of your fighting ability.” Aqua summons the Master’s Defender. 

Kairi flashes an embarrassed frown. “To catch up with Sora and Riku.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Yes.” Forgetting about her posture, Kairi throws her passion out in a flurry. “It’s not about being as good as them - I want to make them see that when they need me, I can be there. They don’t have to worry or doubt me for a second.”

“That sounds a lot like comparing yourself.”

Kairi ponders for a moment. “Sora and Riku are patient with my training, but for years they’ve left me behind.”

Aqua has to think about it before responding… listen to the words Kairi is finding difficulty in expressing. So much of it stems from an insecurity and a drive to level with her more experienced friends, and a needle pricks right into Aqua’s ribs when she thinks of how Ven has been treated in the past. 

If they never held themselves back when training with Ven, or treated him like a puppy needing to stay home, then he wouldn’t be unconscious now. 

Sora and Riku work full steam ahead, and Kairi needs to match their speeds without the burden of mastering technique before she’s ready. What she wants is to feel useful to them. What she needs is to be equipped with something that could get her out of trouble in a pinch.

Aqua thinks of Noctis, and how he uses his weapons as points of destination. 

“I have a unique idea.”

Instructing Kairi to stand by the farthest wall, Aqua does the opposite to create the most distance between them.

“From there,” Aqua says, “I want you to take a hit on me before I’m able to block - without doing a far-range attack.”

Kairi gapes. “H- How am I supposed to do that?”

“You’ll adapt to the circumstances.” At Kairi’s agony, Aqua shrugs. “I’m more strict than Terra. We won’t stop until your heart makes the connection.”

Kairi shivers and settles herself. “I’ll try.”

She does a dash - which is the expected choice and Aqua easily blocks it. 

“Again,” Aqua says. “Use your magic.”

Another dash - this time propelled. Blocked.

“Again.”

Three more times, all blocked, and by now, Kairi is panting for breath.

“You’re exerting too much on your physical body. Remember your magic. Your Keyblade is your heart in physical form: all its desires, life goals, and insecurities are embedded into your weapon. If you want to come at me faster than I can block, then will it.” 

“Magic,” Kairi rasps. “Right.”

Now she’s getting it. Instead of dashing across the room this time, she blends with the air, teleporting to Aqua’s position. But it’s still not fast enough.

“On the right track. Try again.”

“But Aqua-”

“Your Keyblade needs to get here before you do.” Aqua winks. 

“Isn’t that kind of like a Strike Raid?” An attack that utilizes the Keyblade like a boomerang. 

“Not quite.”

Kairi is exhausted and probably doesn’t have the energy to think too much, but it’s necessary to let her heart define it for itself. That’s the only way to communicate with your own Keyblade. 

But she’s the type of student that is eager to please, and as her eyes drift away with her imagination, it dawns on her. “That’s genius,” she whispers. 

With new resolve, Kairi properly stands. 

“Let’s start for real,” Aqua says. 

Kairi throws her Keyblade. Aqua feels in the air Kairi’s energy not to aim, but to be where the Keyblade goes, and she blurs through the room, letting her heart guide her to where. 

She doubts herself, though, and drops her Keyblade halfway across. 

“I’ll try again!” Scrambling back to her spot across the room, Kairi throws, warping as though both wielder and weapon are chasing each other, knocking past unsuspecting pieces of couch legs.

Aqua cannot block the strike but manages to move - not the most grateful dodge she’s ever done, but it does the job even if it lands her flat on her stomach. 

“We did it,” Kairi says shakily the moment she realizes all she’s done without using her feet. 

Aqua snorts and picks herself up. “You did it.”

“I did it!” With squeals and claps, Kairi jumps in place, throwing an embrace over Aqua’s way, triumphantly parading with her Keyblade.

It’s worth the effort to see. Aqua has needed something pleasant today, and maybe giving someone else hope will satiate some kind of karmic hunger out there and return the favor.

“No one invited me to the celebration,” Sora’s voice strides into the room, his giant toothy grin followed by a very solemn Riku. 

“You guys will never guess what I can do now,” Kairi says. Realizing she sounds like she’s preparing a show for them, she backtracks. “I- I’ll polish it first, then show you.”

“Kairi has a lot of promise,” Aqua says, drawing the hilt of her Keyblade in and resting its tip on the floor, standing straighter. Riku’s presence, though totally lost in his own head, makes her nervous. She wills the image of her episode away.

