#but it IS a big deal like my bones are brittle as fuck

[andrigyn]

If I am truly losing my period again I can’t be bothered to worry about it like, I’ll just go on hormonal bc and suffer ig. I probably have pcos bc it’s not even me being underweight / under eating anymore

[sorrengailherondale]

I personally absolutely loved fourth wing. Spoilers ahead

Violet had Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, and it is something that is written very well into the book (though at some points it's sort of ignored, though, I think that's actually good.) As someone who has egelrs Danlos syndrome, the struggles of the disease are so clearly written by someone who gets it. Violets talk with Mira with the premise of "nothing will really fix me" is so relatable I nearly cried, and that with her insecurity "what if underneath all the frail joints and brittle bones, was just more weakness" again **chefs kiss** The author even manages to play in with mobility aids in the context of a dragon riding college with Violets saddle, and Tairn telling her that she's worked harder than anybody else, and just because her body is different doesn't mean she should reap the benefits of hard work. This is what originally drew me to this book, and makes violet easily the most relatable character I've ever read, "You look all frail and breakable, but you're a violent little thing" could be my motto for life.

"should I call the wing leader" is one of my favorite lines, and Dragon sass and mockery is a staple. In much of the fanfic, it's the key reason to read

Did I see Brennan being alive coming? Yes. Did I see Dain's betrayal coming? Yes. Did I see Liam's death? Yes. None of this makes the book less compelling. The only thing that concerns me is the length of this series-- Vi and Xaden are basically already together and Dain has already shown his true colors? Why not drag it out some more? (Though personally more dragging if the Xaden and vi may have killed me) It's like showing your hand too early, though maybe this is all just the tip of the iceberg

Lilith Sorrengail was trying to kill her daughter with the rain on that parapet, maybe it was bc of the book, maybe something else, but the fact that Violet doesn't catch into that is infuriating, considering how observant and resourceful she is

On that note... I wanted Xaden to seem more awful. Like maybe not show his true intentions so much until the end of the book... But writing worlds like this takes time

Also-- I don't know why people are so flipped out about their modern behaviours despite a non-modern setting... Who cares? Personally, I find the modern things like (sometimes unnecessary) swearing, mocking each other's sex lives, and common phrases make fantasy books easier to deal with, the old timey stuff drives me up the fricking wall.

I hope we get more of the political climate and manipulation in the next books, it's also very obvious that violet will be going back to Basgiath, probably lying to everyone and keeping Dain fucking Aetos from touching her at all costs. What I want out of that off the bat is more character development for Rhiannon (I don't think the lack of this was accidental, leaving more page space for it in the next book,) a big falling out with Dain where hopefully violet can control her lightning and he realizes she is a true threat, and another falling out with her mother, I NEED more Mira, the Mira-Brennan- Violet-Lilkith angle is one Im dying to see. How will Mira react? How will Lillith- knowing her son is not only alive, but left her and her husband to join a rebellion that supposedly killed his and (is implied to have) caused the heart failure of her husband? I want Mira in the rebellion too, Mira realizes the reality of who her mother is, but there should be pushback

[yourflowersfirst]

day 1,400

pages 167-173

dentists’ offices really freaked me out. i picked at the skin around my nails, watching tiny dots of blood form, my nails brittle and chipped like hell. my sister was scrolling instagram, the pics she liked were very 2016-esque. lots of bold brow makeup and a crazy amount of starbucks frappuccinos. she nudged me every time she saw something funny. an occasional fidget spinner, a lot of laughing crying emojis plastered on prank videos. i rolled my eyes at her.

i heard my mom and my dentist walk out from the dentist… room? i never knew what to call it. the room where your teeth were actually cleaned, mouth forced open (don’t think about it, don’t think about it, just shut up) and sprayed with water, cleaner, and picked at with a metal tool. whatever that's called. metal still rang in my jaw. they left, as my whole family was there that day. it was one of the few days that summer i didn’t have marching band practice. the humidity was so bad that you could feel it through building walls. i’d been done for about 30 minutes, my mom was the last one to be seen, and the waiting room still made me anxious despite already being finished.

so, they walked out, conversation quiet but audible if you paid attention. which i did. “… how are her teeth?”

“the oldest? or your youngest?”

“yes, the oldest. how are they? any sign of decay, cavities?”

decay? what the fuck?

“well, there was something. she had some bruising in the back of her throat. some more plaque than when i last saw her. nothing too concerning for now, i advised her to brush and floss more.”

i leaned forward even more, my mothers brow scrunched. “oh, okay. i only ask because she’s… you know.”

“well, is everything okay?”

“she’s been having some… problems. she has eating disorders. bulimia and anorexia.”

my skin suddenly turned ice cold. “oh. i’m sorry to hear that. her teeth are alright, for now…”

the rest of my dentist’s words were lost. my ears rang deaf, my body slumped in the waiting room chair, arms crossed in a teenage girl sort of way. after my dad paid the copay, the four of us piled back into the van, teeth slimy and minty fresh from the cleaner.

“mom,” i started, as she was driving home from cemetery road. “why did you tell dr tau that stuff about me? that’s personal, it made me feel so awkward. plus i’m not even sick like that. i’m fine. you exaggerated to her and i don't like it.” the way she spoke about me to strangers crawled under my skin and bones, settled there, and always left me feeling itchy and uncomfortable. clearly.

“i’m not starting this again with you,” my mom was already irritated. “you are sick, that’s why we go to children’s hospital every week, and it’s why you drain my bank account with your therapy and psychiatry. either way, dr tau needed to know exactly what was going on. i wanted to make sure you’re not ruining your teeth, too.”

my mouth just hung open for a while, unable to form a reply to all that. my dad and sister were silent. i finally said, “well, okay then. forget i said anything.” 

my mom stared back at me in the mirror, but didn’t respond, feeling like she’d won. later that night, i purged (out of spite or hatred for my body? i don’t know to this day). just a bit. i examined my teeth after: no new plaque. i was fine. why was it such a big deal, why did anyone give a shit? 

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

2 years earlier, i’d been a freshman in high school. my hair was shorter, nails more brittle, skin always dappled with bruises no one ever seemed to notice. i’d frequent the dying mall 15 minutes away from town with my friends- all who also happened to be in band with me. because... of course.

we went one warm april friday afternoon. my mom drove us and waited in the food court, nursing a chik fil a frosted lemonade and a soft smile at me. first the 4 of us went to hot topic and spencer’s, giggling over the funny shirts and dildos stashed in the back of the latters’ store. then it was fye to gush over the anime memorabilia, and finally, we decided to go to victoria’s secret. as a joke, obviously.

“aedan, you’re a guy, so you can’t go in,” one of my girl friends said. 

“yeah, you should wait outside and only look at the ground,” i added. we cackled. strangely enough, aedan agreed. my other 2 friends and i- girls- trotted in, immature and silly about the big titted mannequins. we gushed over the cute frilly bras, turned red in the face when we saw the thongs. one bra in particular caught my eye immediately- one boasting about adding 2 cup sizes to whoever wears it.

“um, excuse me,” i nervously approached a worker with a measuring tape around her neck. “could i get measured for, um, a bra? i've only ever worn sports ones.”

she smiled at me, so kind. “of course, let me look with my tape here…” she wrapped it around me in 3 separate places. “okay, you’re a 32AA. we don’t have a ton of styles in that size…”

“uh, what about the one that adds 2 cups?”

“actually, yeah, that one should come in your size!” she looked around the drawers and eventually pointed out the options for a 32AA. one in light blue, one in black, one in grey polka dots. i thanked her and got a fitting room. my friends were howling with laughter but not teasing, as they were looking to try on bras too. a formative experience for a 14 (almost 15!) year old girl.

in the fitting room, i tried to fight off the typical nausea that came with me seeing my body in the mirror, and the dizziness from so much walking around the stores prior. i was 87 pounds soaking wet but i still felt like a mammoth- especially in such a store. once that comically padded push up bra was on, though, i smiled a little. the first time i’d done so in years at seeing my reflection.

i put my huge band tshirt on over the bra, the outline of boobs visible on me for the first time ever. i looked at my wallet, the $40 my mom gave me for shopping staring back at me. the bra was $35. 

10 minutes later, i was waiting in the checkout line, the bra clasped tightly in my hands. a new lifeline. another new way to fight how i look.

[campbluelake]

bones grow back brittle || Yua MM.5

As the answers roll in, he doesn’t feel any smarter for it. Everything Malyce’s saying is everything he would have imagined Malyce saying in this situation. Of the few things that stick with him, the faucet metaphor and movie-analogs are what’s sticking with him; even explaining everything Malyce sounds so distant from everything. 

The insanity of the situation has been undeniable, and listening to everyone, he’s strongly hit with a feeling he doesn’t like: he’ll never be normal again. He befriended an immortal witch hunter. He hugged a serial killer. Mothman taught him how to fish. His boyfriend’s sitting in a director’s chair in a slutty Halloween costume because he summoned actual Satan for real. The more he jokes about becoming an immortal henchmen to himself, the more he realizes, oh god, I’m not forgetting any of this ever.

Of the thoughts that are forming in his frenzied head, he decides to start with: 

“I can’t date a big, murder guy. Who’s killed a bunch of people.”

“A-And like— normal people who wanna like, play patty cake with kids for the summer versus like, popping this off in the White House’s lobby or some shit,"

“And— and you keep—“

He takes a deep breath and rubs his temple. Focus.

“You could have like— just— you know, actually, why didn’t you just do this to your siblings? Why didn’t you just take their souls and like, convert them into good reviews and clout?”

“But wait— you basically told me this isn’t real, like, when I was freaking out over my car. Wait, what’s with all the goo— no, wait, not important— about the soul faucet. Are the dead people already donezo, or can we like… pull them out of the faucet. Unclog it.”

“And you— you promised to get me out of here, so stop trying to fucking die— you have to personally escort me out of here because you brought me here and super lied to me even after I stopped lying to you and did a whole cringe ass reveal— I mean, no wonder my bullshit didn't seem like a big deal, you're out here summoning Satan and shit— !

He ends this ramble by tussling his own bangs, adjusting his sunglasses, fiddling with his watch, and taking a breath.

“… I didn’t count how many questions that was. Work it out.”

[youbloodymadgenius]

A Touch in the Dark (Modern!Ivar x reader)

A/N: This is my long overdue contribution to @fandomfic-galore 1k Followers Sexy Trope Challenge. Congratulations again 🎉 I'm sorry it took me so long, love. I'm sorry too because I just saw there's a maximum word limit. I obviously broke this rule 🙈

The trope I chose: one bed

The sexy prompt @fandomfic-galore gave me: mutual masturbation

I know the way I used the prompt is a bit unorthodox but well, what can I say? Ivar is a stubborn brat, he wouldn't have it any other way!

@mrsalwayswrite, thanks for betareading this for me, and thanks for your support, I really needed it 🌺

Let me know if you want to be tagged 😊

Divider by @firefly-graphics

Summary: stuck in the middle of nowhere with your boss, you spot a cabin and know that this is where you and he must spend the night.

Warnings: smut; masturbation; mutual masturbation.

Words: 4926 (🙈)

"You're fucking kidding me? You're doing this on purpose, right?" Ivar says angrily and you just shrug, rolling your eyes.

"I'm not fucking kidding you, Ivar! And how the fuck can you think I'm doing it on purpose? Just tell me, who's the one who didn't want to take a plane from Kattegat to Kemi and back, huh?" Making air quotes with your hands, you keep going, swaying your head. "Y/N, we will be more free with a car, we will be able to leave whenever we want, as soon as the deal with Harald is completed." You snort, hitting the steering wheel. "And now here we are, Mister Genius, with no fucking signal," you hiss through clenched teeth, waving your phone in front of his face, "in a fucking broken car, in the dead of the fucking night and in the middle of Norrbotten, in other words in the middle of fucking nowhere. Who do you think is to blame, huh?"

Ivar takes a sharp intake of breath. "Be careful, Y/N, don't forget who you're talking to. I've fired people for much less." He says curtly, and you can almost physically sense his boiling anger.

You scoff, undismayed by his threat. In the two years he's been your boss, Ivar has threatened to fire you at least five times a day. You know he won't do it, though. Because you're fucking competent in your job and also because you can put up with him. He told you once it was a refreshing change from your predecessors, scared girls who cried whenever he raised his voice. Your explosive nature – which matches his – is what, against all odds, makes working for him a success.

"Look, Ivar," you eventually say, not because you're afraid of him but because one of you has to be wise, and you know it won't be him, "we can go arguing for hours, or we can try to find a solution. We're going to freeze to death if we stay in this car, okay?" You tap your finger on the dashboard. "Before the fucking car died on us, the outside temperature was minus five degrees Celsius." And this is a fucking matter of concern to you.

You're sure Ivar has no idea about the little chitchat you had with his mother on the day you were hired, but you've never forgotten her words, nor their barely hidden threat. 'The cold increases his pain and is therefore my son's worst enemy. As his assistant, you have to always make sure his legs are warm enough. Ask for an extra blanket when staying at a hotel, turn on the heater in the car if it's cold, schedule appointments indoors except for the summer months. Do what you want but keep his legs warm at all time. I hope I make myself clear. Don't disappoint me, Y/N, I assure you I've got some power over Lothbrok & Co.'

"So, what do you suggest?" He asks without missing a beat, a little too eagerly, and that's when you know you're right. He must already feel the cold in his brittle bones. You won't say a word about it though. Pinpointing Ivar's greatest weakness might not be a good idea given how pissed off he is.

"Well, remember the big hairpin turn?" You point your thumb behind you. Ivar nods and you explain further. "I saw a cabin a bit after it. My father always told me that in remote areas, like this one, cabins are usually left open, in case of emergency. Guess we're about to find out if that's true."

"It's a long way to go." You know your boss well enough to know what he won't say. He's concerned. Truth be told, you're too. Reaching the cabin, several hundred meters away, will be no cakewalk for Ivar. But well, you have no other choice, right?

"Not that much." Your voice is too quiet, your lack of confidence obvious. You clear your throat before inhaling deeply. Better to tell the truth. "Okay, look. It may be a long way, but what else can we do? Without signal and without a car, Ivar, we're running out of options. I'll get our bags, I'll light the road with the flashlight of my phone and you, well, you just walk, okay?"

As he remains silent, you suppose Ivar nods. He eventually asks, anxiety clear in his voice. "What if it's locked?"

"One problem at a time, boss", you reply with a wink he can't see, "but don't worry, it won't be," a small smile spreads on your lips, "Dad's never wrong."

"You're fucking kidding me, right?" Ivar sounds like a broken record and you can't help but roll your eyes, heaving a sigh.

"It's not that bad, Ivar." And honestly, it is not. Even though the cabin is scantily furnished, you're positively surprised to see it's equipped with running water and electricity. You hastily turn on an electric heater that's covered in dust and about a hundred million years old, breathing a sigh of relief as it sputters a few times but eventually comes on. It won't keep you very warm but you guess it's better than nothing.

Apart from the heater, the room just contains a wobbly wooden table, two stools that have seen better days and what seems to be a full bed. Sure, it's not very large but it could have been worse.

"Not that bad?" Ivar roars as he limps towards the bed, leaning heavily on his crutch. Flopping down on the mattress, he stifles a hiss of pain. "There's absolutely nothing in here, no food, no drink. There's only one bed and I'm not sure about the cleanliness of... these..." You follow his gaze and you have to give him that one: the sheets are greyer than white. Too bad, but there's nothing you can do about it. Besides, it's not the end of the world, right? Your boss can be such a princess sometimes!

Well, you might be too if you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth.

"At least we're out of the wind," you shrug, giving him a tired smile as exhaustion sets in, "and we'll be able to sleep. You know what they say, Ivar. Tomorrow is another day." You feel your jaw opening and before you know it you're yawning widely, Ivar following suit. "We definitely need to sleep." You add uselessly as you rub your eyes.

"Guess we do," Ivar nods, then commands, "I'll take the bed and you can sleep on the floor," You stare at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. He can't be serious!

"You're... you're the one who's kidding now, right?" You eventually say, still a bit dumbstruck. As you look into his eyes though, you can see he's dead serious and it makes your blood boil. "Ivar!" You almost shout, crossing your arms and raising your eyebrows. "I may be your employee, but I'm not your slave. You can't just order me around and treat me like cattle!" He must be out of his mind, right? How can he even imagine you'd agree with that? The truth is, he should be the one sleeping on the floor. It'd be elementary courtesy, you're a woman after all!

The thought makes you cringe immediately though. You're not being fair and you know it. Sleeping on the floor would not be pleasant for you, sure, but for him you're sure it would be pure agony.

You know your boss never fakes his pain. And right now, if his tired look and the hand he repeatedly presses into his right thigh are any indication, you're willing to bet that the pain he's experiencing is excruciating.

That's why you decide to try to calm things down. "Look, Ivar," you speak in a soft voice, sitting down next to him, "I'm not thrilled about the fact that there is only one bed either, but at least there is one. I think we should make the best of it."

"What do you mean?" Ivar frowns, his right hand now massaging his calf. There's an uncertainty in his eyes you're not used to seeing. Or maybe is it fear?

"None of us are going to sleep on the floor. We're both grown-ups. We're going to sleep in this bed, together, because it's the only rational thing to do. And you know it. Besides," you add as you start to shiver, "I wouldn't say no to some extra warmth."

As he keeps quiet, barely nodding and his insecurities written all over his face, you decide to give him some privacy. Standing up, you grab your bag, taking your carton out of it. "I'm going to have a smoke outside while you get ready, okay?"

Lying on your side with your back facing him, you let out a barely audible sigh, upset yet still mindful not to wake your boss.

Although exhausted, you can't sleep. Despite the heater and the threadbare blanket you found in a cupboard, you're cold. So fucking cold! Your socked feet are freezing, and so is your nose. Plus, whatever you may have said to Ivar earlier, sharing a bed with him is definitely awkward and downright nerve-wracking.

Tossing and turning isn't an option with Ivar sleeping next to you – besides not wanting to wake him up, you're very afraid of unintentionally kicking one of his legs – but you know you have to find a way to release the tension and forget the bone-chilling cold.

Almost unconsciously, you lick your index finger before drifting your left hand to your chest, sliding beneath your shirt as you slip your right beneath the waistband of your pajama bottoms. Moving it down and down, under your knickers and past the soft curls, your index finger finds your clit while your other fingers spread your lips, and you feel immediately more at ease.

Touching yourself right next to your boss may seem odd, but not to you. First, you take it from his slow and regular breathing that Ivar is fast asleep. Second, having shared a room with your older brother all your teenage years, you are used to do it with company. Not making noise in this situation is second nature to you. You won't wake him up.

Circling the nipple of your right breast with your wet finger, you then pinch it, imagining teeth sinking into your firm, soft chest. With your thumb rubbing your clit, your other digits work their way into your vagina, immediately pumping into you. Your mouth drops open as you squeeze your eyes shut. Playing with yourself, you arch your back, bucking into the touch of your own fingers. You can all but feel a man's tongue – warm, wet and wide – licking and tasting you. Squeezing and cupping your breast, you suppress a whimper of pleasure, your face buried in a small, dingy pillow. Curling your toes, you bite your lip as a wave of heat spreads in your belly, your climax teetering over the edge and crashing down on you. Waves of pleasure wash over you, your body contracting around your own fingers, and you have to bring your left hand to your mouth in order to muffle a moan.

Fuck!

And that's when you hear it.

The faint rustle coming from behind causes you to freeze and your eyes to snap open. Holy shit! Holy fucking shit! You turn your head toward Ivar and though the darkness in the room doesn't allow you to really see his features or to clearly make out his face, you're sure your boss is awake and staring at you.