“You’re not going to show us?” Sora asks, casually standing with them like he’s inviting himself over to their inside joke. Aqua wonders if he’s ever been rejected before, but Kairi’s more than happy to keep a small success to herself. 

Riku takes a more respectful distance and sits on a chair with a missing armrest. “Of course she won’t. Destiny Islanders have spunk.”

“Except Riku,” Kairi retorts. “He only knows grouchy.”

“Says who?”

“Your face. You look like you spent an hour reading obituaries.”

A muscle twitches in Sora’s jaw, and he takes himself to Riku’s side. 

It reminds Aqua all too much of herself and Ven: how she and Terra would share a rare distaste with training when it doesn’t go their way, or worries about the future, cutting Ven out of certain bits. Aqua wouldn’t count that Ven never noticed. 

She hopes that Kairi doesn’t take it personally. It never is. 

“Sorry,” Riku says, willing a more natural smile to come. “I am happy for you. Maybe you’ll get to join us on missions next time.”

“She already should be,” Aqua says. 

Kairi sighs in relief. “I’m ready to share the work. What’s the plan now? I can handle it.”

This is where Riku and Sora stare at Aqua. 

“Must have been an interesting meeting,” Kairi says, cutting the silence. 

“It was the same level of cringe as Terra’s,” Sora says, snickering. It doesn’t improve the atmosphere, so he switches gears. “You can come with us wherever you’d like, Kairi,” he offers, like it’s supposed to be a consolation but Aqua suspects there are limitations to such a contract. “Except the Realm of Darkness.”

“You’re going to the Realm of Darkness?”

Again, they glance over at Aqua. Are they expecting her to lead an expedition? To have a differing opinion?

“Is there something you want from me?” Aqua asks when they won’t budge. 

Sora hangs his head but Riku is the one to speak: “I don’t want to bet on a world falling for us to enter. There’s no way to predict when it would happen or how long it would take. Estimated guesses are just that, and if we waited a day too long, we could have lost Traverse Town.”

“Or not. It could have stood for another week,” Sora quips in. 

“Exactly. It’s a very unstable plan and it could take forever.”

When Sora’s eyes meet Aqua’s, he warms up. Aqua has to wonder how his parents raised him to be this open and loving to everyone he meets. 

“How did you do it?” he asks.

Next to her, Kairi tenses. Riku seems unfazed - it was probably his question, but Sora is the better mediator. 

It’s the worst memory in Aqua’s disposal, but the most important. Aqua has to be professional, cast away the way her heart rages at the thought. 

“A world didn’t fall, if that’s what you’re really asking,” she starts. “I was fighting… Xehanort, and he…struck himself with his Keyblade. To the heart.”

Sora steps back, a giggle worming its way out. “That’s an intense experience.”

Riku scoffs, amused. “It makes sense now.”

“And out came a horned monster,” Aqua continues. “You could say it resembles a Heartless, large and angry. Its teeth were bound by bindings… or bandages. It had an empty hole in its chest-”

She stops. The looks she’s getting - they recognize it.

Sora turns to Riku, his eyes wide. “Is she talking about-?”

Riku faces him. “Ansem’s Guardian?”

At Aqua’s stunned expression, Sora waves her confusion away. “No, no, not the Ansem you know. That’s the real Ansem. There’s a fake Ansem, and he’s the one who controls the Guardian.”

That doesn’t clear anything up.

Riku holds his hand up. “What matters is what happened when the Guardian appeared.”

“Well, he commanded it to come after me,” Aqua says.

“As he does.” Riku shrugs.

“But when I defeated him, it fell into a black pit. It was the force that created the Door to Darkness, and…”

Terra fell. 

“I went after him.”

The room buckles under the weight of her words, a little too quiet for her liking but it’s better than anyone apologizing to her. Kairi holds a hand to Aqua’s shoulder, but it doesn’t help much. 

“Maybe that’s the answer,” Sora says slowly. “It probably created a force of darkness so strong, it just warped reality.” 

Kairi glares at him as though he’s said the wrong thing. 

But Riku nods like he’s reading the same mind. “We could sacrifice it. Not a bad idea.”

“It sounds like you’re talking about hunting him down,” Kairi says. “Isn’t that a little risky, trying to draw out his attention?”

“Yeah, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” The way Riku says it leaves everyone else out of the equation.

“If you can find him.”

Aqua has to ask: “Is that difficult?”