Sure enough, a second later, you notice a movement of Ivar's shoulder. "You not sleeping? Why?" Propped up on his elbow, his voice is raspier than usual, his words slightly slurred.

Despite feeling utterly flustered – and let's face it, breathless – you manage to answer him, mumbling in what you hope is a matter-of-fact tone, "Too cold." You're not technically lying, right? You were cold, and that's what kept you awake in the first place. Your palm still resting on your mound – as dumb as it sounds, you're afraid to move it for fear he'll realize, if he hasn't already, what you were doing – you have to swallow past the lump in your throat before asking the same question, "You? I could have sworn you were sleeping."

"Well, I wasn't." Ivar states flatly. You can hear him shift in the bed and you stifle a gasp as he drapes an arm around your waist. "I'm cold too." As he pulls you closer, your back against his chest, your eyes widen, the shock flooding your voice. "What... What are you doing, Ivar?" You can barely breathe as you try to convince yourself that there is no way he could know what you were doing.

"I think it's called spooning." There's a hint of mischief in his tone. He's so close you're sure he can feel how tense you are and you're afraid he can somehow guess where your right hand is. That would be so humiliating! "Come on, Y/N, you were the one saying that you wouldn't turn down some extra warmth, right? I'm pretty sure it will be more efficient this way, what do you say?"

"Guess you're right," you mutter absently, your cogs turning while you desperately try to find a way to get yourself out of the embarrassing situation. You're feeling nauseous. What could be more mortifying than being caught by your boss touching yourself? A knot of fear and shame forms in your gut and threatens to choke you as it rises into your throat. What were you thinking? Oh my fucking god! You have to figure something out. He cannot know. Your boss cannot know.

You lose your train of thought though as Ivar scoots, if possible, even closer, his hand resting on your right forearm, his legs now touching yours. Even through the fabric of his sweatpants, you can feel that they are ice-cold.

Shit. Aslaug Lothbrok. 'Don't disappoint me, Y/N, I assure you I've got some power over Lothbrok & Co.' Shit.

What a great way to bring you down to earth! You've been careful not to wrap yourself in the blanket, leaving most of it to him, but obviously it wasn't enough. Shit. You swallow, blinking several times. "Your legs are freezing, Ivar. Are you in pain?" You eventually ask, your heart suddenly in your throat. Ivar may be most of the time a tough boss, self-centered and short-tempered, yet you wish him no harm. And you love your job. And your wage.

As Ivar remains silent, you keep going, trying to wriggle out of his embrace. "I'm going to fetch your meds, boss, let me get up," you say with as much confidence as you can muster but Ivar just tightens his grip around your waist, trapping even more your right hand where... well, where it shouldn't be.

"Did I say I'm in pain?" He asks with a little exasperation in his voice, surprising you.

"No, no, of course, you didn't," you sputter, "but if you're in pain I should–"

"I'm not." He cuts you off, making you frown. You know he was in pain earlier, you're pretty sure he didn't take any painkillers so there's no way he's going to be okay now.

You let out a long sigh. "Look, Ivar, I know you don't like to talk about it but please, you can be honest with me. If you're in pain, just say it. It won't change the way I see you, you should know that."

Behind you, Ivar giggles, his hot breath hitting the back of your neck. "Actually, I was." His tone is suddenly playful and as his hand slides down your arm, getting way too close to your sinful fingers, alarm bells start ringing in your head. "But that was before..." He adds mischievously.

Your eyes widen. Deep down you know what he's getting at. But it can't, right? No, no, no, of course it can't. But what... what if? Your breathing quickens as you try to quell the panic rising inside you. You tell yourself that you're being ridiculous, that there's no way he could possibly know.

"What do you mean?" You finally say, your voice coming out weaker than you expected.

"I'm sure you know exactly what I mean, Y/N," he answers back, his hand wandering further down. When one of his fingers grazes your clit, your whole body stiffens and you have to bite your tongue to keep from screaming.

Bloody fucking hell!

Feeling ill, you close your eyes and for a moment you're afraid to faint from embarrassment. Never in your life have you felt so ashamed and you just want to disappear. Your eyes filling up with tears, you're glad that Ivar can't see you blushing. Yet, you know you have to say something. Anything.

There's no beating around the bush. Swallowing hard, you take a sharp intake of breath. "I... God... I..." You pathetically choke on your words, your voice is high-pitched. If you weren't so mortified, Ivar's silence would undoubtedly infuriate you. Right now, however, it's the least of your concerns. "It was... improper and unprofessional," you end up croaking pitifully, flooded with shame and humiliation, "I'm... I'm sorry, boss."

"Well, I'm not." Ivar's reply, quick as a flash, has you stumped for a good four seconds.

"You... You're not? How... How so?" You finally blurt out, bemused and insecure. You know what you did was way out of line. At this very moment, you can't begin to understand what's gotten into you or how in the hell you couldn't think that touching yourself right next to your boss could cost you your job. The thought sends a shiver through your skin. You're so screwed.

Seemingly unaware of your inner turmoil, Ivar keeps his hand on yours. "Like I said, Y/N, I was in pain. But what you did was a good distraction. It took the pain away, you know?"

Wow. You can't believe your ears. It took his pain away?? That's good news, right? Honestly, you wouldn't have been surprised to get fired on the spot, but instead Ivar is almost thanking you? It's just unbelievable! You can breathe a little easier, even though at the back of your mind there's that nagging thought that Ivar may be tricking you. Knowing his sharp mind, and even if he sounds sincere, it still could be. You better play it safe, right?

"I'm glad I could help." You actually mean it. As his assistant, you're in prime position to witness each and every day the tremendous amount of pain your boss has to absorb and it just seems terribly unfair. "Yet, I shouldn't have done that, Ivar. I'm still your employee."

"Let's say you're not then." He quips, leaving you speechless. Explaining further, you can hear the smile in his voice. "Tomorrow is another day, but for now you don't work for me. Let's say you're fired, okay?"

Carefully rolling over, your eyes search his face in the twilight as you put a hand on his chest. Frowning, you take a moment to process his words. You can't be sure but you think Ivar is still smiling at you. Where is he going with this? Does he want to fuck you? That would be a step too far, right?

Ivar speaks softly, as if reading your mind. "We won't do anything you don't want to, Y/N. I was thinking that I could..." He stops abruptly. There's something in his quivering voice, something you've never heard. He sounds... vulnerable. After taking a deep breath, he adds so quietly that you can barely hear him. "What you did earlier... I'd like to do it. To you, I mean. To... To keep the pain at bay, you... you know?" His hand that was resting on your waist finds your hip, his thumb stroking your upper thigh. "I mean... if it's all right with you."

God, what's happened to your cocky, intimidating boss? Ivar sounds almost like a little boy, insecure and maybe even frightened. Suddenly, you realize that you are in charge; that he wants you – needs you – to be in charge. You know with absolute certainty that the balance of power has just shifted. And for the first time since you've known him, your heart aches for him.

You're well aware that no matter how successful your boss is professionally, no matter how strikingly attractive he is, there aren't many women chasing after him. And it's probably all because of his legs, which is stupid in your opinion. But well, you get it. The unknown creates fear, right? But you, you're not afraid, neither of him, nor of his disability. Not at all. And well... you love the idea of being in charge for once. This is your time.

A smile he can't see spreads on your lips. "You're sure that's really what you want, Ivar?" You run your hand up his arm before resting it lightly on his shoulder. You feel more than you see when he nods. "It may be an issue then," you keep speaking, "While your.... offer is tempting, I'm afraid it'll have to wait."

You know your boss well enough to know he usually doesn’t' take no for an answer, so you explain immediately, as he lets out a short sigh, "I'm just overly sensitive at the moment. But," you add quickly, the words popping out before you can really think about what you're going to say, "I can think of another way to keep the pain in check, and a more effective one on top of that."

"What are you talking about?" Ivar's voice quivers, failing to hide his disappointment. This new side of him is so unexpected, it's almost unsettling. You wouldn't go so far as to say it pulls at your heartstrings but well, you're definitely surprised, and moved too. Mentioning it probably wouldn't be wise though, so you decide to keep it light.

"C'mon, Ivar," you say with a lighthearted laugh, "it's my turn to tell you I'm pretty sure you know exactly what I'm talking about. You know, there's nothing wrong with seeking your own pleasure. How could I blame you when that's exactly what I just did?"

Ivar gaps at your words and then remains silent for such a long time that you're afraid you've offended him. As you – for once – search for the right thing to say, he eventually murmurs between clenched teeth, "It... It doesn't work like that." His breathing short and uneven, you can feel how tense he is. "I'm sure you've heard the rumors about me... That... that it's not just my legs that are boneless... It's..." Gulping for air, struggling to continue, he takes a sharp intake of breath. "Well... They are not unfounded... The rumors, I mean." You know it's a most painful admission.

Sure, you've heard the rumors. That he couldn't get it up. That he couldn't please a woman. That his cock was useless. Although saddened, you never dwelled on it. Ivar was your boss, not a guy you had a crush on.

Right now, however, you just want to laugh. But since it wouldn't be very smart, you just smile, shaking your head. "Well, I've heard about the rumors, yes. I beg to differ though. You see, Ivar, I'm like Saint Thomas."

"Like who?" Ivar asks and this time you can't help but chuckle. You should have known the reference would be lost on him.

"You, stupid heathen!" You know he can hear the smirk in your voice. "Never heard of Saint Thomas? He was one of the twelve apostles. He doubted Jesus' resurrection until he could see and feel Jesus' wounds for himself. You don't have a clue what I'm talking about, right?"

Without giving Ivar time to respond, you drag your hand along his arm, your fingers tracing the line of muscles of his biceps. "Anyway, I'm just like him." Down his side, you can feel the ridge of his ribcage and then his toned abdomen. Playing with the hem of his shirt, your knuckles graze his flesh. "If I can see or feel it, I believe in it; otherwise not." Then your hand finds its way to the waistband of his sweatpants but as his breath hitches you stop your movement, your index finger just brushing against his crotch, his not-completely-hard-but-still-good-enough cock unmistakable. "And right now, I may not be able to see, but I know without a doubt what I'm feeling."

Ivar catches his breath in a startled gasp. "What? ... How? ... I... I don't... It never... How? ..." Babbling and stammering as words fail him, you realize that Ivar truly has never experienced something like that. Wow. He never got hard, not once in his entire life. Wow. No wonder that he can't think straight.

You must take charge. Now more than ever. You can't allow him to overthink what's happening. "I don't know, Ivar, but what I do know is that now is not the time for asking questions. Trust me." Reaching out, you grab his hand, bringing it to his crotch, "you should enjoy, just as I did earlier."

As you're about to take your hand away, Ivar wraps his fingers around your wrist, gently holding it in place. "Will you... Will you do it for me?" He speaks so softly you barely hear him, his whole body trembling lightly, and you're willing to bet he's blushing. Blushing! Ivar Lothbrok! "Please," he eventually adds in a shuddering breath and that's how he ultimately wins you over.

You never thought you'd live to see this day. Ivar, your "dictator boss" – also known as the demanding asshole among your colleagues – is not ordering you, not at all. Actually, he's asking, no, not asking, he's begging you. It sounds insane, yet it's happening and you're taken aback as you realize that it moves your heart. How could you turn him down? You can't. And, as crazy as it might seem, you don't want to. "Sure," you whisper back in the same breath, not allowing your inner voice time to tell you that there are at least thousand reasons why you shouldn't do it.

Your wrist released, you let your hand wander down, and this time Ivar doesn't stop you as you slip it into the waistband of his sweatpants, brushing your knuckles against his crotch and then rubbing his half-erected cock through his boxers, just a little. You can tell Ivar is holding his breath. The next moment, your hand works its way under the trim of his boxers and slowly begin to inch its way down. You start with feather light touches, fingers trailing across the length and then along the underside of his hardening cock, and Ivar pants and arches his back, his hips stuttering forward to meet your hand.

"Feels good, doesn’t it?" You say as you eventually wrap your hand around his shaft, stroking slowly. Precum is already soaking his boxers. He won't last, and it's not the point.

"Mmph..." You have to stifle a chuckle at Ivar's choked moan, immediately followed by a hoarse croak as you swipe your thumb across his leaking slit, smearing the drop of fluid over the head. When your free hand cups his balls with the gentlest of pressure, squeezing them lightly, your index finger grazing underneath, Ivar's pelvis thrusts forward, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat.

Your hand tugs and twists around Ivar's shaft, feeling the hot flesh throbbing in your tightening grip. You add speed and pressure before focusing on the head of his cock, playing with it and gently squeezing it.

The sound he then makes is almost pained and he tries to warn you but is only able to say, "I think I'm gonna..." before he thrusts up. Ivar comes in your hand, his cock pulsing, his back arching as he moans helplessly. As he literally falls apart, shaking and half-screaming, you work him through his orgasm, milking the last drop of seed out of his warm cock.

Sweaty and trembling and completely undone, he very slowly comes down from his heights, his breathing eventually becoming normal again. "Fuck, that was wonderful," he mutters, bringing a smile to your face. His next words, however, confuse you; you're not even sure you hear correctly. "Tomorrow morning, you'll be my employee again. I'm pretty sure I'm going to fire you again tomorrow night though. Just so you know..."

Huh?

You frown, replaying his words in your mind, trying to make sense of them. Oh, you may be tired – by the way, what time is it? – yet you're not completely dumb. You know what it is supposed to mean. Wouldn't it be nice if he let you have a choice in the matter? And first of all, is he serious? When you're in the heat of the moment, you may say things you don't mean, right?

Finally, after much mulling, you choose your words carefully, even though you're sure Ivar isn't exactly waiting for you to speak. "Well, you may be my boss, but I think I have a say in that. Maybe we can sit down and have a chat about it tomorrow, what do you think?"

You keep quiet, waiting for his reply, but nothing more than silence ensues.

Less than a minute later, you hear a light snoring; Ivar has fallen asleep.

The fucking asshole!!

🛡⚔️🛡

@waiting4inspiration @honestsycrets @lisinfleur @saldelys @gearhead66 @inforapound @readsalot73 @milkkygirls @xbellaxcarolinax @shannygoatgruff @zuxiezendler @hecohansen31 @lonewolf471 @fuckindiva @tgrrose @didiintheblog @peachyboneless @pieces-by-me @funmadnessandbadassvikings @ethereallysimple @destynelseclipsa @cocovikings23 @xceafh @mrsalwayswrite @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @pomegranates-and-blood @jadelynlace @grimeundglow @quantumlocked310 @alexhandersen-marcoilsoe-fandom @adrille88 @not-another-viking-fanfic-blog @fandomfic-galore

[schrijverr]

Tender

Trevor has bruised ribs. He doesn’t think it a big deal, but Sypha and Alucard are more concerned about him being injured and show him that he is cared for and that hurting is a big deal.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: injury, insecurity

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was dark outside and a fire was crackling. They had been on the road for some time now, trying to help where possible with the night hordes, now left wandering with no one to steer them. It was nice and comfortable to be out there for a while even if Trevor was bruised.

“Ugh, I don’t think I’m ever getting up again, my everything is blue,” he groaned as he dropped gently to the ground after returning from gathering some firewood.

“Stop being such a baby, Trevor,” Sypha told him, throwing a log on the fire.

“I can be as much of a baby as I want to with the entire forest ground trying to dig into all these bruises,” he pouted, not really meaning it.

“For a big bad hunter you do whine a lot,” Alucard picked Sypha side, because of course he did. Not that Trevor minded, it was hard to hold a grudge against the dhampir after taking down Dracula together and Trevor had found to his horror that he quite liked Alucard.

That horror had faded quickly and he had rolled his eyes at his ancestors, before happily befriending the other more along with Sypha. So he took their friendly ribbing with grace. Well… his form of grace that was. “You’re all so mean to me, I don’t deserve this.”

“Ahw, did we hurt your wittle feelings,” Sypha exaggerated a pout and put on a mocking baby voice.

“Is your ego now bruised as well?” Alucard added and both laughed as his misery.

It wasn’t that bad, just some bruised ribs, maybe cracked, but nothing more. A common injury on his part that he could function with normally at this point. Still, in the wake of their teasing he played it up, cradling his midriff as he pouted at them, which only made them laugh.

Sypha pushed his side gently with her foot, making him catch his breath slightly as she hit his tender ribs. “We haven’t even traveled that much today.”

He glared at her halfheartedly then snootily sniffed: “You obviously can just shoot beams at monsters instead of getting thrown around all day. That horde was large. And I got thrown into a tree, for your information.”

What he hadn’t expected was for them to look guilty.

“Hey now, what’s wrong?” he asked in confusion when both stayed quiet and the teasing atmosphere that had been there dissipated. “Aren’t you two going to make fun if my brittle little bones or something?”

“You broke something?” Alucard exclaimed wide eyes of horror.

“No, just bruised, maybe cracked them at worst, but I don’t think so,” he shrugged, wincing slightly at the action and completely unsure what to do with the reaction he was getting. “It’s nothing really, happens all the time.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Sypha practically demanded as she sat up, fingers hovering over his chest as if asking for permission to examine him.

“Guys?” He was now officially confused. “Guys, come on, you’re scaring me here. What happened? There is literally nothing wrong with me, no need to fuss. I’m fine. If it’s about the teasing that was fine too, I swear. I wouldn’t have gone along with it, if I was in any real pain, I promise. Just stop with those faces.”

Both immediately tried to school their concerned faces into something else as if to please him, but it wasn’t working and their concern was still prominent. Sypha broke first, recognizing in his face that he could still see the concern as she pleaded: “Can I at least check your ribs?”

“If that will help relax you again, sure,” he said, struggling into an upright position from where he had been slumped against his pack. In the corner of his eye, he saw them both wince with sympathy and he wondered why they cared now for something relatively routine.

The cross belts, once undone, were easily slipped over his head with minimum arm movement and pain and Trevor was glad his shirt buttoned at the front so that he could just slip it off, baring his chest to them.

When they saw they gasped. He looked down, but saw nothing too bad or out of the ordinary. His chest was obviously bruised, the outline of his ribs clear from where they had pushed against his muscle from the inside when he had hit the tree. It was swollen slightly, but it didn’t look too bad.

“Wow, it’s probably not even cracked. Nice,” he smiled, hoping it would lighten up his companions, but no such luck. They stayed passive, Alucard more so than Sypha, who looked upset. Still, she raised her hand to do what she had asked: examine the injury.

At the first press of her fingers he hissed. He couldn't help it and it was completely involuntarily, but she pulled her hand back as if burned nonetheless. He attempted a smile and said: “You won’t get to feel if it’s broken if you’re scared to touch. I can take it, Sypha, it’s fine. It’s probably not broken anyway, you won’t do more damage, promise.”

“How do you that?” she snapped, clearly upset.

Trevor didn’t know what to do with that. He had never seen her this upset over him and he tried to cheer her up, even if he didn’t know how. “I’ve cracked my ribs enough time to know what that looks and feels like. This is nothing. It just happens, no need to worry.”

“This happens often?” she yelled at him. Okay, so the comfort had not worked and he didn’t know what else could be wrong beside her thinking this was a bad injury instead of a regular one, so he looked helplessly at Alucard, hoping he would step in and save him.

Alucard was no help. “While I wasn’t a doctor, my mother was, and that looks pretty severely bruised. It will take four to six weeks to heal,” he said with a frown. “You said you bruise and crack your ribs regularly? Can you breathe okay?”

“What?” Trevor said, completely baffled. “I can breathe fine. A rasp or a stab here and there, but everyone has their aches and pains.”

“And pneumonia?” Alucard continued his interrogation as he crawled closer, now also examining Trevor’s ribs. “Are you easilysusceptible to pneumonia?”

“I would have died, if I got pneumonia regularly,” Trevor rolled his eyes. The dhampir must know hardly anyone survived that, especially since Dracula’s hordes has swept over the lands. The sigh of relief Alucard gave at his answer confirmed that the other was aware of that fact and had asked it out of fear that he did, which only served to confuse Trevor more.

“Then how have you treated this in the past? When was the last time this happened?” Alucard questioned him, hands ghosting over his ribs as Sypha watched along over his shoulder with great interest.

“I walked and lived on like a normal person,” he said, suddenly feeling very exposed under their heavy gazes and concern. “It’s literally just a bruise, we all have bruises constantly. I don’t- Can you fucking stop that?” he finally snapped.

Both froze with again that guilty, concerned look on their faces that Trevor was beginning to seriously hate.

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s fine? You’re both acting like I’m going to kneel over when it’s literally nothing. I’m injured all the time, this is just a little inconvenience to me and you two didn’t care before, so I don’t understand why you’re suddenly acting like it’s the end of the world that I got a little bruise now,” he ranted.

The gigantic bruise that covered a large chunk of his chest could hardly be called little, but those were not the details the others were concerned with in their reaction.

“You’re injured all the time?” Alucard frowned as Sypha exclaimed: “Of course we care!”

“Uh, yeah, I’m only a measly human, no regeneration for me and I don’t exactly get to stay out of the way of the big hitters. My whip may give me some distance, but it’s not really a shield,” he answered Alucard, because facing Sypha’s comment made him uncomfortable.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Sypha asked, genuinely hurt. “We wouldn’t have teased you, if we had known that you were in pain. And wounds need treatment, what if you got an infection? We could have helped, Trevor.”

“I- I-” What was Trevor supposed to say to that? That he was used to the hurting so much that it hadn’t registered as something notable? That he was used to pushing through alone? That he had thought they’d known, just hadn’t cared enough?

Something must have shown on his face, because Sypha’s fiery look softened as she gently took his hand. “Trevor, we want to know when you’re in pain. You’re our friend, we don’t wish to see you hurt.”

“Oh,” was his only stupid reaction to it.

“Indeed, oh,” Alucard said, before asking, “Can I look over your ribs? I trust you when you say you haven’t broken anything, but just to be sure.”

“Ye- yeah, sure,” he replied, still thrown off slightly.

Alucard pressed where the bruising was worst, making him hiss, but the vampire didn’t stop. He just worked on steadily until he nodded to himself, before leaning down and instructing Trevor to breath deeply, which he did even if it hurt slightly.

When he leaned back, Sypha urged him immediately to give the verdict with a curious and anxious: “And?”

“He is fine,” Alucard told Sypha what Trevor had already deducted, “He should heal perfectly if we keep him still for as much as possible and put ice on his ribs two to three times a day. There is no rattling in his chest and the only out of place rib seems to be old and already healed.”

“I can make ice,” Sypha said happily at the same time Trevor frowned: “Keep still?”

“Yes, Trevor, keep still so that it can heal,” Alucard said. “It’s a miracle your ribs are mostly in the right place still. And we don’t want you to hurt yourself while walking.”

Trevor was quiet for a moment, he really appreciated their concern and the fact that they did care and hadn’t just ignored him being in pain, but he was also a realist and hardened by the road, both with them and all the years by himself. So, he tried to gently break it to them: “Alucard, I appreciate that you care and all that, but we’re in the middle of nowhere and the best we have is a shaking cart while we’re getting attacked regularly. I don’t think resting is really an option.”

“Then we’ll camp here for a few nights,” Sypha demanded sternly. “We can set up here as well as any other place so that you can rest. It might not be the full recovery time, but a bit. Until you feel better. Wallachia can wait until you’re in fighting shape.”

He would deny it to his grave, but he chocked up a bit at that. And while he thought their concern was a bit over the top, it felt nice to be cared for again, that someone was willing to put aside more important things for him.

So, despite his mind telling him it was unnecessary, he gave in: “Sure, yeah, okay.”

The smile he got in return was worth the guilt he would later feel over leaving people to their fate with the night creatures still roaming around and he let them help him back into his shirt as Sypha summoned ice.

The night was still dark and the fire now burning low. The temporary camp would have to wait for the morning and the road for later. It was nice and comfortable anyway, to be out there, even while Trevor was bruised, because he also had Sypha and Alucard and that made it better.

[gareleia]

Of lullabies and lost puppies

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood

Word count: 2585

Relationships: Alphonse Elric & Edward Elric

Tags: Post-Promised Day, Hospitals, Fluff, Childhood Memories, Light Angst, Hopeful Ending.

Summary: Following the events of the Promised Day, Alphonse is stuck in a hospital. To cheer him up, Edward starts telling stories.

Read on AO3

"Hey, Al?" Ed whispers, in case he's dozed off again.

It's not that big of a stretch, considering that Alphonse doesn't usually stay awake for more than an hour at a time, and even then he's all quiet and groggy and tired and not all there. The doctors say it's not too concerning, that his body just needs to build up strength again and in a few months he'll be right as rain.

Ed still worries though. How can he not, when his brother lies there, all brittle bones and paper-thin skin? Every time he looks at Alphonse he has to fight the instinct to wrap him up in a bone-crushing hug and never let go. The only thing that's currently stopping him is the knowledge that with how fragile the boy is at the moment, he just might literally crush a bone or something.

And so, Ed refrains. Holds the skeletal hand with gentleness he never knew he possessed, places feather-light kisses on the hollow cheeks, whispers comforts and assurances when they're needed - and that is all too often, because in his years in the armor Al forgot how to deal with nightmares. For now, it has to be enough.

And it is. Honestly, Ed would be content simply watching from afar, basking in the glow of the wonder that is his brother, alive and breathing. The fact that he's allowed to be here, despite all his faults and sh-shortcomings, is a miracle. He's so fucking happy he could cry - has cried, multiple times, when he knew nobody was watching. He gets delightfully lightheaded every time he thinks of how it's all finally over.

They won.

"Brother?"

Al is looking at him with half-closed, clouded eyes and he does this adorable little yawn and truth this is all he's ever wanted and more.

"Still here" As if he's ever leaving his side again "How was your nap?"

Alphonse yawns again and stretches as much as his atrophied muscles let him. Ed wishes he had a camera.

"Wasn't sleeping. Just thinking. I'm bored."

"Sure you weren't" A grin. "We could read, if you want. They don't have any books here, which is weird, but I managed to negotiate a bunch of old magazines from the nurses. It's not much and they're mostly pictures, but we could make fun of old-people fashion. Maybe find something for Mustang's retirement party, he's so ancient that it could be any day now."

"Brother, be nice!" Al giggles, and he counts it as a win."

The day I'm nice to that bastard is the day I've finally lost my mind. If that ever happens, I fully expect you to spare us both the embarrassment and put me out of my misery."

"Ed!" His brother scolds and ouch.

"Sorry, Al. Too soon?"

"It'll always be too soon. Stop talking nonsense and tell me another story."

"Well, if you insist..."

They've been at it for days now. With Al too weak to do anything besides talking and sleeping, and Ed too paranoid to leave him alone for more than five minutes at a time, they didn't have much else to do to pass the time. Ed could get real books if he wanted - plenty of people who visited them brought gifts and care packages. But... It's selfish, he knows, but for now he wants to keep Alphonse to himself. In this little hospital room with just the two of them where everything is alright in the world and nothing else matters - not fights, not politics and not even alchemy.

"Actually... Do you remember the time we almost got a dog?"

"What?" Al chokes a little. "No! When did that happen?"

"Figures" Ed chuckles. "You were really young. Like, barely two? It's kinda fuzzy on the timeline, but B-Hohenheim was still there."

(He's so not unpacking that now)

"You were a really fussy baby, you know. It was like you had it all figured out already, what you wanted to eat, wear and do, and god forbid we got it wrong or happened to be in the way of your 'Big Plans' or something. You'd go all red and start screaming your head off until we managed to decipher which little thing offended your gentle sensibilities this time."

"Are you sure you remember right?" Al interrupts, cheeks flushed, "I think you're confusing us. I'm the quiet one."

"Yeah, right" Ed snorts. "You weren't very quiet back then. Babies are loud in general, but you took it to the whole new level. I'm pretty sure I learned how to walk just to get away from your wailing. All the neighbors knew when you were upset, and I'm sure the entire Resembool still remembers the Nappy Incident of 1901. Why do you think they're so nice to you all the time? Nobody wants a repeat of that."

He shudders. His poor baby eardrums. It's a good thing that Al mellowed out with age, because the world wasn't ready for two Elrics' bullshit, and Ed himself has no intention of cutting down on his own.

"Ed, the story!" His brother whines.

"Right. So. Where was I? Oh, yeah. You were a fussy baby. So one sunny day you decided that you weren't taking your naps unless either me or mom sang to you - you didn't want Hohenheim there at all, which made him depressed and pathetic until mom figured out you just didn't like his new cologne. And you wouldn't take just any song, it had to be a new one every time, or else you would start shrieking."

"Really?" Al mutters to himself, but Ed answers nonetheless.

"Uh huh. Spoiled brat." He smiles fondly and pats his head.

"So, a couple of weeks later we're running out of songs. You're in an especially bad mood that evening and it's taking me and mom a while to get you to sleep. Eventually, she has to run to the kitchen to check on the dinner and just leaves me there with my bloody siren of a brother, and I'm getting desperate. And then I remember a song I heard from the older kids, which I know you haven't heard before because it's sad as fuck. And, well, you're already upset, what do I have to lose?"

Ed sighs and runs his hand through his hair. As fondly as he remembers that day, looking back at it, he can admit it wasn't his brightest moment.

"What was the song about?" Al asks curiously. "Do you still remember it? And where does the dog come in?"

"I'm getting to it, Al." He insists. "And I don't remember the words, I was, like, three or so. But the gist of it was that a kid has lost his puppy and was looking for it. He didn't find the dog in the end, so. As I said, sad as fuck. You made it halfway through the second verse before bursting into tears. Seriously, I've never seen you cry so hard before. Of course I immediately shut up and so did you, so you'd think that all was good, right? Just forget about it and move on."

"Did I... Did I hold a grudge?" Alphonse's eyes are wide and it's the most lucid he's been in days. "Did I hold grudges as a baby?"

"You sure did," hums Ed. "But it's not what happened.  As soon as I shut up, you started shaking your tiny fists and demanding I do it again."

"Why?!"

"I don't know!" He throws his hands in the air. "I didn't understand that either! I thought, maybe it was a fluke, and you cried because of something else, but as soon as I started singing you were tearing up again! So I stopped and you got angry and I said: "But you cry when I sing it!" And you insisted you weren't going to cry again if I sang, so I did and of course that was a fucking lie. So that's when I put my foot down and said I wasn't going to do it again even if you screamed. And, as always, you took that as a challenge."

"Why don't I remember this?" Al sighs faintly. "You weren't much older than me, so how do you remember it?"

"Well, duh, I was traumatized."

Al swats lazily at another headpat and Ed effortlessly catches his brother's hand between his own two palms. As he starts rubbing it carefully, Alphonse makes a pleased noise and settles down.

"So, mom rushes in with you screaming your little head off and she can't make you stop either. So she turns to me and asks what happened here in the two minutes she was gone and I do my best to explain, and she just. Loses it."

"Did she get mad?"

Edward grins.

"That's what I thought. But no, she just burst out laughing so hard she was crying. There were tears rolling down her cheeks and everything. I figured I was in trouble and began tearing up. And then you stopped yelling and started crying too. I'm sure it was a sight, all three of us like that. Dad sure thought so."

Alphonse's little squeak startles Ed out of the memory and wipes the stupidly wide smile off his face.

"What? Shit, are you okay? Did I hurt you?!"

He quickly puts Al's hand down and makes a move to get up and call a nurse, but freezes as he feels his brother's grip on his wrist. It's an objectively pathetic  thing, barely tight enough to be noticeable, but it stops him in his tracks better than steel ever could.

For a second, he doesn't breathe. He knows it's irrational, but it's his brother, the most precious and important thing in the universe, and what if he hurt him-

Then,

"Ed", Alphonse says softly, almost whispers, and he sounds so heartbreakingly sad it hurts to hear. "I wish you stopped doing this to yourself. I'm okay. It's not your fault, you didn't hurt me. Please sit down."

Edward bites his lip and does as he's told.

"I'm not hurt, I was just surprised."

The interaction seems to have worn his brother out, but he still puts on a tired smile.

"Surprised by what?"

"It's nothing. Please continue."

"Fine, well, if you're sure. Just... Fine. Where were we?"

"'Dad.'"

"Oh, right. Also, I can't believe you still call him that, but you do you, I guess."

Ed crunches his nose at the thought of talking about their douchebag of a father, and Al's smile becomes even more tired and somewhat pained.

"Sorry, I'll shut up now. Anyway, Hohenheim walks in to check out the noise and finds all three of us in tears. The poor bastard looked so scared and confused. He just kind of stood there for a moment, trying to decide what to do, and then you got even louder, probably because of the cologne. And he started backing off, you know, like a coward, but then mom, who was still laughing, started making gestures at him to explain and then you threw a toy at himand holy fuck, it was glorious. His face was priceless. Eventually he just started frantically asking what he should do, what did we want from him. And you... you... oh, fuck, you just looked at him and went: "DOGGIE!"

Ed takes a second to steady his voice.

"And his face went all intense and stoic, like you just asked him to bring you the heart of a fallen star to grant you eternal youth. I swear, Al, in that moment he was a man on a mission. So he was like, "I see" and then he went out to take a breather. Mom calmed down shortly after and I don't remember how, but we finally put you to sleep. It was way past our bedtime and I was really tired myself, so I wasn't paying that much attention to what she did. And then he waltzed in with a proud smile and an actual dog under his coat."

Alphonse lets out a surprised laugh and Ed drinks the sound in, catalogs it neatly and puts it into the specific corner of his brain marked 'Reasons to live'. That box seems to be getting fuller by the day.

"I know, right? Mom was horrified. It was the middle of the night, and no one in the village has had a dog who recently gave birth, but there he was, holding a puppy and refusing to tell her where it came from. I don't remember how he managed to convince her to keep it, but in the end it didn't matter, because the next morning you woke up, saw the pup and freaked the hell out. I don't know if it was the song, or you slept funny, or you just felt like being a little shit, but you refused to tolerate her. And as much as I liked the dog, I loved you more, so it wasn't even a choice. Eventually even dad gave in and said it was best to get rid of the pup, so we gave it to our neighbors."

Al stares at him silently for a moment and he has that look on his face that Ed, to his shame, can't quite discern. Is it pity?

Still, he can pinpoint the exact moment the realization sets in.

"Wait, our father got us Den?!"

"Yup", Ed grins. "But I named her Carbon at first. Or, well, 'Ca'bon', 'cause I had trouble with the 'r'. Bonnie for short. Uncle Yuri insisted on the name change, which was dumb."

"You're dumb!" His brother sputters. "You can't name a pet after an element! Pet names are supposed to be cute! Like Fluffy or Snowflake or Sugarplum!"

Edward gives him a look full of fake pity, but he honestly couldn't care less about the god-awful names Al cooked up for his future cats.

"Nuh-uh. Pet names are supposed to be whatever gets the animals to respond and I'm telling you that Den still responds to Carbon. You can try it yourself when we go back to Resembool, and you'll see that I'm right. And when you do finally recognize my genius, you will beg me to name your cats for you. Just you wait!"

"I'm looking forward to it." Alphonse murmurs and curles up next to his arm, eyes already closing. "You'll complain about the fur."

"And the noise." He nods, smiling.

"'nd the smell."

"And it's going to be awesome."

And it is. Because they're together, and safe, and not dying, and they're going to stay that way. They're going to live long and happy lives, see the world, get married, have kids. Eat every last dish on Al's To-Try list. Rebuild their house. Die of old age.

It's an unfamiliar thought, but not an unwelcome one. Edward is a pessimist by nature, and he's not used to thinking about his own future as anything but a source of new pain, but. He could try.

For Mom.

For Alphonse.

For Winry.

For himself.

"We're going to be okay." He whispers, just to try it out, and he's in equal measure scared and excited to find that for once in his life he truly does mean it.

"We're going to be okay." He says, again - and then adds, just because he can, "Love you Al. Sleep well."

"Love you too, brother."

And if his eyes are wet, well. It's nobody else's business.

[tybaku]

Aches and Pains (bkdk drabble):

Izuku tears up when Kacchan turns his back to him without another word.

He feels stupid about it though, and a bit silly, since he’s acting almost like a little kid again, ever so possessive over his favorite toy. He tears up, and then stuff his face into his own shoulder in reddened embarrassment all while slipping into the beating aches in his body—the gentle and persistent thrum of a overworking machine.

“Kacchan,” he whines and mewls like it’s going to make any difference, as if Kacchan was just going to spin on his heel and keep him company in his early grave.

Kacchan isn’t like that though. Kacchan is stubborn.

So Izuku wiggles in place and take his own arms into his scarred hands, kneading the straining muscles weakly. “Kacchan, please. I’m dying,” he announces to the empty room, just loud enough to carry out through the open door and to the hallway, where Kacchan was loitering about and probably doing absolutely nothing of importance.

“Tough shit,” Kacchan calls back not nearly as loud, gruff if anything. It’s a fake bothered tone, Izuku knows, because he’s had years to become acquainted with Kacchan’s manner of speech. What kind of fiancé would he be if he couldn’t tell the difference? (Oh, that sounds nice. He’s a fiancé now. He’s so very blessed.) “Deal with it.”

Izuku throws his head back into their pillows, more so on Kacchan’s side of the bed (the right) and groans dramatically, hair spilling everywhere. He vaguely hopes Kacchan has fun picking out Izuku’s green strands from his pillowcase.

“Kacchan is so mean! Do you want me to cry?” Izuku asks, continuing to run his hands over his arms and shoulders. It’s nowhere near as soothing enough, and nowhere near close of a mimic of Kacchan’s warm, soft palms. “Kacchan, I’m going to cry. I’m crying, Kacchan. You made me cry.”

Miraculously, Kacchan appears in his beautiful, scowling glory. “Stop manipulating me,” he says flatly, glaring a hole into Izuku’s head on his precious pillow as he steps into their shared bedroom. “I already said no.”

Izuku huffs and puffs and then juts his lip out. “You’re so mean! Just rub my arms already, Kacchan! I have brittle old man bones!” Izuku squeezes the meat of his arms as some sort of evidence to the claim.

Kacchan however only blinks at him, not the least bit amused. “And who’s fault is that?” he asks in mild disinterest to his moaning and groaning, far too used to the entire spiel. Blah, blah, blah, rub my arms and something, something, you’re so mean.

“Villains!” Izuku says, still squirming. Kacchan rolls his eyes. “Evildoers and criminals! I feel so old. Just a small old man. My arms hurt. My back hurts. Give me massages,”

Kacchan walks over finally, but just to lean over Izuku’s frame, grab a pillow, and smack his chest with it. “You’re twenty five. And no means no. It’s not even your turn, asshole.”

Izuku makes big, sweet eyes at him as he grabs the hem of his tank top. “Kacchan,” he starts seriously before the eyes start to narrow darkly. “It’s my turn.”

Kacchan looks down on him, eyes just as narrow. He leans down slowly, easily dwarfing Izuku despite all the muscle the latter has packed on. Izuku instantly goes into hyperdrive, nearly every one of his senses honing in on Kacchan’s everything. He almost whimpers for two very different reasons.

“No, the fuck, it isn’t.” Kacchan declares sternly before pouncing on his prey, jumping right into bed and encasing Izuku’s hips between his thighs. Izuku’s breath gets knocked out of him, and he screams as Kacchan starts thwacking his pillow across his face repeatedly with no finesse.