Riku strains a smile; he’s remembering something unpleasant, something he still hasn’t made peace with. “Not really. But admittedly he is more trouble than he’s worth.”

Aqua bites her cheek. Everyone makes it sound like rescuing Terra is the biggest hassle. 

“Then I’ll do it.”

Sora grimaces, and Riku waves his hands in surrender. “That’s not what I meant. Not at all. But I do think that getting to Ventus may be an easier goal to reach right now. Once we have greater numbers, and we don’t have our attention scattered as much, provoking Ansem shouldn’t be an issue. We can do it together.”

Aqua stops herself from drawing a long scoff, holding her hand to her hip to prevent herself from flailing it around in frustration. Professional is the key word here. 

“Except I don’t really know where to begin,” Aqua says quietly. “I know where Ven is, but I don’t have a way of getting to him without my Keyblade.”

“Oh that’s easy!” Sora says. “Terra had it with him.”

“What?”

“He carried it around at Destiny Islands, when he was with us,” Kairi says. 

“But I don’t recall seeing him with it in Traverse Town,” Riku says. “It’s possible he put it away somewhere.”

The question hangs over their heads. 

Riku inhales as he thinks about a place to start. “He spent the majority of his time in Radiant Garden.”

Right where she broke her tether to it. It’s a possibility that Terra took it back there. Not likely, but plausible. 

“We should go tomorrow, first thing,” Sora says, slamming a fist into his palm. “There’s got to be a trail of clues we could follow. Maybe Terra left a sign saying Here’s her Keyblade.” He motions with his hand, bracketing invisible words in the air. 

“If there’s nowhere else…” Aqua hushes. 

“If not there,” Riku says, “then we’ll go back to Traverse Town and search his room. If it’s not there either, we’ll think of something. I can’t imagine that he’d leave you hanging.”

He’d never; Terra has always been the worst at hiding anyway. As children, he’d giggle too loudly that playing hide and seek with him was always futile. As teens, he never withstood the feeling of being lonely for too long, so if he needed time to himself, he’d leave notes with suggestions of when he’s ready for company. 

Hiding a Keyblade to protect it is something he wouldn’t commit recklessly, but just like she was able to track him down a long journey through multiple worlds when he disappeared, he’d leave the smallest crumbs. 

“Then it’s a solid plan,” Kairi says, stepping her foot down. “I’m coming with.”

They’re much more optimistic about it than Aqua is (honestly, it sounds like they’re leading themselves blind).

Either way, she bids them sweet dreams, a knife forged of the worst anticipation gutting at her. Maybe her mood will improve in the morning. 

When she leaves the ballroom, the knife twisting at her side digs deeper the moment she overhears Riku saying over the other side of the door: “That was something.”

Aqua peeks through the crack. Riku has lost his composure he had in her presence, slouching over and smothering his face in his palm. Sora looks tired, his usual joy giving way to reflection. 

Kairi shifts uncomfortably. “She’s been through a lot.”

“She’s like a boiling teapot about to explode.”

“Except teapots don’t explode.”

“But you’d rather have your hand cut off than have it melt from the steam.”

“Come on,” Sora says, “this won’t be the same situation as it was with Terra… At least, I hope not.”

Riku throws Sora a hard glance. “I’m only saying that something’s not entirely right. I can’t tell how she’s going to react to things. Sometimes, I get the impression that I’m not talking to the same person.”

Silence.

“Honestly, I’ve felt the same,” Sora murmurs, “but I can’t blame her.”

“No one is.”

Kairi starts sniffling, bringing her wrist to wipe her face.

Sora asks, “Why are you crying?” 

“I don’t know. Isn’t that weird?”

Next, Sora’s the one to shed a tear. “I guess I don’t know either.”

Riku looks at his friends not with concern, but with horror. He sighs into his hand, rubs his face, and thinks better than to let them cry alone. Joining them, he pulls them both into an embrace, roughing their hair enough to leave frizz.

“Knock it off, you two.” 

He ignores their protests, squeezing them in his elbows. Sora can’t wrestle his way out, so he says to Kairi, “He’s still ticklish in the same spots.”

The last sight Aqua sees is a heap of three best friends on the floor, the tallest one begging the others to stop. 

~*~*~*~*~

Aqua treks back to her room with ferocity. They think she’s crazy. Maybe she is. Maybe she’s lost a part of herself to the Realm of Darkness forever, chewed up and spit out in a lumpy blob that she can’t bring herself to swallow. 