“Kacchan! Stop! It’s my turn!” Izuku yells between the cushioned assault on his face. He’s had worse.

“Like hell it is! Give me a massage, you damn nerd!” Kacchan yells in separate syllables as he continues to attack. The grapple for the pillow back and forth, but the straining in Izuku’s arms leaves him on the losing side of their impromptu battle.

“No! Go away! Fuck off!” Izuku protests as he tries to cover his face.

Kacchan growls above him. “Watch your fucking mouth!”

“No!” Izuku screams again before sticking out his hands and pushing Kacchan back with all of his unquirked might. Kacchan topples to the end of the bed, disoriented in its sheets, and Izuku grabs one of the other pillows on their bed in his pause of confusion, welding it like a weapon.

“You give me a massage, Kacchan!” Izuku cries out, and then smacks his fiancé in the face.

This, understandably, was considered an outrage to Kacchan, and it leads to both of them having a full blown out pillow war, complete with loud battle cries, flailing limbs, and knocking stuff over. It goes on for about ten solid minutes, but Izuku gets kneed in the groin twice and Kacchan’s lip starts bleeding so they both call it off without a clear winner.

They both lie panting in their shared bed of shame dejectedly, Izuku crying and Kacchan halfway there.

Everything hurt, even worse than it did before. There was a worn sort of pain shooting up Izuku’s arms, and curling around his shoulders and thighs. He knew it must’ve been the same for Kacchan, since they both held similar symptoms for their chronic pain. Just another thing they bond over.

“Okay,” Izuku sniffles, hurting a bit too much to move properly, “how about we both give each other massages. And then we sleep forever,”

Kacchan breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to relax into the bed despite all the hurt grating into his muscle tissue all the way to the bone marrow. “Sounds good.”

Izuku gives a nod and then shifts around a bit to face Kacchan, despite his upper body screaming at him not to, and stretches his out his arms. “Me first? Please?” he asks in a small voice as he sets his hands on Kacchan’s shoulders. Kacchan lets out a long huff from his nose but nods minutely and gets to work.

Kacchan’s hands are amazing. They’re soft, but heavy and rough in just the right places. His palms are smooth against his aching muscles, but his fingertips are calloused and are able to expertly dig into any knots they come across. Izuku loves it.

“Mm,” he hums in mind numbing content, fluttering his eyes closed. “Do the thing, Kacchan. Please?”

And Izuku doesn’t see it, but he knows Kacchan rolled his eyes at the question. “You only want me for my quirk,” he says in a low, fake annoyed grumble.

“What else is there?” Izuku jokes in a soft voice, tone round and sweet in a tease. Kacchan doesn’t laugh, but he huffs with his entire chest and that’s as good as he gets when he’s in pain.

“You would know,” Kacchan throws back before taking his hands off Izuku’s skin and reaching out to the tired air around them. A small, staticky crackle of light then bursts in his palms, and the familiar scent of a pleasant, but mind-numbing sweetness wraps around them. Izuku’s eyes stay transfixed on the little firework-like explosions popping hotly in his fiancé’s strong, gentle hands. He does indeed love his quirk.

Kacchan stops the crackling after a few seconds and touches Izuku’s arms again.

Kacchan’s hands are magic. They feel like heaven. They’re so warm, and loving, and Izuku melts into them like a pat of butter to a hot knife. Kacchan is made of the sun and every star in the sky, surely.

Izuku purrs and hums and murmurs thank you’s and I love you’s over and over as Kacchan rubs out all the aches and pains of his weary body with his sweet and soothing quirk. His hot massages were the best.

“Mm…Thank you, Kacchan.” Izuku says one last time, already feeling a thousand times better.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kacchan says as he sits himself up with more effort than should be needed. “Shoulders now, please.” He rolls one half in emphasis, half in discomfort. Izuku smiles gently and sits up himself, quickly getting to work on his part of the deal. If Kacchan says please, Izuku can’t refuse him.

“Of course, Kacchan!” he chirps as he kneads his taut shoulders as heavily as he could, knowing Kacchan liked the roughness and weight. When he presses the into any knots he finds with his knuckles, Kacchan sighs in relief. “You’re tense,”

“No shit,” Kacchan mutters as he rolls his neck side to side, “Put your back into it.”

“I’m trying,” Izuku says, because he is indeed trying to do his best without any extra strength from his quirk. “What about your arms? Or your back? Want me to walk on your spine again?”

Kacchan just snorts and then shakes his head. “This is fine for now. Maybe later.” He hums in delight when Izuku’s thumbs knead the sorest spot between his shoulder blades. Izuku laughs quietly and can’t help but lean in to press a small kiss behind Kacchan’s ear, right over a little freckle.

“Love you, Kacchan.” Izuku murmurs kindly, loving the way Kacchan’s skin begins to glow a pretty pink.

“Love ya too, Deku.” Kacchan mumbles back with a sort of pout, eyes closed and breath slow but steady.

Izuku smiles.

[obnoxiouslylongandboring]

My Tunnels Are Long and Dark These Days

Featuring snapshots of the three most important road trips in Zemo and John's journey of working together.

To love is to pretend, don't try to love yourself again That is the worst kind of pain We're not those kinds of freaks, amen We're a different sort of breed of men

KARAKORAM HIGHWAY, CHINA-PAKISTAN

Zemo sat slouching in his seat, one hand hanging out the window of the truck, another draped on the steering wheel. The road stretched out in front of them, disappearing into the shadows of the mountains and forests. The sun was not up yet, it was early morning. 5AM, where no one rose out of bed but the office workers, the labourers, the soldiers coming out of their blanket shells. And where no one entered into slumber but the gravediggers, the night-shifters, the soldiers retreating into their blanket shells. The truck had been trotting along the road for hours, a small brown beetle with its headlights shining pale yellow, framing the one-meter radius ahead of it. Twenty-four hours ago had been when they first kicked the ignition into its churn in the region of Kashgar (a former trading town along the Silk Road), and when the prospects of a proper ceramic toilet had bit the dust. Twenty-four hours come and gone, with Zemo quietly helming the operation.

From Kashgar, they had traveled to Karakul under the cover of night, a journey that had taken them six hours. There had been no scenery of note but white moonlight glinting off the peaks of the two tall snowy mountains, Muztagh Ata and Mount Kongur. The shimmering scales of the Karakul lake had enraptured Zemo for hours, greeting him whenever a sharp jolt in the road woke him from his slumber.

And now, after resting a few hours at a local abode, they continued on to Tashkurgan, where from there they would go right into the borders of Pakistan.

A small muffled sound came from the lump beside him. “What’s the situation?” John mumbled blearily, poking his head through the covers. Zemo cast him a sideline glance, frowning at his sleep-mussed hair and squinted eyes. “It’s not your turn yet.”

With a snort, John closed his eyes again and rolled over, facing away from Zemo. He settled into another deep sleep.

A big, military-looking truck drove by them, momentarily blinding Zemo with its headlights. Heartbeat quickened in his chest, Zemo sat up straighter and observed the truck through the rearview mirror, hoping for its retreat. He glanced quickly towards his small driving compartment, doing a mental catalog of the materials there: a driver’s license, a forged visa to pass the border customs, fake passports with cover identities for himself and Walker… good, very good. All according to plan. Zemo rolled down the windows of his truck slightly, listening intently. The roar of the military truck did not fade into a distant hum. Instead, there was the screech of tires and the sudden whirring which indicated only one thing- Walker had better practiced the cover story that Zemo told him to, or the ensuing events would be catastrophic.

The urgent, piercing honking behind them startled John into wakefulness. He bolted up, then as if realizing that there was nowhere to go, settled back gingerly into his seat. “Zemo…”

Zemo tightened his grip on the wheels. Flexed his knuckles once, twice. Gently, as if petting a startled cat, rolled the ball of his foot over the brakes. “Anderson, don’t panic,” he says with practiced calm. “Remember what we rehearsed?”

“Yeah, Niki,” John replies. Though his face was carefully composed, the telltale twitching of his leg told Zemo otherwise.

All John had to do as Anderson was play the part of a slightly confused USA diplomat, heading from China to Pakistan over some matters of a proposed trade deal. Niki was to be his driver and translator, a man who had been an exchange student in China briefly where he picked up some basic Mandarin. Zemo had learned barely enough to get the both of them through a ten, fifteen-minute exchange. For the rest of his persuasion, he’d have to rely on the forged documents and the facade of confidence. If all went well, they would be sent on their merry way very quickly, and deliver all eight billion dollars worth of SHIELD information straight into the hands of Contessa. Of course, Zemo had taken an innocent, ‘accidental’ look at the confidential information, and deemed it useless enough to give to the woman. If it were anything that he found potentially dangerous, he would dispose of it immediately. Dry kindling could turn into a wildfire in Contessa’s hands, and that was the kind of risk he would never take.

“Stay calm. I will settle it quickly. The officers don’t want to make a big deal out of this either- we will be on our way soon,” he hissed to John as soon as he heard the crunch of boots on the tarmac.

Zemo rolled his window down to the silhouette of a heavily-clad soldier, who was covered head to toe in military gear. His eyes seemed to be narrowed, whether it was from suspicion or simply fatigue.

“有签证吗？” (Do you have a visa?)

“有。” (Yes.) Zemo reached into the compartment and retrieved the documents. The soldier took a quick look at them via the torchlight and passed it back to him. Then, tipping his chin at John- “他是你的朋友？” (Is he your friend?)

“他是我的老板。” (He's my boss.) Zemo struggled to recall the words for a moment. “我帮他翻译。” (I help him to translate.)

“对于游客来说，这时间挺早的。你们从卡拉库尔来的？” (This time of day is quite early for a tourist to be travelling. Are you coming from Karakul?)

Zemo blinked, processing the words. “可以…重复吗？” (Can you... repeat that?)

The guard sighed, then said slowly- “你们从，卡拉库尔，来? ” (You came, from, Karakul?)

The pieces slot into place in his head. 卡拉库尔 - Karakul. You… from… you came from Karakul.

“对，对。抱歉，我的华文不好。” (Yes, yes. Apologies, my mandarin isn't good.)

The guard laughed, but there was no condescension or meanness in it. “对于老外来说，发音挺好。” (For a foreigner, your pronunciation is pretty good.)

He continues, “好，好，谢谢。打扰你了。不多说了，你们走吧。” (Yes, yes, thank you. Sorry for the disturbance, you can go.)

Zemo, displaying the kindest smile he could, nodded and bade the man farewell. He turned off the lights in the car and smirked, knowing John could see it- This is how a professional works.

Another voice rang out, different from the one earlier. “先别走。” (Don't go yet.)

Zemo’s foot froze at the pedal. John’s expression was one of pure confusion and panic, his calmness now barely held together. Through the conversation earlier, Zemo had already sensed him vibrating with stagnant energy, and now it was manifesting in dangerous, careless ways. Zemo quickly reached out to touch John shoulder and calm him down- he's learnt that the other man responded best to physical contact, something he himself detested.

John’s wild gaze lifted to a point above his shoulder and lingered there.

The sharp rapping at the glass behind him are like bullets to his ears.

Zemo turns around, “为何…” (Why...)

His voice died in his throat. Standing there outside the car, equally shocked- Karlen Constantine.

Zemo could recognize that face anywhere. The rounded jaw, the brittle mouth, and that hateful, hateful look in his eyes.

The same look he gave when Zemo framed him for murder and left a two-million-dollar bounty on his head in Madripoor. Eight years ago.

Zemo takes quick stock of the situation. Judging by Constantine’s badges- high ranking. Heavily armed. A long, long road ahead of them. Walker has no shield, not yet. That was still in the process of being manufactured in Romania. Car chases weren’t an option. Evasion wasn’t an option. Anything other than negotiation would lead to their death. Zemo swallowed the saliva that rested heavily on his tongue.

“Karlen, please,” he says. John inhaled loudly behind him, he ignored it.

“You son of a bitch,” Karlen laughed gleefully. “Oh, this has made my day. I’m going to enjoy this.”

“What the fuck is going on, Zemo?” John snarled, ditching the pseudonym. He knew the game was up, the only question was how they were going to get out of this situation.

“Karlen, I’m invaluable to you,” Zemo continues carefully. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest, and it’s taking every iota of energy in him to keep his voice steady, to prevent the wave of panic from engulfing his mind. Any wrong word, any wrong move, and he would be dead within minutes. The car was bulletproof, but at such close range… with a shotgun, no less… Zemo knew the specs of the glass well, but he loathed taking risks. “I can-”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Karlen screamed, spittle hitting the glass. “Both of you, get the fuck out. Hands where I can see them. Slowly. Fucking do it slowly, or I’ll blow a hole in your leg.”

With steady breaths, Zemo complied. He could feel the adrenaline rushing up to his brain, reducing everything to a frantic pulsing in his muscles, the instinctual urge to run or fight. He got out of the car, hands raised to his shoulders, holding John’s gaze steady- don’t do anything rash. Follow my lead. And surprisingly, John did. He followed without a single word of protest, even though Zemo knew he was aching to throw a punch, to smash his fist into someone’s temple, or feel the satisfying recoil of a gun vibrating against his bones.

Zemo felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed between his eyes, at the same time that John jolted forward and cried, “No!”

“Don’t FUCKING move!” Karlen roared again, clicking off the safety. “Stay where you are or I’ll fucking kill him. Zemo, he answers to you, right? Tell him.”

Zemo glanced away to catch John’s horrified stare before his head was painfully yanked back by the roots of his hair. “Hey. Eyes on me. What did I say?”

“John, don’t move,” Zemo said slowly, grimacing as Karlen’s grip tightened.

“Now kneel.”

Zemo complied, breathing heavily. He could feel the fur of his jacket sticking to the back of his neck, and how hot his entire body felt, alight with energy. The aching of his scalp and knees had faded into a dull buzzing, overtaken by the hyperawareness of Karlen, his every movement, and Walker’s unyielding presence at his back.

As if sensing the same, Walker leaned forward carefully to place himself in Zemo's peripheral vision, discreet enough that Karlen wouldn't notice.

"Three years. Three years, I had to run and run and run. All because you stabbed me in the back, like the fucking coward you are. We were friends, but that didn't mean shit to you, did it? I'm glad your fucking wife and kids died. I hope they suffered. Oh yeah, I hope they screamed. I'm going to make this very painful for you too, Zemo."

Zemo's hands were trembling with the force of keeping them from Karlan's throat. It was taking everything he had to restrain himself. He tipped his chin up, looked straight into the matching pair of hateful eyes, and spat at Karlen's feet. "Fuck you."

It barely sounded like his own voice. The hate was thick sewer sludge, bubbling past the broken glass in his throat. A blinding burst of red splattered across his vision- Zemo flinched from the force at which the rage slammed into his mind. I will kill you. I will peel your skin from your bones, bit by bit. You're going to be screaming like a pig by the time I'm done. Constantine, you'll wish you were dead-

Karlen punched him so hard his entire body collapses to the side. Zemo tasted blood on his tongue, and god, it was pouring out of his nose. It wasn't broken, however- he turned his head just in time to prevent that. The lights look blurry- his eyes were watering.

Another kick connected with his stomach and Zemo cried out in pain, curling up into a ball.

Stop, stop, fucking stop, someone was shouting. When his head finally stopped ringing, he realised that it was John.

"You're friends with this guy?" Karlen laughed. "Oh, come on. He's just going to stab you in the back too. In fact, I'm sure he's already plotted multiple ways to kill you or fuck you up."

"He's tried," John laughed mirthlessly. His voice dropped into a low growl, a voice meant for spilling dirty little secrets- "Many, many times."

"And guess what, I'm still here. You aren't. A word of advice? Don't take yourself so seriously. You don't mean shit to him if you can't keep yourself around," John continued.

Zemo struggled to push himself back up, panting hard. He can't gather enough air to shout, stop talking. Those words laid like a brand against his skin, spelling out the name John Walker, a possessive claim.

I'm special, John Walker practically crowed.

And Zemo hated that he was right.

"If you like him so much, you can join him." Karlen laughed, raised his gun to John Walker, and fired.

He was fast.

John was faster.

The bullet buried itself harmlessly into the ground. The soldiers startle, reaching for their guns. One shot, Karlen's body dropped. The muffled thump launched Zemo's body into action. His fingers found a gun, and without blinking he whirled and pulled the trigger three times.

A few more shots rang out, and two more men are down.

Zemo swayed on his feet, but before he could collapse, there were strong arms around him, leading him to the car. He's shoved into it in a daze. John Walker entered through the other side, at the wheel.

"Shh. Shh. Hey. Hey, princess, look at me." A damp cloth was pressed into his hands, and he instinctively brought it up to his nose to staunch the bleeding. They're both breathing harshly from the fight. Gunpowder blue eyes stared back at him, brows furrowed. Light glanced off the mirror, staining John's hair a warm golden. Zemo was reminded of his vintage brass rulers, the beautiful old smell they had...

Wait. Light? He lifted his head to see the sunrise, then the time on the electronic clock. 6.05 AM. The tourist buses would be moving out soon, which meant-

"Drive," he whispered, and John kicked the car into high gear without a word.

"I'll text Contessa to put a roadblock on both sides and clear up the scene as quickly as possible. Once at Tashkurgan we'll leave the car, take the tourist bus, and blend in with the rest. I will arrange for Contessa to meet us earlier than was planned. When we arrive in Pakistan, we need to get past the border security. Even though we're compromised, this will not be risky. It's broad daylight and there are too many people at the border to cause a scene. The congestion will be in our favour. Clear?"

"Crystal."

"And the next time, I'll tell Contessa that travelling at night is a bad idea."

John frowned. "Hey, don't blame yourself. No one knew this was going to happen."

"We were nearly killed, John."

"Yeah, what's the big deal? Do you know how many times I've nearly been killed, Zemo? More than I could count. And trust me, this does not even come close." John laughs brightly. "We got outta there fine, yeah? Trust me. Not even close. It was a team effort."

Zemo looked down, and saw the slight quivering of his leg that John tried to hide. He dragged his eyes up to John's face, and recognised the tiny, near-imperceptible strain in his eyes... something you would not catch unless you were specifically looking for it.

You can be a really good liar if you tried, John.

"You're special to me, you know." the words came out in a rush, stumbling over one another. It sounded like a confession, and Zemo hated how it made his heart stutter, how his hands tingled, how the pain and the anger faded away into a schoolboy-nervousness.

The entire world, bottled down to a single response.

And he waited for an answer with bated breath, though he was uncertain of the question he had asked, if any at all.

My ending thoughts:

John Walker tells Zemo about love, like how a parent tells their child about the unobservable universe, about the untouched depths of the ocean, as if whispering: don't fear the unknown, for we'll explore it together.

Inspiration and images were taken from:

Zion National Park, United States (Utah)

Black Canyon of the Gunnison, United States (Colorado)

Trollstigen, Norway

Transfăgărășan road, Romania

Karakoram Highway, China-Pakistan

Images were taken from Google, not owned by me.

[hypnoticwinter]

Down the Rabbit Hole part 29

The FBI agent reclines the front seat in the big black Tahoe and gives me a look like I’m a little girl being stubborn. My nose is still a little stuffy from all the crying I’ve been doing, and my leg feels swollen and crooked and wrong, but the time for all that is past now. I take a deep breath and let it out and refuse to meet his gaze, glare out the tinted window at the fading afternoon.