That thought should terrify her, but it doesn’t. Aqua’s more concerned with how hopeless she let them feel. What’s the point of being a Keyblade Master if she can’t inspire those around her? Or make them feel protected and listened to? She doesn’t know how to make it up to them. 

She should apologize - and yet, there’s a small voice inside that loathes to do so. It’s not her fault for acting up; she’s earned the right. They’ll be patient with her and see she’s not all bad.

Or maybe she’s just as bad as they say. The moment she sees Yen Sid standing in her way will test that.

“Master Aqua,” he calls, his pointy hat looking all the longer because of the way the torches that line the stone walls illuminate it.

She wants to ignore him. She doesn’t - wouldn’t Eraqus be proud? She waits for him to continue, hands laced in front of her, posture straight, expression neutral. Professional. 

“I had hoped,” he starts, then stops himself. Ah, so he knows there’s nothing he could say that would be a proper apology to what happened. “I completely understand where you are coming from.”

Aqua doesn’t respond. 

“I mean to ask forgiveness.”

Silence.

“Cast away this unpleasant business between us. I have no expectation that you’d lend a hand of friendship towards me, but we can still benefit from an alliance.” He extends his hand out, not as a gesture to hold hers, but as a symbol. 

She could forgive him, and she would have before falling to darkness, before Eraqus had ever sent them on an insane journey without giving them any of the crucial details, before hearing anything insulting about Terra. She could have. 

“I’ll consider it when I have the time,” she says, her voice flat but strong.

Yen Sid draws his hand back. There’s a slight offense to his eyes before he wavers it away. 

“This road you have chosen to follow may be dangerous.”

“Excuse me?”

“Following Terra.”

“I’m so tired of defending Terra,” she spits.

“You have mistaken me,” Yen Sid says. The quality of his voice dips deep, like a growl. “Just as I have warned Terra about his limitations when it came to you, I sense the same desperate recklessness within you.”

“His life is worthy enough to save.”

“So is yours.” He stares at her, a hand teasing the length of his beard. “Will you not trust him to fend for himself in the darkness?”

Her lips quiver and she zips them up. Professional. “Won’t you?”

Yen Sid sighs, disappointed. “I hope our next meeting is more amicable. Please look out for yourself, Master Aqua.”

“Likewise.”

She storms into her room and slams the door. She’s burning up, the heat from her body creating perspiration that denses through her hair, but not enough to let the sweat fall. No, she doesn’t have a fever.

There’s nothing here for her to throw around, so she paces back and forth. Back and forth, again and again, until one last huff expires out of her. 

“Terra,” she calls out softly as though he is right by her side. Who knows, maybe he can hear her from somewhere deep in the darkness if she focuses enough. 

Pulling out his orange Wayfinder, Aqua massages her fingers over the borders. Maybe her magic on it would have worked better if she had his essence embedded into the glass, instead of her intention to keep him close by. 

When she made it, she never once thought that the sight of it would bring regret. 

“I’m so angry,” she says to it, shaking her leg. She’s exhausted, but nowhere near the fits of depletion from earlier nights that easily pulled her under. She’d be an idiot to expect sleep to come any time soon. “None of them understand.”

Except they do; they have been separated before, forgotten, then weaved back together. 

Yet they don’t; they never had to pay such an expensive price such as twelve years.

“Please come back,” she whispers. She could cry, but she’s all dried up. Begging only makes her feel worse. 

“I’ll bring you back,” she demands of the quiet when nothing responds to her. 

She could scream, but she doesn’t. She’s a knot of weeded thorns, something that yearns to slice to numb the pain and grow out to breathe, choking at the same time.

The bed creaks and moans under her weight, but it’s not comfortable. The sheets are cold. The stone walls are apathetic to her mood, gray and bored. 

Aqua holds the Wayfinder close, but it does nothing to soothe her. She opts to stare at the ceiling in a contest she can’t win. 

~*~*~*~*~

Her hair reached her ribcage in tousled waves that coiled at the tips. Ven called it a flag of water that rippled whenever she moved, but it rippled too much; she certainly resented it when it whipped her in the face during training.

Her mother would have called it stunning, just like hers. 

A sepia-toned portrait sat on Aqua’s vanity table of a woman with the same hair and a man with a thick handle-bar moustache, wearing a bowler’s hat. 

“I’m sorry, mama,” sixteen-year-old Aqua said, scissors in hand, mirror smudge-free, hair ready to be tamed.

The first snip came at the point right above her ear, and Aqua winced from watching it all fall to the ground. A panic shot through her, and she wondered if there was magic to reverse the damage just in case. But Aqua was brave and Aqua was relentless.

Cutting the rest of her hair came easier, a waterfall having its last hurrah. She went shorter, and then much more. She might have done too much, but keeping it layered should justify the work. Now it was a pixie cut: clean, prissy, and above all, out of her face.

Aqua presented herself during breakfast. Ven still wasn’t up and the Master was busy in his office, so Terra, who sat at the table with a mug of coffee, was the first to see. 

The mug stopped before it reached his lips while he gaped. She sat in front of him. He didn’t say a word. 

Suddenly, she regretted it.

“It was always getting in the way,” she said, surprised by how assured she sounded.

He blinked. “It’s cute.”

“It’s what?” Warriors were supposed to be practical. Not cute. Never cute, damn it all.

“Nothing. I didn’t actually say anything.” He sipped his coffee, avoiding her gaze. If he caught it, she’d have words to throw at him. 

She still did. “I’ll dump that coffee on you the next time I hear you say that.”

Terra stole glances at her, mainly toward the top of her head, and his eyes almost sparkled. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself. “It is pretty, though.”

… What was she supposed to say to that? All she had was vacant stammering.

“Well, you know,” he set back, “I don’t want you to feel bad about it.”

Part of her wanted to kill him. Part of her wanted to find the spell to make it grow.

He blundered for more words, set his coffee mug down, and pressed his index finger onto the surface of the table to make a poignant argument. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She grimaced. “I’m not going to play nice with you during training today.”

“I probably deserve it,” he chuckled.

“You definitely deserve it.”

He smiled, and stared more at her hair. Not with disgust, not with shock, but with admiration. 

It hit her then - he meant what he said. Which left one question to nag at her for the rest of breakfast:

She was pretty to him?

[ghostprincess]

Sweet Things, Ch. 5 (Mysterio x Reader)

Summary: (This is the final chapter!) Mysterio kidnaps Y/N Parker as leverage against Peter, as well as because he has taken a liking to her. But the longer she stays with him, the more twisted her reality becomes, until it’s nothing but him. Will Peter be able to save her before it’s too late? Dark!fic, Stockholm Syndrome, dub-con, etc.

Warnings: (first and foremost there are scenes that could be interpreted as self harm so trigger warning), ffh spoilers, some sexual content but nothing graphic, emotional distress, blood, violence, mysterio’s just a mess

I lay still on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as I waited for my body to recover. 

What just happened?

It all felt like a fever dream. 

Maybe it was an illusion, I thought. Or maybe it was just a dream, there’s no way he would ever do that, right? 

The shock began to wear away eventually, the pain shooting through my body confirming that it was, in fact, real. It really happened. 

I’m gonna be sick.

I got up and stumbled into the bathroom, falling down to my knees over the toilet just as I began to heave. The lack of food in my body made itself known when the only substances I threw up were bile and vodka, and when the heaving stopped, I somehow felt even worse than before. 

I flushed the toilet and pushed myself off the ground, looking up into the mirror at my naked body. My neck was mottled with red and purple, hickeys and bite marks splotched around like paint on a canvas. My chest had a few red marks and my hips had hand-shaped bruises forming on top of them. The gauze that had once covered my wrists was wrinkled and beginning to peel off from Quentin’s manhandling. 

I ripped the bandages off in anger, throwing the bloodied gauze to the ground. Looking down, I noticed the tears in my skin that had begun to scab over were now torn wide open, the once yellowing bruises now an angry hue of violet.

I heaved again when I finally noticed the dried white substance stained on my thighs and between my legs, tears gathering in my eyes. I collapsed in front of the toilet and threw up again as the weight of what I’d just done hit me. 

I did it willingly. Why didn’t I stop him? 

You love him, a voice whispered deep within my subconscious.

The memories of his hands around my throat and his lips on mine wouldn’t leave and my conflicted feelings were at war. I sobbed into my hands.

Minutes that felt like hours passed, and once I calmed down a bit, I pushed myself up and walked over to the shower. The porcelain of the bathtub was still damp from the bath Quentin had given me earlier, and I shuddered at the memory. I imagined him helping me into the shower, his arms around me under the warm water and holding me close as I cried into his shoulder—

I shook my head, snapping out of the fantasy. He was the one who made me feel this way, so why would I ever want to go to him for comfort? The knowledge that something was very wrong with me ate at the back of my mind but I ignored it in favor of getting clean.