Outside there are two more FBI men in big baggy blue windbreakers, chatting casually. One of them is smoking a cigarette, and as I watch him bring it to his mouth I feel a little gnarled pang of want, for it really has been so long since I last had one, and after everything I’ve gone through –

“How’s your leg?” the agent in the SUV with me asks, and I look round at him but don’t answer. He’s a big, broad man, probably somewhere in his forties or maybe his late thirties. His tone is calm and mild but his voice is deep enough that it feels like it ought to be accompanied by a rumbling vibrato I can pick up in my bones.

My leg is okay. Makado knew exactly where and how to kick me, it seems; after the FBI agents picked me up and carried me out of the gondola Makado got them to take me straight to the infirmary where a small, stone-faced woman looked it over and tutted at how they were treating me, saying that it probably won’t heal right, but they got her to just shoot me full of painkillers and throw a boot on it. After that I was able to walk, at least a little bit; I found to my immense surprise that with the boot I was actually able to put some weight on my right leg without it folding under me or my calf snapping in half. I examined it as best as I was able on the walk over to the parking lot and discovered that instead of the mangled wreck I was half-expecting there was just a rough scrape from the cleats on the bottom of Makado’s boot and only the slightest misalignment of the broad flat bone there. I could feel, I discovered, the part where my bone melded into the synthetic replacement the autodoctor had put in, a little ridged scoriation dividing the two.

“I have some ibuprofen,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his windbreaker, “if you need it.”

“I’m fine.”

My voice is dry from lack of use. I lick my lips, make a little cough in the back of my throat. He shrugs, puts the bottle away. “Suit yourself,” he says.

Another five minutes or so go by. I pointedly ignore him. Eventually he clears his throat. “It’s going to be a lot easier on you,” he tells me, “if you talk.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Oh, I disagree,” he says. “We’ve got a lot to talk about. Ever since Miss Veret gave us a call and told us what you were up to, we’ve had a lot of questions for you. I think you’ll find that you’d prefer me to be the one asking them.”

“Is that a threat?” I ask him, and he laughs.

“It is whatever you make of it, Miss Dzilenski.” He stumbles over the frontloaded jumble of consonants, overemphasizes the ‘e’ sound in the middle. Duh-zil-een-ski. Almost makes me wince.

“Alright,” I say. “What did Makado say I had been up to, then?”

It would probably be smarter not to talk at all, but sitting here in the blasting a/c in the back of the Tahoe is making me sleepy. It feels like I haven’t had a chance to actually sit and rest for what feels like ages, even though just earlier today I was just waking up from a day-and-a-half nap after surgery. I’d gone through the pumped-full-of-energy phase and then the ballast had worn off and I’d gone through the splitting-migraine phase on the way up and now at this point I just feel hollow and brittle and empty. Even though it’s cowardly I try not to think of Elena and how I’ve abandoned her, I try not to think of Makado and what she’s done, but it’s futile. Rage and despair course over me in alternating waves and I haven’t a clue as to how to adequately deal with either.

The FBI man offers me a tissue and I realize with a start that I’ve nearly begun crying again. I wipe at my eyes as best I can with my cuffed hands and leave him there, hand outstretched, until he sighs and takes his hand back, tosses the wadded tissue on the floor. “How’d you end up here?” he asks me. I stare back at him. He reaches over, takes a slim manila folder from the center console, leafs through it. “Not a lot on you in here,” he says. “Except for that whole thing with your father.”

I stiffen.

“Must have been hard,” he says, neutrally.

I know I’m being baited and I ought to stay quiet but I can’t stop myself. “You don’t know the first thing about it,” I tell him, “so you should just shut up –“

“On the contrary,” he says smoothly, turning a stapled, glossy page and squinting at the next. The first page hangs over the edge of the folder and I can see through it to the other side, see the painfully familiar mugshot that’s been etched into my brain, little fourteen-year-old me, her eyes red from crying, trying hard to keep a stiff upper lip, staring defiantly into the camera, still wearing the lumberjack shirt she’d begged her dad buy for her as soon as they made it to Illinois and the nights started to get cold. “I know a lot about it,” the FBI man continues. “I’ve got the entire report right here.”

“If you read the report,” I say, trying to keep my voice level, “you know that by now it’s ancient history. It happened twelve years ago.”

“Yes,” he says, “and now twelve years later you’re in another mess. I suppose you’re going to blame somebody else this time as well?”

The words strike me with about the subtlety of a sledgehammer but I still stiffen in the backseat, my fists clenching so hard that my nails dig into my palms. “Fuck you,” I blurt. He continues on as though he didn’t hear me.

“I don’t know what exactly they’re planning on charging you with, but I know it’s at least a few dozen counts of manslaughter, and possibly a couple of murder charges. Then there’s all the human trafficking you and your partner Peter Caum were doing. Did you really think you’d be able to get away with that?”

My mouth dropped open about halfway through. “So that’s how it is,” I say. I feel like I’ve been struck by lightning; my heart is going about a million miles an hour and all the hair is standing up on my arms. I feel claustrophobic suddenly, here in the back of the SUV, my hands cuffed together, my leg throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

The FBI man’s eyes flash beneath his glasses. “That’s how what is?”

“Makado is trying to blame all this on me,” I tell him, knowing that it’s futile, that maybe it’s even actively detrimental to say anything, but I – I can’t just say nothing, I can’t just –

“Are you saying that she’s the one responsible for this?”

I swallow and nod.

“That Makado Veret,” he says, tossing the folder to the side and fixing me with his full attention, “the Chief of Security for the Permian Basin Recovery and Superorganism Containment Corporation, that Makado, has really been trying to smuggle people inside the Pit, with the help of a disgruntled ex-Park Ranger and mental patient, for…no real apparent purpose other than to fleece desperate people of their money?”

“Yes,” I say softly. It’s pointless. He isn’t going to believe me.

“And you are,” he continues, “the same Roan Dzilenski who has a documented history of lying to law enforcement authorities?”

“I was fourteen!”

“So you aren’t denying it? That you have lied to the police before?”

“I –“

“I mean,” he says, speading his hands, “it was a juvenile offense. And it was overturned. You got off scot free.”

“I did not get off scot free,” I tell him. “I’m tired of this. You’ve got the fucking report, you can read it. Either arrest me or don’t.”

“Fine,” he says. “If that’s what you’d like me to do.”

I lick my lips. “Look,” I say, trying to think of how to phrase it, how possibly I can tell him and get him to believe me. He gives me an expectant look. “Look,” I say, a little more softly, “this is all fine, but right now there’s someone down there inside the Pit who’s hurt. Someone who might die if I can’t get to her. And if you arrest me –“

The FBI man laughs, cutting me off, and rolls the window down to signal to the other two men in windbreakers. The tall, thin one with the cigarette tosses it on the black asphalt and grinds it out with his foot, and then he gets in next to me. I can still smell it on him. And then the other gets in the front seat and, after a quiet, murmured conversation with the man who’d just been grilling me, pulls us out of the parking lot and onto the curving road that reaches around the back of the ranger barracks and over to the main road back to Gumption. I feel as though I’m going to be sick.

The sky is terribly blue and for a long while I have a hard time recognizing it, I stare at the clouds passing by outside the window and wonder at them. The world feels strange when it isn’t pitch-dark and smelling of meat.

And, god, Elena –

I’m done crying. I can’t do anything for her now. I – I wasn’t good enough. I didn’t see it coming, I didn’t see that Makado was just using me.

I suppose I will process all of this later, in a jail cell somewhere. Right now I don’t have the ability to handle any more. I lean my forehead against the cool glass next to me and shut my eyes. I’d rather think about something else.

 * * *

 “Now remember,” my father is telling me, “it’s going to be hard to pull that trigger, but if you just squeeze it steadily it’ll be okay.”

“But daddy,” I start, but he just ruffles my hair like he always does and adjusts the revolver so that the two little legs stuck to the barrel sink a little deeper into the berm we’re both laying on.

“Now go ahead,” he tells me, his voice gentle, “and line up those two little bits there with this one in the front.”

I close my left eye and peer down the ridged metal spine of the thing. Just holding it makes me nervous, it’s like holding a power tool, like holding the big reciprocating saw he keeps down in the garage for his woodworking. It’s heavy and weighty and purposeful. “Okay,” I murmur.

“You’ve got them lined up? The one in the front should be in the middle of the rear two, and it shouldn’t be higher than the rear two.”

“Yes.”

“Alright, now, line the whole thing up with that beer bottle over there.”

“Which one?”

“The Blue Moon bottle over there on the left.”

I shift the gun over a little and then line it up again. “Okay,” I mutter. The little green bead in the front rests just above the label, but now it’s up too high, it’s poking above the line made by the back two bits.

“Remember to focus on the sights, not on the target. If you focus on the target you won’t be able to tell whether the sights aren’t aligned. Keep your eyes right here,” my dad tells me, pointing to the front of the pistol. I nod.

“Got it.”

“Okay. I’m going to move the cylinder now so that the hammer is over the chamber with the live bullet in it. When you pull that trigger the gun will fire. Got it?”

I swallow hard. I can see the back of the cartridge in the little cutout for it on the left side of the gun. My dad told me it was so you can see whether it had already been fired but I don’t know how that works. As I watch he reaches down and moves it so that it’s in line with the barrel. “Daddy,” I say, “I don’t know if –“

“Hey, it’s going to be fine. Now, it’s going to have a hard kick, but I’m going to be right here holding it with you, okay?”

“Okay,” I say again. Down there, maybe about fifty feet away or so, the sunlight is glinting off the darkened glass of the Blue Moon bottle. My father places his hands loosely over mine; his skin is calloused and rough. He is a carpenter but only during the day, at night he writes, holed up in the den with the door cracked open so if I want to I can sneak up and peek in, see him tapping away at the enormous computer with the cathode-ray screen, the big stuffed buck’s head on the wall just behind him, angled just like his, echoing his. I want to write like he does when I get older.

His hands are just over mine. They’re very warm, and so big compared to mine. I still have a band-aid on the ring finger of my left hand from where I tripped and cut it open on the ground outside the motel yesterday. Dad was proud of me for not crying about it but I wouldn’t have cried about something like that for a long time. Even this young I’m serious, more serious than either of my parents. Right now my father is being very serious and it isn’t something I’m used to. It makes me feel nervous, like I’ll do something wrong.

“Whenever you’re ready, keep the sights lined up and pull the trigger back slowly. It’s got a bit of a weight to it so you’ll have to squeeze hard, but it’ll shoot.”

And so I pull the trigger back slowly. My hand is shaking a little but that’s just from how hard I’m holding the gun. As the trigger moves the little metal lever on the back of the gun moves too, and I glance over at my dad. “Is that supposed to –“ I start, but he’s already nodding at me.

“That’s the hammer, that’s what actually hits the cartridge to make it fire. It has to drop down onto it to do that, so when you pull the trigger what you’re doing is bringing the hammer back and then dropping it. Go ahead and shoot, baby.”

I keep pulling and the hammer keeps going back and back and back and what I realize is going to happen is that there will be a point where it’s all the way back and then it’ll fall and the gun will go off and scare me half to death, and I keep anticipating it and it doesn’t come and eventually it’s too much and I ease off of the trigger. My dad stares down at me wondering if something’s wrong, takes his hands off of my hands and starts to lean over, and the thought of having to explain all this to him is far too unpalatable for me, so instead I squeeze my eyes shut and jerk the trigger back as far as it will go, and the gun roars so loud that for a moment I wonder whether I’m even wearing the big bulky earmuffs my dad handed to me.

The pistol leaps out of my hands and then something slams into my face and I cry out and clap my hands to my nose. The revolver is lying there on the berm, kicked over onto one of its little legs, and my nose is bleeding. My dad looks like he doesn’t know whether he wants to yell at me or cheer for me. Instead he just hugs me to him before I can start crying and points down at the beer bottles. “You did it,” is all he tells me, and when I look I see that the Blue Moon bottle, amber-hued and glossy, has disappeared, and even though I’ve gotten blood all down the front of my new plaid lumberjack shirt, I can’t stop staring at the place it would have been, can’t stop grinning at the knowledge that I did that.

 * * *

 The glass jostles against my forehead and my eyes flick open. I’d drifted away for a second there. Then the noise begins and the man driving slams on the brakes, sending us screeching to a halt. “What the fuck was that?” he cries.

I know what it is, of course – it’s the Pit. What else would it be? What else can open its gaping mouth and scream like that, scream from its belly, miles and miles and miles deep, channel the sound out into a pinprick-tiny orifice and make it shriek for kilometers? The noise is throbbingly deep, rattling into our bones and setting my teeth vibrating unpleasantly, but also somehow manages to screech upwards into a high keening wail that drags on and on and on…

The FBI men look shaken, at least. I’d heard groans and moans and shrieks like this down in the Pit, but none quite so angry, and definitely none as loud. It makes me wonder if there’s something different about this or if the sound is muffled, down there in the Pit, muffled by the flesh everywhere. Maybe it carries differently.

There is another low resounding thump and again the ground shakes. I freeze. If we can feel it here on the surface –

The FBI men glance at each other, and the one in the passenger seat, the one who’d been interrogating me, nods. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he tells the driver, who puts the SUV back in gear and starts off again down the road, moving at a faster clip than before. He isn’t quite gunning it but he’s getting close. The one in back sitting next to me leans forward.

“Did they say anything about this?” he asks. “Is it like a test or something? I heard –“

I never hear what he heard, though, before the ground erupts like a bomb maybe two hundred yards to our left and a vast stream of – of something hurls upwards into the sky. The driver cries out in shock and for a moment all of us are just staring out the left side of the SUV, watching as a nauseatingly pale pillar of flesh hovers there, sticking out of the ground at an obtuse angle, quivering in the waning sunlight. It must reach a couple hundred feet into the air at least, and it’s as thick as a redwood, or maybe even a couple of redwoods, it’s hard to tell from this distance. It curls inwards on itself and slams into the ground and begins scrabbling around on the ground, splintering trees and bushes and rocks, crushing them beneath itself.

“Makado was right,” I breathe, watching the tentacle writhe like a blind, pale worm. “She was right, it is waking up.”

“What did you say?” the man in the passenger seat asks, but before I can repeat myself there is another echoing roar and another tentacle, a smaller one this time, bursts out of the ground just before us. The driver screams a profanity and tries to turn but the big fat SUV is too damn slow. We strike it at an angle instead and it is just enough to flip the car.

It all happens incredibly quickly. I’m very lucky that the man who got in next to me buckled me in; he neglected to do the same for himself and got tossed around the cabin like a ragdoll, slamming into the ceiling and then falling through into the back and rattling around back there like a roulette ball. The two in front are a little luckier; they both had buckled up but I see the one in the passenger seat strike his head hard against the window next to him, hard enough that the window cracks, and when his head reels back I see a flash of bright red blood mottled in his hair and dripping down his forehead. The driver is still tugging desperately at the wheel, his instincts screaming at him to do something at least, but it’s useless – we flip end over end three times before the car settles onto its side and comes to a halt.

Aside from nearly being strangled by my seatbelt, I come out of it okay. I knocked my leg against the front seat a few times but with the boot on it isn’t nearly as bad as it could have been, and then when the front windscreen burst inwards I did end up with a few cuts on my face, I think, and the same bruised spot on my cheek where Klaus struck me is aching like hell.

I think I screamed, that’s all; it’s like my brain shut down as soon as we flipped and I was simply running on automatic, no conscious thought required. I remember bringing my hands, still cuffed together, up to protect my face, and I remember clenching just about every muscle in my body tight enough to leave me with a lingering ache in my abs once we rolled to a stop, but somehow I haven’t done myself any lasting damage.

It takes me only a couple seconds to realize that this might be my big break, and then I spring into action, slamming my fingers down on the release for the seat belt and rocketing out of the SUV as quickly as I can. The driver yells at me, apparently still conscious as well, and I snap a terrified glance back at him, but he’s trapped – I can see now standing on the outside that his door is crumpled inwards and jammed into the frame, and what’s more it doesn’t look like he’s able to undo his seat belt, although I can’t tell whether it’s because it’s jammed too or because the man is injured.

Behind me the roars continue unabated. There is the faint ratcheting wail of a siren coming from the facility, over the lip of the hill, just there to my right.

The man with the glasses who cracked his head on the window, he has the key to my cuffs. I sprint around the back of the truck, tear the passenger door open as quickly as I can. He falls out, lands on his belly in the dirt, and then I am rummaging through his pockets; not here in the jacket, not on the other side of the jacket, not in the left back pocket…

I can feel my panic mounting as I rifle through his things, trying to ignore the angry cries of the man in the driver’s seat, telling me to stop, telling me that I’m going to be in really fucking big trouble if I don’t come around and help him get out of the damn truck. I shut him out, I don’t even look at him. Where is the fucking key? If I can’t find it, if it’s fallen out of his pocket somewhere when the SUV flipped –

There is a raw, wet noise next to me and I glance over. The tip of the tentacle, glossy with slime and bleeding from a dozen skin-deep cuts, from rocks and sticks and just abrasion with the ground, is nuzzling at the deflated rear tire of the SUV. It’s insane how normal it seems to me. A month ago I would have figured I was going insane if I had seen something like this grubbing around on the ground like someone trying to reach a potato chip they’ve dropped on the floor. Where is that fucking key? Goddam it –

I take a step, dragging the FBI man with me, or at least trying to, because the fucker is heavy, and immediately the tentacle jolts in my direction. I feel a scream catch in my throat but I manage to clap a hand to my mouth and stop it. The sound? No, that doesn’t make any sense, the thing’s skin is smooth and clear and bereft of anything close to being an ear. Vibrations then, that must be it.

I eye the thing. The end is blunt and about as narrow as a baseball bat but it widens out to about as wide around as a tree trunk a little further down. It’s obviously very strong; rippling bands of muscle shift beneath its thin skin. If it got wrapped around my leg –

“You fucking bitch!” the driver curses at me. He’s still yanking fruitlessly at the seat belt. I see the tentacle’s skin twitch with each word, and then it snakes its way under the SUV. “You bitch! I swear to god, if you don’t come over here - !”

I have one last pocket to search. Rear right. Wallet, what feels like a package of breath mints or chewing gum, a piece of paper…no keys. I shove my hand in deeper, all the way to the bottom, and then I find it, the tiny metal key brushing against my fingers. My heart jolts in my chest and I pull it out as quickly as I can and then try to unlock them myself, but it’s no use, I can’t reach it. “Fuck,” I murmur, out loud, and then glance carefully at the tentacle. It’s wrapped itself all the way around the SUV. At this point the man inside has seen it. It sounds like he’s having a panic attack.

I start to back away slowly, just as the tentacle flexes and lifts the SUV into the air. “Holy shit,” I murmur before I get a grip and shut up. The tentacle seems satisfied with its prize, though – it doesn’t pay any attention to me. There’s more commotion inside the SUV and then – I jump – a few gunshots. I see them slap into the tentacle’s flesh, puffing out sprays of blood, but it’s entirely futile. The tentacle flexes and crushes the SUV with the ease of someone crushing a can of Coke and then it whips back down into the dirt, still clutching the SUV, and then they both are gone.

My heartbeat is very loud in my ears. The enormous tentacle off in the distance is still scrabbling around someplace else, pointed off in the other direction from me. My hand have gotten very sweaty and I’m scared I might drop the key someplace, but I haven’t got anywhere else to carry it. I take a step tentatively, cringing in anticipation, waiting for another tentacle to burst out of the ground and scoop me up, but when none are forthcoming, I break into a hobbling sprint and make for the facility. I have to find someone who’ll be willing to uncuff me, who might be willing to help me get back down into the Pit so that I can find Elena –

The thoughts die in midstride. I crest the ridge and stare down at the wreckage below me. There are three more tentacles of roughly the same size as the first rooting around the wreckage of the administration building, which looks as though it’s been peeled open like a tin of sardines. Before me, down on the road, a Humvee speeds by, and then another. There are people rushing all about the sedative plant, and I wonder if they’ve done anything, if there even is anything they can do. Can they turn it up to 11, pump even more sedative into the thing? Would that even work, does it have a tolerance for it?