I turned the water on and stepped into the spray, hugging myself. The cold water stung like needles piercing my skin but it grounded me. 

I grabbed the bar of soap from the ledge and began to scrub myself relentlessly. I focused particularly between my legs and on my thighs, and sobbed as I cleaned the evidence from my skin. I felt dirty and used, but even the soap couldn’t make me feel clean.

I ran the soap over my arms, nearly screaming as my wrist wounds were cleaned out. The stinging, stabbing pain was worse than anything I’d felt so far and I nearly passed out when blood began to pour from them once again. 

Too much. Too much blood.

I quickly turned the shower off and scrambled to the cold floor outside, haphazardly wrapping a towel around myself as I opened the cabinet beneath the sink. 

I rummaged around, feeling for any medical supplies, and finally found Quentin’s first aid kit, pulling it out. My head spun from a mixture of seeing my own blood and my ever-present hangover, and I nearly fell over again.

I grabbed the first thing I saw— ace bandages— and wrapped one around each of my wrists tightly. The fabric was stained with my bloody fingerprints and I knew I had not treated the wounds correctly, but I couldn’t bring myself to care as I sobbed on the cold, wet bathroom floor. 

———

The sound of the bedroom door opening pulled me out of the haze I was in and I barely had time to pull the towel over my body before Quentin walked into the bathroom, his eyes scanning the room quickly. I closed my eyes as he walked over and kneeled in front of me.

“Aw, baby, what happened?” He asked apologetically, and I shuddered. How could he sound so genuine?

“You made a mess, honey,” he continued, and I flinched.

“I— I’m sorry, I d-didn’t mean to,” I squeaked, finally meeting his gaze, and he grinned. 

“Let me help you,” he said, in the same tone as before, and I broke, clinging onto him and sobbing as if he were some sort of savior. 

He made no move to reciprocate besides sliding his arms underneath me and carrying me bridal style into the bedroom. He sat me down on the bed but my trembling arms were locked around him.

“It’s okay. It’ll all be over soon,” he soothed, and I felt my stomach drop.

“W-what will?” I asked, leaning back and looking at him. He sighed.

“We’re doing an attack on London, and then I won’t have to do as much convincing to prove to the world that I’m the hero.”

“Attack? You’re not gonna k-kill anyone, right?” My teeth chattered from the cold and Quentin seemed sadistically appreciative of my discomfort, twirling a strand of my hair again.

“There’ll be lots of casualties, but more casualties means more coverage.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to mine, and I felt my lips responding, my eyes closing, until he pulled away with a maniacal grin. “Maybe I’ll even let you watch.” 

My stomach felt like it was doing somersaults as I stared at him, contemplating what he had just said. 

I could play along and escape, tell Fury what happened, get Beck locked up. 

But I could just stay here, where I don’t have to worry about anything.

I could rebuild some semblance of a normal life, get my job back, pursue my dreams of becoming—

I don’t want to leave him, I could never do that to him—

“When is it?” I asked. 

———

“Don’t make them too tight. I don’t need anyone seeing cuff marks on her hands after I save her,” Quentin called, his back turned to me as he fiddled with the screen mounted on his left arm. 

It had been two weeks since he had told me about the plan, and I was unbearably, unbelievably tired. My body was sore from Quentin’s affinity for manhandling me, his hands bruised into my hips and neck.

“These are just for precaution, okay?” The man with glasses said apologetically as he clicked a handcuff around my right wrist. I nodded solemnly and he attached the other handcuff to the metal railing. I was sitting on the ground, my back against the wall inside some large overpass structure, overlooking the city. We were in London, I knew that much, and Quentin was stationed in there with me, dressed in a black and grey motion-capture suit and donning a half-helmet that resembled Mysterio’s.

“William, she’s fine, get to your position,” Quentin said impatiently, and the man nodded quickly, disappearing through a door. 

“Just think about it. I’ll be a hero, Y/N. And you’ll be the tortured soul who I healed, the damsel in distress who I saved. It’s so tragic that you lost your family to the Elementals, but think about it! How much better can a story get? I saved you from your own self-destruction, avenged your family for you, and now we’re in love.” He looked at me and smirked, and my stomach twisted. I shakily smiled back.

“You’ll be the best, Quentin,” I said, and he laughed, kneeling down next to me. 

“If you’re good, when this ends, I’ll fuck you good and hard, would you like that?” He murmured, and I whimpered, nodding. I really did want him, didn’t I? Fuck. 

I tried to convince myself that I was just playing along, but it didn’t feel true. My escape plans were slowly dwindling away from my mind as I imagined the life I could have with him.

I had nothing left, what else was there to lose? Could I be selfish just this once and give in to my desire to feel some sort of love? After all, the world had caused both Quentin and I so much pain, the world had killed my family and most of the Avengers, so why should I care what destruction Mysterio would bring to it…?

Focus, Y/N. When he turns, start trying to loosen the cuff. 

Quentin stood up and walked a few feet away, turning his back to me as he began to tap at his armband again.

“Cue lightning,” he said into his earpiece, and a huge bolt struck, shaking the ground. 

I started to twist and wiggle my hand, hoping to loosen the handcuff enough to slip my hand out. He’d be too busy to bother watching me while he orchestrated the attack, and I could slip away, run to safety before he even noticed I was missing.

The handcuff slipped a bit, loosening by a notch, but luckily Quentin spoke again, drowning out the small metallic click.

“Now that is an Avengers-level threat,” he said in awe. A loud roar sounded from outside and I could only see out the tops of the windows, where a large black sky was swirling with lightning, fire, and sand.

BOOM.

Another bolt of lightning struck and I flinched, momentarily reminded of the sound of Peter being shot, falling to the ground…

I need to get out of here. 

I tugged at the handcuff a little more frantically as Quentin’s demeanor unhinged more and more.

“I have drones breaking formation,” he suddenly exclaimed, seeming worried. 

Please, please have the drones fail, or an Avenger stop him, please…

“I’m gonna take a look inside, just to be sure,” he said, then began to swipe on the screen casually, staying calm— he went rigid, staring in anger at the screen, then looking up to glare at the monster.

“Yeah. And I’m gonna kill him,” he said to whoever was on the earpiece, and I craned my neck, trying to get a good look at the screen.

“What’s wrong?” I asked tentatively as he nearly shook with rage. Quentin turned around and opened his mouth to reply, but stopped himself, looking back down to swipe at his screen.

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong. I—I’m handling it,” he stammered. 

He’d never acted like that before, so what had happened that he couldn’t even tell me? Me, who would probably never see the light of day again after his public “rescue” of me, who could tell no one?

After a few minutes of pacing and tapping at his screen, he became frantic, turning to me with wild eyes and walking over to kneel in front of me.

“Change of plans. I’ll wake you up when it’s over,” he said, pulling a syringe out of a holster on his belt. Before I could protest, he stabbed the needle painfully into the left side of my neck, beginning to inject me with the same drug he had used before, and the world seemed to spin in slow motion. 

A flash of red and black caught my eye, and I heard the sound of glass shattering as I closed my eyes. The needle was ripped from my neck and I heard the syringe clatter to the ground next to me as I whimpered in pain. I opened my eyes to look down at it; he had only managed to inject half the contents into my bloodstream. 

“Show’s over, Beck!” A similar voice called out, and my heart sank. 

Peter.

Quentin had given me just enough sedative to make me hallucinate, apparently, and I closed my eyes as my heartbreak began to surface once again. 

“This certainly isn’t ideal, but I have contingencies,” Quentin said to someone snarkily. A few more crashing sounds broke through the air and I winced, trying to pull myself away from the noise, but something around my wrist was holding me back, and I couldn’t even cover my ears—

“Stop, too loud,” I slurred lazily, wincing as another crash shook my eardrums. 

“Y/N?” Peter’s voice called out, just like before, he’s gonna die, I screamed and curled into a ball, no more, no more, Quentin please stop—

“What did you do to her?” Peter’s voice cracked as he roared in anger, that was new, is this a new projection, please don’t die this time, and the sounds of fighting rang out once again. 

I drowned the noise out, closing my eyes as sleep pulled at my mind, the stupid fucking drug…

The next thing I heard was loud gunfire, right in front of me, and I jerked up, wide awake. The drones were all in a formation, projecting something as Quentin watched in anger, but the projections concealed whoever he was fighting. 

I looked up at the cuff around my wrist, then began to rip the gauze out from underneath it, exposing the scabbed and stitched wounds from previously, now’s my chance.