The exclusion plate, at least what I can see of it from this vantage, is cracked into three pieces, and beneath is just pale skin basking in the orangey sunset.

As I watch, one of the tentacles shudders and flops to the ground. I can feel the impact throb through my soles all the way from here. A dust cloud rises from beneath it.

I scan the line of intact buildings nearest me and then slowly, unwillingly, I grin and start to make my way down the slope.

For there, just down the hill and across the road, is the ranger barracks. And there, in the third window from the left, a light shines, and I can see Fumi’s unmistakable shaggy silhouette outlined in it.

 * * *

 When he opens the door after about five minutes of knocking I push in past him and scan the room. “Roan!” he blurts. “What the fuck are you doing here – “

“Fumi, there’s no time. Are we alone?”

“Well, yeah, but –“ he says, and then he breaks off. He’s glimpsed the cuffs around my wrists and I give him a little sheepish grin. “What’s going on?”

“I should be asking you that,” I tell him. “Why’s the Pit freaking out? And why are you in here and not -”

He blows his breath out, and glowers. “Firstly, Makado’s taken a Tunneler down to get that crystal. Those always piss off the Pit and I guess after 2007 it decided to grow some extra appendages near here that we weren’t aware of and now it’s putting them to good use. And secondly,” he shrugs, “I think they just forgot about me. I’ve had my radio on and I’ve been waiting to respond but I never got a call. Not really complaining.”

I hold up my hands. “Sorry – Tunneler?”

“It’s what they used to make a lot of the bigger tunnels in the Pit. You ever seen those big digging machines they use to dig train tunnels and stuff through solid rock? Think that but bigger and grindier. It’s got vacuums to suck away the dead flesh, cauterizes as it goes, the works. Pisses the Pit off like crazy, though, and now that it’s hungrier these days I guess it got mad enough to pitch a fit about it. They still have two or three of them in a hangar, sitting around from the old Anodyne days just in case they ever need them.”

“Jesus Christ,” I murmur. “And they – Admin or whoever – they let her do that?”

Fumi laughs. “I guess,” he says. “I heard she stormed into Admin and raised a huge stink about the crystal, told them this was their last chance before the Leechman vanishes with it, and they signed off.”

“Fuck her,” I growl. Fumi looks a little taken aback at how bitter I sound. He starts to ask something but I shake my head. “There isn’t time. Help me out of these. Please.”

Fumi mutters a curse under his breath and takes the key. The cuffs fall away from my wrists and clatter on the floor and I am so relieved I don’t know what else to do but hug him. He smells of sweat and cigarette smoke but at the moment I don’t care. His hands flutter, startled, before they close around me and he holds me gently. He pats me on the back after a moment, and I draw away from him. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “I was just –“

“I get it,” he says. “Look, why don’t you just get out of here? With all this chaos it’d be easy to –“

“No,” I tell him. “I can’t, I can’t just leave. I have to get back down there.”

“Roan,” he starts. Something about his tone puts pressure on some place in me that’s been bending and bending and finally I snap.

“Fumi,” I say, my voice harsh, “Elena is down there. Maybe she’s already dead, but if she isn’t, she needs me. Nobody else is going down to get her, especially not now.” As if to punctuate my argument, there is another crash from nearby as a tentacle slams into the ground. Fumi nods, explaining that they’ve probably upped the sedative dosage and it’s finally taking effect. His face grows more serious.

“Do you know if she’s still alive down there?”

“No,” I admit. “But if she’s dead I – I have to know. I just have to. Now you can either help me or not, but if you don’t, I’m probably going to end up dead,” I tell him. I marvel at the perfect calmness in my voice. “One way or another, because I’m not experienced enough, because I don’t know the landscape, whatever. But I’m going down there, and that’s final.”

I stand there staring up at him, my hands balled into fists on my hips, and am relieved when his shaggy face breaks open in an unwilling smile. “Alright,” he says after a moment. “But I hope you know a way down, cause there’s no way we can get in through the main orifice now. When the Pit bucked it cracked the plate and wrecked the gantry up here.”

I bite my lip. “Couldn’t we use whatever hole Makado made with the Tunneler?” I ask. Fumi shakes his head.

“No, it’ll be practically vertical. You could maybe rappel down it if you had a whole team to support you but we won’t.”

I utter a mumbled curse. I feel like punching something. If I’ve come all this way and I can’t go back down and get Elena because Makado bored a hole into the Pit and it threw a fit about it –

I stop. Fumi raises his eyebrows. I look over at him and grin. “Fumi, I know how we can get in.”

“Okay, but how - ?”

“There’s no time,” I tell him. I grab his hand and drag him over to the equipment locker in the corner. “Get a suit on and then help me with mine,” I tell him, crouching down to take the boot off. “We’re going to save Elena.”

Continue with Part 30

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[movedkagen]

right back at ya,     @guroshi​ !

He’d never been caught before. 

Despite his very obvious restriction regarding cursed energy,     Toji Zen’in   ( ‘Fushiguro’ was a name that would come later )   had never been caught by a person he was pursuing.     He moved soundlessly,     like a panther in the nocturne jungle,     and struck precisely.     It was the one reason why despite his  lack  of ability,     calling him  weak  was a sore mistake.     They therefore treated him like he were a curse himself;     they  loathed  him,     they  were  disgusted  by  him,     but  they  dare  not  say  his  name  lest  he  appear  in  their  midst.     Toji Zen’in had a tendency to appear like a bad omen.   When people caught him,     it was only when he wanted them to,     and it rarely ever ended well.

It turned out that being the boogeyman paid pretty well;    he’d made a living out of that rejection.     And maybe,     just  maybe  to a certain extent he felt a sense of  vindication whenever he closed in on a sorcerer.     Outwardly,    thriving off of the disdain was a survival tactic.     I’m  just  not  a  likable  guy,     he’d  say,    usually with a sardonic laugh.     But  inwardly  …  sinking his blade into the flesh of someone who he  knew  thought him worth little more than an  animal  brought him a slight sick sense of pleasure.     The  jobs  mean  nothing  to  me:     truth.     But it would be a  lie  to say that he didn’t like  fucking  up  the order  of the food chain just by  drawing  breath.     When his very existence served as a shameful  thorn  in the side of his family,     Toji made sure to do so with an expertise that made it so that even  ridicule  was too dangerous an acknowledgement.     If  you’re  going  to  be  bad,     be  the  best  at  it.     If he was hopeless as a Zen’in,     he would therefore be a source of hopelessness to them in turn.

In nearly all other things,     Toji was a man who lived aimlessly;     fighting,   fucking,   food,   fortune.     Those were the only motives that propelled normal men,     and for Toji his motives were no different.     So,     when his phone rang and revealed the voice of his uncle,     Toji nearly hung up.     They’d provide him no benefit,    after all.

“Toji?”     The voice echoes again when his initial greeting doesn’t earn a response.

“Ojisan.”    His voice is groggy,     but the snide way he calls him  uncle  is still palpable.     “If you’re calling me because my old man finally decided to kick the bucket,     save your breath.     I’ve no interest in his funeral.”

He can  hear  the way his uncle grimaces on the receiver.     “That’s not why I’ve called.     We want you to come to the estate.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“We have a job for you ------”

“Not interested.”

“------  and we will pay.”

Toji paused at that.     His family was shit,     sure,     but they were also swimming in cash.     Inversely,     looking over his shoulder at the woman he’d been sleeping with in exchange for a  bed  in January,     he couldn’t be any less liquid.     “...How much are we talking?”

“Name your price and we’ll negotiate.”

It was the right answer;     he knew if he went,     strong - arming the amount he wanted would be easy.     “I’ll be there in an hour.     You waste my time,     I walk.”     Without waiting for a response,    he hangs up and pushes up off the bed,      disappearing to shower.     

He arrives at the estate feeling tense.     He’s got bad memories of this place;     being born without an ability meant he’d spent most of his early teenage years serving the family,     but looking at the other servants,     it could have been worse.     I  could  have  been  born  a  woman,     he thought,     watching with morbid horror as a cousin he barely spoke to struggles to soothe fussing children as her husband glances at her with annoyance without daring to lift a finger to help.    

The Zen’in estate was like a sepulchre;     opulent and pristine from the outside,     but filled nothing but rotting stench and decay internally.

He hides his unease well,     despite it all.     Bile builds in the back of his throat,     but in the room appointed to be their meeting place,     Toji stands with a bored expression and seems as though nothing bothers him at all.     The door slides open,     and he smirks when only his uncle walks through.     Typical.     His father didn’t show.

“So … what did you do for them to dump this meeting on you?     They must not like you these days.     Have you fallen out of favor,     Ojisan?”

His uncle ignores his comments,     taking it as an obvious ploy to provoke him.     Instead,     he simply sits and folds his arms.     “You’re a man who always has his ear to the ground.     Have you heard the rumors?”

“You’re going to need to be more specific.”

“About the Gojo clan.”

The mention of the  Gojo  surname reaches deep into a past Toji barely remembers;     not only is this history  old,   but it’s also near inconsequential.     It’s only ever been mentioned in the story of their  great  victorious  ancestor   who killed the vengeful spirit that fathered that clan,   and how while the Zen’in clan grew in glory,     the Gojo clan continued to fall from it. But oddly enough,     Toji does recall something he’d heard,     which he only remembers because it’s odd to mention the burnt - out family in the first place.     “I heard they have a new kid.”

His uncle gracefully pulls out a kiseru and lights it,    then puffs on it lazily before continuing.     “...The rumor is that he possesses both the  limitless  and the  six eyes  technique.”

Toji frowns.     The longer he’s here,     the less he understands why he’s been called.     “Get to the point.”

“It’s been years since you’ve left,    Toji,    but you surely can’t forget one of the most prolific battles of our family history.     The  ten  shadows  shaman  versus the  limitless  many - eyed spirit.”

“Spare me the lecture,     old man.”

“We want you to verify the rumor.”    Seeing Toji pause,     his uncle doesn’t need to wait for him to ask ‘why me?’  before continuing.     “Your lack of cursed energy means that if it’s true,     you’d be able to get in easily without being noticed.     Since the birth of this boy,     the family has been in utter seclusion.     It’s almost as though they’re trying to hide him from the world.”

For a moment,     Toji is silent.     But slowly,    he chuckles.     The chuckle builds until it’s a booming laugh,     bordering on a cackle.

“Is this funny to y ------”

“Oh,    this is rich!     A little kid has you all shitting yourselves,     is that it?     What’ll happen if the rumors are  true?     Will you all go sick with grief because you don’t have anyone with the ten shadows ability?    Is that it?     Are you sure you want to know,    old man?    After all,     if it’s true,     then your  prolific  battle  story means dog shit.    Unless … you’re asking me to off the kid?     Because if that’s the case,     I won’t do it.    Not because it’s a kid,    but because watching a primary schooler ruin your entire dynasty just by being alive is too funny to let pass by.”

Clear  irritation  is written across his uncle’s expression,     but he forgoes an argument.    “No one is asking you to kill  anyone.    We are confident the  perfection  this family produces is enough to rival one person.    The Gojo clan can’t be rebuilt on the shoulders of a single man.”

“------ But?”

“But,    that hasn’t stopped them from trying.    They’ve managed to weasel their way back into the upper ranks based off of these rumors alone.    If they’re a threat to our own influence,    we must know.”

Toji waves his hand dismissively.    “I don’t care about any of that.    How much are you offering?”

“Five million yen.”

“I want twenty.”

“And yet you’ll only get ten.”

Toji pauses.    Ten  million  yen.    He would have walked with the five,    but to give him this much … they really were uneasy about this,    weren’t they?    It didn’t matter.    These politics didn’t matter to him;    it was a job,    and it paid well.     With ten million yen,    he’d never have to sleep at that dingy apartment in Kabukicho again.    “...Deal.”

This all brought him back to the beginning point:    being  caught  for  the  first  time.    Sneaking into the estate was so easy it was almost comical,    and dressed properly,    he  was easily believed to be a servant himself.    The Gojo estate was different from the Zen’in estate.    The Zen’in clan was big,    lively compared to this place,    where he could hear a pebble being kicked across the gravel he walked upon.     This place was a graveyard.    If the Zen’in estate was like a palace of bones,     the Gojo estate was like the temple of a god that had died centuries ago.    Big,    but brittle.    Quiet.   Prayed to only by the wind that passed through it,    as if out of pity,    echoing the hollowness of it all.    

But it would seem that god had returned at long last.

He made sure to keep a safe distance behind the boy;    he was followed by two men on either side of him at all times,    who Toji deduced to be bodyguards.     If that was the case,    he could only assume the rumors were indeed true.    Why else would a child need to be guarded in his own home?     As he walks behind him,    Toji feels something unpleasant.    Pity  is too noble a word;    but it was like gazing upon a lovely bird in a zoo.    Did  it  know  that  it  was  captive,    or  was  it  content  with  the  magnificent  cage  it  lived  in?    

This  kid  is  going  to  be  one  hell  of  a  puppet,     he thinks.

It is at that moment that the boy stops walking,    then turns and looks at him.    There’s  no  mistaking  it.    His eyes lock with Toji’s,    and Toji halts in his tracks.    It’s not like him to stop like that,    but his body freezes of its own accord.  Fighting,   fucking,   food,   fortune.    He’d always believed those were the four things that motivated the average man,     but he forgot the last motive;    maybe because he didn’t remember the last time he felt it,     if he’d ever felt it at all before this moment.

Fear.

The boy’s face is pale and listless,    nothing like that of a child.    His hair and eyelashes are bone - white,    and his eyes,    large and owl - like,    are a crystal clear blue that shimmers in a manner that makes it seem as though his irises  swirl,    like pools of fate.     Toji shouldn’t be able to see that from here,    but for some reason distance doesn’t seem to  matter  between them.    He is several feet away from the child,    but he sees him as though he’s inches in front of his nose.    Curse  …   sorcerer  …   those words didn’t suit this boy at all.

This  child  is  a  demon.

The child doesn’t blink.    The guards beside him seem to keep walking,    but the boy also never seems to move from his place.    Did  he  stop time?    Did  he  pull  Toji  into  another  dimension  entirely?  The boy gazes at him with neither curiosity nor contempt;    he simply looks at him,     looks  through  him,    and Toji feels as though his soul is being stripped bare.     There’s no doubt.     This boy knows everything;    Toji wasn’t a paranoid man in the slightest,    but he felt as though this child had known about it all  ------   the zen’in’s,     the exchange,     the ten million yen,     the rumors and the eyes on him,     and the task to verify it all.

Well?,     his eyes seemed to say.    Have  you seen  enough?     You  have  someone  waiting  for  you.     Go  and  tell  them.

Toji  would  never  forget  that  boy  again.

He’d never been caught before.

As the knife is pulled from his flesh,     Satoru feels the strange, unfamiliar sensation of being unable to support himself enough to stand.     Is  this  what  weakness  felt  like?     He falls to the floor,     finding himself incapable of processing that this attack even happened in the first place.     He watches his blood pool around him   ------    strangely enough,     he feels no pain.     As his vision goes dark,     he knows the truth;     the shock is preventing him from feeling a thing.     Maybe he wasn’t as untouchable as he thought.     “Su …”     The name is not even half spoken before he falls silent.

He must be dead.

He stands in an expanse that extends  forever,     an endless void of vantablack that is maddening to look at.     Didn’t people get a rush of endorphins before they died?     Why,     then,    did he see a past that only made him miserable?     He watches his life flash before his eyes;     he sees his own birth.     He sees the countless days he spent in his family estate,     learning mathematical theory and physical nonsense all because they  hoped  he would awaken this latent  infinity  within him.     He sees his arrival to Tokyo tech   ------   his first time away from the prying eyes of his family.     His first time meeting kids who weren’t  hand  selected  to be his friends.     The thrilling sensation of being disliked,     being  a  delinquent.     Breaking rules and laughing from his chest.     It  was  a  fun  way  to  end  things,     he thought.     I  just  wish  I’d  gotten  to  have  a  lot  more  of  it.

He’s shown the moment of his demise,     and Satoru grimaces.     Ugh,     how  uncool.     He looks like a deer with its throat in the maw of the wolf;     helpless,     surprised a second too late.     He sees the horror in Suguru’s expression,     and he feels just a tinge of guilt.     The  strongest  duo’s  broken  up.     Sorry  I  couldn’t  stay  and  help  you  in  the  end.     

He wants to look away   ------   really,     who wanted to watch themselves die twice?   ------   but just as he thinks to,     Satoru’s eyes stop on the face of the man who killed him.     Why   does   he  look  familiar?     He looks at his life laid before him,    and watches a bright white string extend from this image and go back,     back,     back  into a very peculiar day in his childhood.     He sees himself,     six  years old,     turning and locking eyes with him.

No.     Not  him.    This man.

He  met  him  before.

Great,     he thought bitterly.     So  I was  more  perceptive  when  I was  a  first  year.    

But then,     all of the images hit him at once.     They condense and slam him with such force that Satoru feels  pain  all over his body,    like the wind has been knocked out of him.    He’s drowning in this knowledge   ------   this  infinity.     Maybe that means in the physical world,    his lungs are taking their last shallow breaths.     The images continue to condense until they make a small orb;     the single source of light in this place.     Slowly,     the orb opens and reveals an iris that reflects his own:     too blue to be human,    dimly shimmering in a way that makes them seem like a flowing spring.     Satoru feels his own gaze turned upon him.     His own voice echoes in his ears.     Get  up,     it says.     Or  are  you  really  that  weak?     If  you  can’t  get  up,     you  were  never  strong.     You  deserve  to  die  here.     Satoru’s hand extends towards the orb.

Get  up,     dickhead.

Satoru wakes up with a gasp,    bolting upright with a shock that could wake the dead.      And hadn’t it?     No … he looks down at himself,    and sees the still - warm blood staining his shirt.     Satoru realizes in that moment,     he never died at all.

Gojo Satoru had touched infinity for the first time.

He stills himself and thinks.     Or,     more accurately,     perceives.     He allows those six eyes to see  for  him.      He’d forgotten that so much of his power worked without his effort,     if he let it.     Riko is dead.     Suguru is alive.    He’s still bleeding from his leg.    And Toji is …

The  rest  is  a  blur.

“Yo. Long time no see.”     It’s all he can say,     when he’s intercepted Toji.     Why is he here?     The job is done.     They  failed.     There’s no reason for Satoru to come here.

Ah,    that was a lie.     He was here to kill Toji.    Infinity … he’d touched it and seen it;     he’d be the strongest,    now.     No more goofing off,     no more avoiding his own holiness.     But the thing about being a  god  is that gods can’t be killed.     And if there was someone who could kill him,      that person had to fight him.     Yes,     that would be his true trial of divinity;     he and Toji would fight here and now until one of them died,     and whoever left standing would be the one  truly  bound to heaven.

The shock on Toji’s face doesn’t matter to him at all.     ... Are you serious?,     he says,     but Satoru hears it like a dull echo.     He’s barely listening to him.

Toji is weak,      after all.     And he hates weak people.

The shock is enough to make Satoru giddy,     however,     so he grins and pushes his hair up to show him the healed wound to his head.  “Oh,      yeah.     I’m alive and well.”     His eyes are owl - like and large again,     though they don’t shimmer like quiet pools.     They churn like a riptide,     and they focus on Toji with malicious intent.

“A reverse technique,”     Toji breathes,     more to himself than to anyone else.

“Correct!”     Satoru chirps.     “I gave up on fighting back when you crushed my throat.     I poured my all into perfecting this technique.     Cursed energy uses negative energy.     It can fortify the body,     but it can’t cause regeneration.     That’s why it’s necessary to multiply it with more negative energy to create the positive.     That’s the reverse technique!”     He laughs and his grin widens,     and he can tell his elation is too much for Toji to understand.    But it can’t be helped   ------   this isn’t about Toji.     He’s giddy because all along,     the secret to reverse technique was  math.     Simple math,     whereas Satoru had mastered complex number theory ages ago.     All this time,     the ability’s secret had simply flown over his head.     If he had known it was just the application of a basic mathematical principle,     he could have used reverse technique ten years ago.     “The theory is easy enough,     but I couldn’t do it at  all ... until now.     The only person I know who could do it can’t explain for shit,     either.     But I  finally  got it when I was on my deathbed … the core of cursed energy.” 

Satoru grins and sighs euphorically before continuing on.     “You lost because you didn’t cut off my head,     and because you didn’t use a cursed tool when you stabbed me in the head.”     Doesn’t Toji understand how  funny  that is?

Apparently not.     Toji’s eyes flash all of a sudden.     “Lost?”     He says,    pulling a cursed blade from the throat of his  worm  of an accessory.     “The fight has just begun.”

“------ Huuuuuuuuuuuh?!     Ah,     yeah,     I guess so!”     Satoru realizes he’s right;     he’d already seen the end of this in infinity,     but he supposed he couldn’t say it happened until it did,     right?      He was getting ahead of himself.     It’s not like  Toji  could see the future.      He starts to laugh.     “I guess you’re right!”

Toji gives him no time to even finish his sentence.     He’s a real warrior,     Satoru will give him that.     He flies at him with the same beast - like grin from before,     only this one is different.     They both fight with the full intent to kill,     and it’s not a matter of work.     It’s a battle for the crown;     one that Toji was for better or worse proud to have,     and not willing to give up easily.     Good.     Toji understands.   

He slashes at Satoru with terrifying force,     but he has evolved since their last fight.    The once devastating prowess of the sorcerer - killer is little more than a  mild  inconvenience  to him,     now.     By the time Toji’s slash reaches the end of its arc,     Satoru is in the sky above him,     and even more terrifying than when he gave him that maddening smile,     he looks upon him with a wide - eyed,     barely perceptible grin.     Though  he’d  already  reached  a  new  height,     it  would  seem  he  was  evolving  again,     right  before  Toji’s  eyes.     He  was  fortunate  to  witness  it.

The positive energy  that  is  born  from  the  reverse  technique  …  that  energy  is  channeled  into  the  infinity  technique  I’ve  carved  in  myself.     He  understands,     now.     Reverse rotation  technique.

“Red.”

It repels Toji back hundreds of feet,     through a  building  and into the side of the concrete.

One:     “The  power  to  stop.”     The  neutral  infinity jutsu.     Up  until  this  point,     an  ability  that  required  vigilance  and  effort,     and  why  he’d  fallen  to  Toji.

Two:     “The  power  to  attract.”     The  reinforced  infinity  jujutsu,     “blue”.

Three:     “The  power  to  repel.”     The  reverse  jujutsu,     “red”.

Satoru watches him attach his blade to a chain and create a vortex with it.     Toji believes that he can fight this.     And why wouldn’t he?     Satoru had the power to stop from the start,     and Toji circumvented it.     The power to attract,      he could negate either from afar with the spear,     or he could outrun it.     The power to repel could be blocked with the spear,     so long as he got the timing right.

But Satoru still appears on the rooftop with the same peaceful grin from before,     appearing madder than ever.     He  knows  all  of  Toji’s  thoughts  already.     He  knows  his  heart.     He knows that unease is slowly settling into his foe,     but that despite that,     Toji  believes he still has a chance. 

“No,”     Toji tells himself.     “It’ll work.”     Satoru knew that Toji would say that.   “------ I’ll  kill  you!”

Satoru knew he’d say that,     too.

Time seems to go still,    for a moment.     Satoru reigns himself in,     a sobering clarity coming forward in the midst of it all;     he  would  not  be  a  foolish  god,     after  all.

I’m  really  sorry,     Amanai,     he thinks.     I’m  not  angry on  your  behalf.     I  don’t  hate  anyone.     All  I’m  feeling  right  now  …  Is  the  pleasantness  of  this  world.

Satoru grins again,    and extends his hands forward.     This would be the final blow.  “Throughout the heavens and earth,     I alone am the honored one.”     

Toji whips the bladed chain at Satoru,     but it’s less effective than flailing a cotton  rope  at him,    at  this  point.     You  don’t  understand  what’s  going  to  happen  yet,     he thinks.     That’s  okay.    I  saw  it  in  the  void.     You’re  going  to  die  here,     Toji.     Thank  you  for  sending  me  into  myself.     I  understand  everything,     now.

The good thing about jujutsu techniques that have been passed down over generations is that the instructions on their usage are clarified by the predecessors. The bad thing is that the information about the technique can be leaked much more easily.

You’re  from  one  of  the  three  great  clans  …  the Zen’in  clan,     am  I  right?     Satoru recalls the day he met Toji,     all those years ago.     The man who came to see him for ten million yen.     How could he forget?     He’d seen infinity before.     

You  know  about  “blue”  and  “red”  …  and  everything  about  my  infinity,     I’ll  bet,     Satoru thinks.     But  this  …  even  among  the  Gojo  clan  …  only  a  select  few  know  about.     When  the  infinity  collides  with  the  forward  and  reverse  rotation  techniques  …  this  is  born.     The  expulsion  of  imaginary  mass  …

And  I’m  using  it  to  kill  you.     You  should  be  honored,    Toji.

“Imaginary Technique:     Purple.”

It is spoken like a final rite;    like the decree to end all decrees.     The opposing forces converge and destroy everything in their path  …  Toji,     and anything unlucky enough to be behind him.

Satoru fixes that impenetrable gaze on him again.     That soul stripping,     all - knowing gaze.     “I  don’t  wanna  work  for  free.”  ------  you’d  usually  just  have  said  that  and  ran  away.     But  the  person  in  front  of  you  is  a  user  of  the  infinity  jutsu,    who  probably  just  became  the  strongest  shaman  of  this  generation.     You  wanted  to  deny  it.     To  go  against  it.     Against  the  Zen’in  clan  that  denied  you,    against  the  apex  of  the  jujutsu  world.    In  order  to  reaffirm  your  identity  …  you  warped  your  usual  self. 

You  already  lost  at  that  point.

“I thought I had discarded that pride …”  Toji breaks the silence for them,     finishing the thought that Satoru had heard from the depths of Toji’s soul.

Satoru heard every thought leading up to that declaration,     but he feels strangely peaceful in the moment.      He’d  made this prophecy come true;     Gojo  Satoru  emerged victorious,    conquering death and the god - killer  himself.     There would be a new era from now on;     for better or for worse,     Satoru would be the head of it.     “... Do you have any last words?”

“ … Nah.”     The look on Toji’s face says he  knows  that Satoru’s seen everything.     But,     just in case  …  “In two or three years,     my kid will get sold to the Zen’in clan.”     Why was he telling him that?     Maybe because he was understanding that if  anyone  could  fuck  up  the  natural  order  of  things,     it wasn’t him at all.     It  has  always  been  this  kid.     Maybe it was because,     in his final moments,     he realized that he’d left behind nothing,     and given his  blessing  to the very place that had sculpted his demise.     Maybe it was the “regret” those damn shamans never shut up about.     Whatever  it  was,     Toji  couldn’t  bring  himself  to  beg,     even  on  Megumi’s  behalf.     “... Do whatever you want.”

Before the light left Toji’s eyes,     Satoru watched something else die first.     What  broke  then  …  was  the  heart.     What,     did he think he would go and right his wrongs?     That he would protect his  kid?     It seemed his six eyes hadn’t anticipated him doing  that.     Honestly,     what was Toji thinking?     It was too late to ask that now,     but  Satoru only knew  one  thing for certain.

Satoru would never forget this man again.

[goldeneyedgirl]

Part 2 of MCU/Twilight verse

“That MCU crossover I’m writing that actually hasn’t mentioned the MCU at all yet.”

Alt 7: Found Family 

Rating: T for swearing

Words: 2,551

Summary: Twilight X MCU crossover. The Snap doesn’t just kill humans. What happens next?

Notes: Is this even Whump-y enough to count to Whumptober? I don’t know, everyone’s grieving. I made myself watch Endgame again and I found something useful. I know it probably feels like I wiped out a lot of characters, but there’s method to my madness. I’m desperately resisting the urge to make some obvious corrections to the MCU, and I’m pretty sure the last two chapters are going to be needlessly self-indulgent. And yes, I need a title. 

Part One here

two. survivors

What happens next?

It’s a good question, and one Alice used to be able to answer. Her predictions have… well, they haven’t stopped, but there are less. Maybe she’s not saying everything but he doesn’t press.

They stay in Forks. It’s the easiest option, really. They have resources at the Forks house - all of Jasper’s computers, Rose’s cars, Carlisle’s medication stash. And for, now, it makes sense to keep up the masquerade - the orphaned Cullen kids, in that big old house.

And Seth Clearwater. Neither of them have made more than polite inquiries about the Quileute reservation, because what can they do, really? They weren’t allowed on the land, and nothing they offer will be accepted. Seth doesn’t want to talk about it either, so they just… don’t. Not yet.

The first announcements and news reports are hard to listen to - half of all living creatures. Humans, animals, plants, sea-life… just gone. Then there are the people who survived, but died in the aftermath; the patients in surgery with the dust of their surgeons sinking into their chest cavity, the passengers on an airplane, the school bus with no driver. The news plays on, listing losses and catastrophes until he loudly asks if Seth wants to play Xbox instead.

Alice goes with them, and sits crosslegged on a recliner, watching them.

“Carlisle would have liked that,” she says suddenly, when Emmett realises the error in picking a war game - should have opted for a racing game instead.

“Liked what?” he asks, as he gets up to change the disc. Seth doesn’t say anything, playing with the recliner buttons instead.

“‘Half of all living creatures’,” she quotes. She’s been wearing one of Jasper’s t-shirts under her cardigan, and the scent of his brother is fading the longer she wears it. “Carlisle would have appreciated that. That the universe thought we were living creatures. Might have convinced Edward that we weren’t total monsters, either.”

Seth looks up at her, confused. “Why wouldn’t you be living creatures?” he asks, concentrating at the recliner tips him right back.

“We don’t breathe or age or change,” Alice says, a smirk playing around her face as Seth yelps when the entire chair begins to tip, but luckily it doesn’t fall.

“But you eat,” Seth accepts the controller Emmett passes him. “And you’ve got families. That means you still count.”

“I wish we didn’t.” Emmett doesn’t realise he’s said those words aloud until he realises Seth and Alice are both staring at him. He wants to explain that if they didn’t count, then there wouldn’t be five vases lined up on the mantel (three empty) full of dust. That he wouldn’t be sitting here playing Xbox with Seth Clearwater, and Alice wouldn’t be wearing leggings and her husband’s t-shirt, looking brittle and tired. That he wouldn’t go into their room every night, and bury his face in Rose’s clothes to keep himself from going insane.

But he doesn’t need to. They both understand - Alice sits with Seth when the boy sniffles and tries to hide it; Emmett hears Alice padding around Jasper’s office, having a conversation with thin air, questions asked to silence. If there was some loophole they could grab with both hands and exploit, he knows he and Alice and Seth would take it, humanity and life and all those upright and moral things be damned.

“Just what everyone needs,” Alice muses, leaning back and stretching like a cat. “A world where humans and animals were cut in half but the vampires weren’t.”

And she’s right. That would be a mess. The fucking end of times.

“That would be a cool movie,” Seth says absently, focused on the screen and forcing Emmett’s car off the road and into a ravine.

Alice watches them play for awhile before getting up. A few minutes later, there’s a knock at the door and low voices. Charlie Swan, with Carlisle’s phone.  Emmett lets Seth win a second race, focused on the conversation Alice is having - why it took Charlie so damn long to bring the phone, how they’re holding up; his irritation at the delay it took to get Carlisle’s phone is tempered when he hears the genuine concern Charlie has for Alice. He doesn’t know much about Bella’s father, but he seems like a good guy.

Not that Alice needs to act the part - she looks broken. Most of the time he feels like he’s seeing a part of her that he shouldn’t be seeing, that the loss and grief that becomes her is somehow shameful to witness; it’d be less awkward to see her naked than to see her twisting Jasper’s t-shirt in her hands with that glassy look of hopelessness she tries to hide.

Alice feels the same about him; that Emmett without Rose is devoid of that joie de vivre, that endless good humour, the extra joke. He feels tired in his bones, deflated, and distracted with the space in his chest that Rose used to fill. He feels like an old man, when he was never finished being a young man, never made it to middle-age.

But they are trying. Especially with Seth in the house - he’s taken over the bedroom that Esme planned to give to Bella, mostly because it didn’t stink of vampires as much as any other room; and neither of them wanted to dismantle Esme’s studio or Carlisle’s office. It wasn’t really much - a mattress and boxspring, a dresser and desk. Alice had given him a laptop to use, and found some new bedding for him, and occasionally even remembered that a fourteen year old boy shouldn’t be eating pizza six nights a week, and probably needed more boundaries than they were giving him. But Alice isn’t maternal, and her attempts at forcing vegetables and a bedtime on Seth usually get forgotten within a day or two.

Charlie Swan leaves, and he listens as Alice puts Carlisle’s phone into his vase, and then he focuses on the game so that Seth doesn’t think he’s letting him win because of pity or anything.

—

It’s not until late summer than people start bothering them. Parents of classmates who suddenly don’t have any children of their own to worry over. Colleagues and acquaintances who feel some kind of lingering responsibility. Busy-bodies, usually a part of some self-aggrandising self-appointed community group butting into everyone’s grief.

Alice ignores the early attempts to interfere, to crack open both the metaphorical and literal door for anyone who isn’t Charlie Swan. She’s taken to doing the oddest tasks, but Emmett doesn’t ask. At the moment, she’s painting every single door in the house with a swirling pattern of flowers that is tiny and detailed and fills up the day. Esme would have a conniption if she saw her lovely doors like this (he remembers when Alice and Jasper first arrived, and her art projects ran afoul of Esme - she had apologised and channeled that manic energy into embroidery instead; there’s a pair of unspeakably ugly curtains hanging in the Vermont house from one panicked week when Jasper went off with Peter and Charlotte).

Then the harassment starts - both her and him, since he’s apparently considered her ‘guardian’. Alice hangs up the phone numerous times wordlessly before being so outstandingly rude to Mrs Newton that both he and Seth stare at her before Emmett remembers he’s actually supposed to be in charge - as far as the rest of the town knows, at least - and calls to deter any more visits or phone calls or casseroles because Alice isn’t well and the disruptions are upsetting her.

If Carlisle or Esme were here, they’d think to send Mrs Newton flowers or something as an apology, but they aren’t, and no one can get Alice to apologise when she doesn’t want to, and Seth confided in him that she’s crying when he’s hiding in the garage and Seth is totally at a loss over what to do about a crying girl that isn’t Leah, so maybe they’ll just leave it at that. Give the town something new to gossip about.

But it does spark sudden realisation in both Cullens about a topic that has been long forgotten - school. Alice and Emmett have both graduated, but Seth had not. Seth had another four glorious years in high school, even if the Res school is down to double digits of enrolments, and probably won’t even run every weekday.

Seth whines and begs and negotiates until Alice stamps her foot and demands to know what Sue Clearwater would say and that makes Seth all small and miserable, and Alice hates herself and Emmett solves the problem by making a large donation through one of their anonymous charities to the Res school so that Seth can at least do online learning, and apparently that’s a huge deal that is on the local news, and that makes Alice and Seth laugh because only Emmett would stop a teenage boy’s whining by revolutionising a tribe’s educational provisions with a cheque large enough to sustain a small city for a year.

But it’s good help - it means the children who suddenly have no parents and have to raise siblings can still study; it means that half-empty classrooms don’t necessarily mean half-empty classes; it also means that other tribes with larger losses and no way of schooling are invited to join them.

That’s one good thing they’ve managed.

He also fixed the backdoor as good as new, so it should be two, but he’s pretty sure that doesn’t count now that Alice has painted flowers blooming and dying all over it.

At some point they both bully Seth into going home again, to get his own stuff - clothes and bedding and photos and all those things you look for when you’re in a house that isn’t yours. He yells at them, they yell at him, and he storms off. But now there’s a photo of him with his parents and sister on his dresser, and a bunch of books crowding his desk, and the world’s most beat-up DS under his pillow. There are more photos, somewhere - Emmett knows that because Alice knows where they are and then one day there are two framed photos joining the vases on the mantle - one of Sue and Harry Clearwater on their wedding day, and one of Leah laughing. Neither of them knows what happened to Sue or Leah precisely on that day, but Seth doesn’t bring the ashes with him, so they don’t ask.

Summer folds into fall, and what’s left of Esme’s gardens wither up. Charlie Swan checks on them every few weeks, sounding tired. There’s a lot of work for him right now - mostly community and social issues, like scared and orphaned children hiding, people struggling with money, grief, religion. There’s been some shortages of food, since there’s less being grown, less people to process and package and ship it, and a little town hours outside of Seattle is not a priority to whomever is deciding where to send a milk delivery.

They order Seth’s food from high-end places online that deliver them quickly and quietly; Alice starts choosing long-life and bulk items, and no one needs to ask because it’s obvious things will get worse before they get better. Seth holds a pretty intense grudge against the powdered strawberry milk, though.

But food shortages are the least of their worries, as Alice uses the dining room wall to start taking nonsensical notes, and Emmett’s heard enough stories to know that losing a mate can be… well, he’s not having much fun, but the very last thing he needs is to wrangle Alice if she’s lost her mind. Dead or not, he knows he could never lay a hand on her even if she did go nuts out of love for his family, out of respect for Jasper, and out of this funny bond they’ve somehow formed, being the last ones left.

The notes turn into lists, lists of everyone they’ve ever known, in her swirling handwriting. Even people they know are gone, like Bella, goes on the list.

Then she starts striking out names, like she’s slashing with a knife - Carlisle, Esme, Jasper, Rosalie, Edward, Bella, Charlie, Sue, Leah, Sam, Jacob, Paul… Slash, slash, slash.

Then it starts getting interesting. Peter and Charlotte are gone, but so are half the goddamned Volturi (Alice smirks as she crosses out Caius, Jane, Alec, Dimitri because imagining Aro on his throne with grief-mad Marcus and only the minions is a pretty picture indeed). Carmen and Tanya have survived, but Kate, Irina, and Eleazer are gone. Garrett is alive, but Randall and Mary aren’t. J Jenks didn’t make it either, which makes things… difficult.

Alice scowls darkly as she scratches out Maria’s name, and Emmett wonders if it’s because she didn’t get to do the honours of destroying the Mexican harpy herself. Or because wherever Jasper is now, so is Maria, and Alice is left behind.

Finally, she is done, and the list is nearly balanced in living and dead. Alice’s left eye twitches, and whatever she’s thinking she doesn’t say as she stands up.

“Alaska and then Mexico, then,” she says to him, and he gives her the Look that he gives her and Edward and Jasper every time one of them forgets that not everyone has a gift and some of them have to use their words.

“We need to check on Carmen and Tanya; I think they need us,” Alice explains, still examining the list. “I saw that we need to go. And then we’re going down to Mexico.”

“Maria’s dead,” he gestures at her list, and Seth wanders in stuffing his face with Pringles, and turns white at the sight of Esme’s freshly defaced walls; evidently Motherly Wrath is something universal across all of the species.