I shakily picked up the syringe that had fallen next to me and gritted my teeth, then started to hack painfully at the stitches with the needle.

If I bled enough, I could slip my hand out and run.

The pain was excruciating and I tried to ignore the thought of how ugly the scars would be from repeatedly injuring myself as I mutilated my own body. 

Finally, finally, blood began to drop steadily down my hand and arm; I cried in pain at the stabbing agony, but the blood was working, my hand was slipping out. 

With one final tug, I yanked my hand out of the handcuff, letting out a sob of relief. 

“FIRE ALL THE DRONES NOW!” Quentin suddenly screamed.

He looked up at me in shock and anger, walking quickly towards me, and I whimpered in fear, please don’t hurt me—

A final loud crash and the sound gunfire began again, causing me to flinch and cover my ears. Quentin suddenly screamed and I looked up just as a huge blow ripped into my stomach, slamming me back against the wall. It felt like a punch to the gut, but as I looked down, I saw the red soaking my shirt, then felt the pain. 

I’d been shot, and instead of panicking, a part of me felt relieved at the idea of not having to deal with the pain anymore.

I collapsed to the ground on my side and looked up at the scene before me. All the projections were gone from the drones, Quentin lay collapsed on the ground, and— Peter?

I didn’t realize I had spoken until his head whipped towards me and he scrambled to help me up, tears pouring down his face. 

“Y/N,” he sobbed, pulling me into a tight embrace, and I lethargically rested my head on his shoulder. Is this Heaven? Is he here to reunite with me and lead me into the afterlife?

Please be real, I thought, and closed my eyes in acceptance.

“I trusted you, Beck, and you lied to me,” Peter said, turning away. He rested me down on the ground again and I opened my eyes as he walked towards Quentin angrily.

“I- I know. That’s the most disappointing p-part,” Quentin replied. 

He was covered in blood, clutching his stomach, and I felt my heart drop as I realized what had happened to him.

Tears blurred my vision and I struggled to wipe them away, but suddenly a loud BANG sounded. 

Peter was holding Quentin by the wrist, a gun pointing up to the ceiling, and the gun clattered to the ground unceremoniously. Peter ripped the glasses off of Quentin’s face and began to speak, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Quentin. 

His face contorted in agony and we made eye contact, his eyes softening as he scanned my body and realized what had happened.

Neither of us spoke, just stared at each other in an eerie silence, punctuated by Peter’s frantic yelling as he tried to take back control of the AI. 

“Y/N? Y/N, wake up, are you with me?” Peter said, suddenly kneeling over me, tears pouring down his face. I rolled my eyes up to look at his face and smiled weakly at his attempts to put pressure on my wound.

“I’m ready now,” I said. “I missed you.”

“W-what? You’re ready for what? Y/N?” He screamed, shaking me back and forth. I closed my eyes and slipped into nothingness, and felt no pain. 

———

A bright light was shining through my eyelids and I groaned, lifting my arm to cover my eyes.

The window in Quentin’s room was directly in the path of morning sunlight, and after waking up to it for two weeks, I’d had enough. 

“Y/N?” A voice called beside me, and I jumped, my eyes shooting open. 

I wasn’t in Quentin’s dull, grey room; this room was all white, a steady beeping noise sounding from behind me, a blue curtain to my right, Peter to my left.

“P-Peter?” I whimpered, and the beeping noise began to become more frantic as my heart rate spiked. “You’re alive?” I gasped, tears pouring uncontrollably from my eyes, and I reached out for him. He immediately reached back and I pulled him into my embrace, ignoring the pain in my abdomen as I hugged him tightly and sobbed. 

I ran my fingers repeatedly through his hair, he’s real, he’s really here, I can feel him.

The rest of the day consisted of Peter catching me up on everything that had happened while I was held in captivity. He’d finally started dating MJ, May and Happy were dating, Peter was alive.

I couldn’t contain my joy until Peter told me what had happened on the bridge.

“He- he’s not dead.” I shook my head frantically, feeling panic creep up my spine.

“Y/N, don’t worry, okay? He is. I asked EDITH—“

“Y-you don’t know what he can do,” I gasped, becoming hysterical. “He faked it, Peter, he’s not dead.” 

Two nurses came running in as the heart monitor began to beep frantically, one trying to hold Peter back and talk to him while the other fiddled with my IV to sedate me. 

“Don’t believe what he makes you see,” I said, and then the drugs pulled me under.