“Maria’s dead, and left behind a bunch of fresh newborns,” Alice sounds tired. “There’s no one left for clean up, Em, no one who knows. And it will be bad if we don’t step in soon.”

There might be something cathartic in that for Alice, undoing Maria’s life’s work. Maria’s lands weren’t exactly in the wealthiest or most populated lands these days - Jasper kept a secret map that wasn’t at all a secret - and if going down there and taking off a few heads saves a mother or father or child, then maybe it’s worth the hassle.

“Fine. Alaska and Mexico,” he agrees, and Seth cheers.

“Road-trip!” he declares around a mouthful of chips. Alice rolls her eyes.

“I’ll make you up a passport,” she says, not even bothering to argue with the younger boy that he’ll be joining them. “We’ll take the Jeep, Em - Rose just finished it.”

The words hang in the air for a second, and he nods in agreement. There might be something in that, taking the last gift-gesture-offering Rose ever did for him on their End-of-the-World Road Trip. Alice can rip the heads off newborns, he can drive around in the SUV his wife carefully and lovingly put together just to please him, and maybe he’ll buy Seth a beer in Tijuana.

Closest thing they’ll ever get to therapy, he supposes.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Beneath an Aurora Sky ch. 20

Summary: The South Pole Station is equipped for research and Edge has always made sure things run smoothly for the inhabitants. His charges are meant to follow his rules and regulations, and in turn, he makes sure they survive in the arctic temperatures. It takes plenty of hard work and determination and Edge, along with his crew, can handle both.

He wasn’t counting on one of the newest researchers. He wasn’t expecting Rus.

Tags: Spicyhoney, First Time, Arctic AU, Hurt/Comfort

~~*~~

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four

Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve

Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17

Chapter 18 | Chapter 19

~~*~~

Read Chapter 20 on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

As Edge was walking towards the vehicle shed, he caught an acrid hint of cigarette smoke in the air. He followed it, not inside but around the back and sitting in the shadows of the halogen lights was Rus.

Edge could hardly disguise his approach, the crunch of his boots in the hard-packed snow would have carried in the still icy air long before he came around the corner. But Rus made no attempt to hide. He stayed where he was, a burning cigarette dangling from his gloved fingers as he gazed up at the aurora-filled sky.

He’d already been out here for some time while Edge and the others spoke with Toriel and Gaster. The cold would soon be seeping through his outdoor gear no matter how good it was, sinking its chill into Rus’s bones. Monsters felt the cold less than Humans did but they were by no means immune to it. They could be sickened, frostbitten, and some, like Alphys, tolerated it even less than Humans. As a skeleton, Rus’s endurance should match Edge and Red’s.

Then again, who knew the boundaries of a skeleton from an entirely other universe.

Edge sat down next to Rus, drawing up his knees to rest his arms on them. He looked up at the swirling aurora overhead, the blur of colors rippling together in tangled waves, a sky ocean born of solar particles colliding with the atmosphere.

“it’s so beautiful here.” Rus’s voice was almost too loud in the hush.

“Yes,” Edge agreed in a voice to match.

It was. His intention when they’d first arrived here was only to find a safe place for those in his care, Alphys and Undyne and his still-wounded brother, and later, for Bonnie. Somewhere they could be certain of their meals and shelter. Nothing more than a job to replace the one he lost with the guard and a feeble attempt at that.

He hadn’t expected to find beauty in the glacial whiteness, nor in the endless night sky. He never anticipated the satisfaction that came with seeing another group off, knowing he’d protected them and guided them through this dangerous beauty. He couldn’t have known how Undyne and Alphys would blossom here, both their love for each other and their lives, settling into their place. Or that Red would slowly find his own footing and perhaps he’d never adore the Humans that came here, but he had his own pride in his work, kept all the equipment in top form and helped Alphys in her designs for new additions for the station. And Bonnie, who’d come to them later and never discussed her own inner wounds, yet still seemed to be healing from them. Together they’d created a place of safety for them, a home.

Even after all that, he never could have braced himself for Rus. Who’d settle into their home like he belonged here, their missing puzzle piece. Only it seemed as if he’d come not from their picture, but an entirely different box.

“he told you, didn’t he.” It was impossible to tell if the fog of Rus’s breath was from the cold or the cigarette.

Edge said nothing. His promise to Toriel specified he couldn’t reveal what they’d spoken about. It did not preclude discussing it at all and he only waited as Rus chuckled bitterly, filling in the silence on his own.

“it’s funny,” Rus drawled, flicking ash into the snow, “i came all the way to the end of the world to escape my past and it still came after me.”

Edge thought of Toriel, currently cramped into one of the spare rooms and probably trying not to scrape her horns against the ceiling. “I know the feeling.”

“yeah, i know,” Rus said, grimacing, “i’m sorry. part of the deal of tori sponsoring me was i’d keep mum about back home. i promised.”

“I understand.”

“yeah, well, if i’d known they were gonna pop in unexpectedly, i would’ve warned you about that much, anyway.” Rus’s expression crumpled slightly, going brittle around the edges. “look, i love tori, she’s been nothing but good to me. moms her way into everything. but you guys got your reasons to not want her around, i get that.”

“Rus,” the cloud of his own breath briefly obscured his vision as Edge sighed, “even if they are here because of you, that doesn’t make it your fault.”

“doesn’t it? think what pissed me off most is i know dings is right,” Rus murmured. “he’s can be a little rough saying it, but he means well.”

The resignation in Rus’s voice made Edge bristle, “He accused you of being nothing more than a key made for a particular lock.”

“truth hurts.” It was startling to realize how he’d categorized Rus’s smiles in his own head, the bright, fake one and the softer, shyer truthful one that came with a measure of trust. This one was entirely new, tainted with deep bitterness, “bet big brother didn’t fill in the details, so let me give you the highlights of our family tree.”

“see, our pop was the royal scientist in our world, the real deal. i call him pop, but that’s mostly because it annoyed him. he wasn’t really our father, he was a dna donor. he didn’t even name us, we named ourselves.” Rus was sitting right next to Edge here in the deep cold and still seemed miles away, no, not miles, he was in another world entirely. “dings took his name. not like he really knew there were many options past that or just getting called number one. just as well, i guess, looks more like him than me or blue. dings named blue and they both named me.”

He slanted a glance at Edge, his bright eye lights dimmed behind his goggles. “dings was still really young when blue popped out, what did he know about names? baby bro’s magic was blue, so that’s what he went with. i came a few more years down the line and by then, they’d raided the librarby and found out that papyrus is a traditional skeleton monster name.” He chuckled then, some of the bitterness of his smile invading the sound. “like anything about us was traditional.”

“we were his own personal test tube babies, homegrown like fucking cabbages, and gaster made us to fulfill a specific role. see, the core was important work, sure, but what he was really trying to do was make a machine that could get us past the shield. turns out, third time is the charm for our old man. he made dings and blue first but neither of them could use void magic. i was his hail mary, his last shot, and whaddaya know, it worked.” Rus scowled, tamped out his burning butt into the snow. He dropped it into his little tin and lit another, inhaling deeply and breathing out a cloud of smoke. “he never let me forget what i was for, but dings and blue always tried to be the best brothers they could. after pops kacked, it wasn’t until dings got that machine working that it even came up again.” He shrugged, barely visible through the layers of his heavy coat. “i got to forget for a while, at least.”

Edge said nothing, what could he say? His childhood was hardly one ease and joy; it more resembled the fairy tales that Red sometimes read to him when he still the shorter of the two, listening with wide sockets to gruesome tales that seemed all too possible. It seemed Rus had his own experiences with a sort of wicked stepfather and it was every bit as terrible as those stories. The urge to pull him close, to keep him safe, was itching in Edge and he forcibly held it back, let Rus tell his story.

“i never expected the machine to actually work,” Rus admitted. “dings was messing with it for so long. then we were here. my bro was only supposed to talk to the royal scientist and we were gonna hightail it back. easy peasy lemon squeezy.” Rus chuckled darkly, “turned out the lemonade was too sour after all. dings was pretty upset to find out the guy he was looking for was gone and so was his successor.”

Rus’s smile eased into something warmer, familiar, “it was tori who got me to start studying, you know. my bros always kept me on a tight leash back home, it was dangerous to even go outside, but here? i went out, tried to make some friends, ended up sleeping around some. wasted time,” Rus admitted, “tori suggested i work on my degree. i didn’t see the point at first, our pop always told us our purpose. i was there to power the machine. but, tori has this thing about being everyone’s mom.”

“Indeed, she does,” Edge murmured, recalling his days imprisoned after the coup, with good meals and care instead of execution.

“i think maybe that’s why she’s such a good queen. she told me pops was wrong,” Rus laughed a little in a puff of smokey breath and shook his head. “told me he was an asshole, actually, and that i deserved to have what i wanted out of life.”

“we argued about it, me and dings. drove blue nuts. blue was…he was the failure, pops said. at least dings was a scientist, but blue couldn’t even manage that. dings always told him his purpose was to be our caretaker and he tried damn hard at it.” Rus sighed, dropping his head back against the shed siding with a muffled thunk, “he hates it when we fight.”

“But you did it,” Edge said softly, “you got your degree, you’re working on your PhD and you’re doing a good job of it, at that.” Even through the growing cold he felt an inner warmth at the smile Rus flashed him, the real one.

“i did. i got so close.” Rus’s voice broke slightly, “things were horrible when we left, i can’t even imagine how they are now. and dings, he needs to fix the core. that was the skill that was built into him.” His smile soured back into bitterness, “it’s a compulsion, i don’t think he can help it. he has to be better than our pop. he has to be the one to save us all. blue believes everyone is worth saving, but he’s a protector, and me? i’m just a battery. i was never meant to have any of this.”

A honey-tinted tear slipped out from beneath his goggles and wound its way down, slowly freezing against the chilled bone of Rus’s skull and Edge’s control broke. He crawled across the short distance between them, scuffled through the snow and pulled Rus into his arms. He held on briefly, achingly tight before drawing back far enough to shake him, a little, and Rus looked at him with wide, startled eye lights.

“You are more than simply your father’s intentions,” Edge told him fiercely. “You’re brilliant and kind, and…and funny…wonderful…” He choked, unable to express the wild emotions burning in his soul; if there were words for it, Edge did not know them. Love was too shallow a word, too small, it couldn’t possibly hold everything Edge was feeling, all of it strangled in grief.

Rus reached up and his gloved fingers were gentle against Edge’s cheekbone. “it’s okay,” he said, softly, “i always knew we’d have to go back. i got to see this. i got to be with you. it’s okay,” he said again, crooned it, as if Edge were the one in pain. Perhaps he was, his soul ached as fiercely as if it was threatening to crack. “i saw so much here on the surface. i got to see the stars, i got to come here and see this.” He looked up at the sky, at the brilliant colors still churning within it along with a million twinkling lights looking down on them. “i was never going to get to stay, but i got to see this.”

“It’s not enough,” Edge said hoarsely. Not enough, Rus was supposed to leave here and go back into the sun, and instead, he was going where Edge could never follow, couldn’t protect him, and again, Edge would have given a portion of his own grieving soul not to see that sadness infecting Rus’s smile.

“i love you, you know,” Rus told him, achingly soft. “i know it’s not fair to tell you now, but i can’t keep it to myself. i need you to know it.”

Edge closed his sockets, shutting out Rus’s face and the aurora, saw only blackness and it wasn’t the cold that sent a tremor through him. Then he opened them again, looked into Rus’s face and saw the truth of it, the yearning. And the hopelessness. The need to say it back burned, words already forming on his tongue, but instead Edge blurted, “Stay the two weeks.”

Rus blinked, startled. That was clearly not the reaction he expected to his quiet confession, “but, the people—"

“It’s been two years,” Edge countered, “two weeks means nothing to your world and everything to you. Don’t let your brother’s compulsion drive you. Toriel—"

He almost said she was on his side, couldn’t, his knowledge was gleaned from their talk and words already thickening in his throat, his promise threatening to choke him when Rus kissed him softly, stopping him.

“i can guess about tori,” Rus said quietly, then, softer, “two more weeks.” He looked up again and even behind his goggles, the auroras couldn’t match the soft beauty of his eye lights. “there’s no stars back home. i’m gonna miss them.”

He fell silent, leaning against Edge’s side. Edge wrapped an arm around him and pulled Rus in closer, holding him tightly through the layers of his coat. He was starting to shiver; they were both getting too cold and he was about to suggest they move into the vehicle shed at the very least when Rus spoke again.

“it got so bad towards the end,” Rus whispered, “we stayed holed up in the lab, mostly, but we could see what was happening. monsters were getting more violent, losing control, gaining lv. pops’ diagrams on the core were incomplete. it was dings’s idea to come to another world and check theirs. i had to come, of course and we couldn’t leave Blue alone, so we all came.”

Rus kicked one booted foot idly, scraping up snow with his heel. “s’weird. even the snow is different here. back home it seems…stale somehow. used. maybe it’ll be better when dings gets the core up and running.” Rus sighed. “i never would have come to the station if i’d thought he was close to a breakthrough. it’s weird, i thought i had enough time.” Rus drew back a little, looking at Edge with that soft smile back in place. “but it sure wasn’t a waste.”

Almost, Edge kissed him again, hesitated with their mouths a breath away. Something about what Rus said niggled, something… “Weird.”

“heh,” Rus chuckled, “it’s double weird hearing you say weird. doesn’t seem like your kind of slang, bossman.”

Edge barely heard him. His brother had a breakthrough on the core, Rus said, an unexpected breakthrough. Edge cursed himself, replaying what Rus told him. He'd been foolishly focused on the information about Rus and why they were here, not on what changed to bring them to the station.

"What was your brother studying, exactly?” Edge demanded. He took Rus’s shoulders in both gloved hands, holding him, “You said he was looking for information about the Core."

Rus blinked uncertainly, his browbone furrowing, “um, papers, mostly. tori has lots of stuff from the old royal scientist, dings was wading through tons of it. i didn’t see much, he didn’t want any help. he was afraid we’d miss something. guess he found what he was looking for.”

“Yes, I think he did,” Edge said sourly, “A patsy.” Edge climbed to his feet and held out a hand to help Rus, “I’d like to know what was in those notes your brother found and I think we should ask the former royal scientist.”

“what?” Rus wobbled for a second, catching his balance after sitting for so long, “seriously? you think they’d talk to you? tori said they don’t—

“I should hope so,” Edge said, dryly, “she’s in her lab.” And very likely watching them on her cameras.

Rus went still, croaking out, “alphys??”

“You didn’t know?” Edge slanted Rus a look, but he believed him.

“no!” Rus spluttered, already heading back towards the station, Edge trailing after him. “tori didn’t talk about it, i didn’t even think to ask anyone else, why would i?”

“Maybe your brother isn’t as discriminating,” Edge said, under his breath, letting the wind tear the words away. It was more than a little suspicious that his brother solved the issue of core technology when Rus was in the only place that possessed a replica of the original. Edge didn’t believe in coincidence.

“Rus,” Edge jogged to catch up, taking hold of Rus’s elbow to stop him as he asked, “Do you trust me?”

“yes,” Rus said, unhesitatingly.

“I trust you, too,” Edge said, softly, and leaned in to give him a brief, chilly kiss. “Come on. You’re freezing and I have questions.”

“you’re the boss,” Rus said. It was only a shadow of his normally teasing self, but it was something. He took Rus’s gloved hand in his own and together, they made their way to the main building.

tbc

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 2 - 70

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound. 

AO3

Cw:  dissoci@tion (kinda the point of the whole chapter), noncon mention, thoughts of death

Note: so... some of y’all picked up on the fact that Leo left his knife in Finn’s cell... that was honestly an oopsie by me. I forgot about it, and it isn’t part of the plan. It’ll be fixed in editing lol. Good eye!!

-

“Tori?”

Tori jerked. Her eyes suddenly focused. Vera was on her knees in front of her, her eyebrows pulled together in concern. Tori shuddered and licked her lips.

“Yeah?” Tori croaked.

Vera’s mouth twisted. “Where’d you just go?”

“Um…” Tori cleared her throat. Nowhere. I went nowhere, because today I found a place inside me where I can go and no one can follow, not even the collar. She slipped towards it again, like ice melting, like butter sliding down a pan. Easy. Almost effortless. Her eyes slid shut, and she took a step to the side of her body.

“F-fuck,” Vera whispered, and Tori’s eyes flew open again, the sound silent and yet echoing through her mind.

“What?” Tori croaked. “I’m—”

“You’re leaving,” Vera whispered.

I am? I’m just going away. It’s no big deal. It hurts. I don’t want to stay.

“Um…”

Vera sucked in a deep breath and sat back on her heels. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay okay okay okay okay…” She rocked forward and backward, pushing out slow breaths between her lips. “Okay. Okay. That’s okay.”

Tori rolled her eyes, her body wavering between real and not, between here and there… “It’s not a big deal,” Tori said flatly.

Vera froze and fixed Tori with a stare. It was the realest Tori’d felt all day.

“It’s not a big deal?” Vera said, terror simmering just below the forced calm. “It’s a big deal,” she said softly. “This is a big deal.”

Tori shrugged. The chain attached to her c—

NO.

The chain attached to her rattled a little. “It doesn’t hurt so much now.”

Vera’s eyes filled with tears. “I…” She cleared her throat. “I, um…” Her head dipped forward and she stared at the floor. “I don’t want you to hurt,” she finally managed.

“Good.” Tori wasn’t sure what she meant by that. But it didn’t matter, none of this mattered. It was just bullshit.

It’s just pain.

“T-Tori, I…” Vera stated at Tori, beseeching. “Please, can I… can I touch you?”

Tori shrugged again. She wasn’t sure how, she wasn’t exactly at the wheel anymore, but it happened. “Sure,” she said flatly. She didn’t move.

Vera crawled forward until the chain around her col—

NO.

Until the chain attached to her pulled tight. “Tori,” Vera said gently, as if she was straining not to scream, “Can you come a little closer?”

“Sure,” Tori said in a dry monotone. “Whatever you want.”

Vera flinched, and for a moment Tori felt guilty. I don’t need to be such an asshole. It’s not her fault. I just don’t want to be around. Tori crawled forward until the coll—

NO NO NO.

Tori crawled forward until she couldn’t anymore. She slumped to her side, then just kept going until she was stretched out on the floor. Standing beside herself. Looking down at herself with a completely detached sort of curiosity.

She felt fingers in her hair, so far away it was almost like she was imagining it. Like she was remembering a dream of it. She let her eyes slide closed and sighed.

“There you go,” Vera crooned. “Come back to me. It’s okay. There’s no pain here right now.”

“I’d rather not,” Tori said softly. “I’m okay like this.”

A sniffle. “Okay. But… Tori, it’s…” A slight, sharp intake of breath. Of shame, maybe. Tori couldn’t tell. She took in a breath. I don’t know if it matters why.

Nothing fucking matters. I’m just glad I don’t hurt. Numb is good.

“T-Tori,” Vera murmured. Tori thought about raising her head to look at Vera. Something about the tone of Vera’s voice tickled something in the back of Tori’s mind. “Tori,” Vera said again, her voice a little more stable. “It’s… it’s okay for you to go away when he’s… um…” The sound of Vera swallowing filled the cell for a moment. “It’s, um, okay for you to go. But when he’s not hurting you, you need to… um… come back. You need to find your way back between the pain or eventually you don’t come back at all.”

“That’s fine,” Tori said, her voice brittle and flat. “That’s totally fine with me.”

A sob. “Tori…” The sound of chains rattling. “Tori… please…”

The hand in her hair pressed deeper, massaged her scalp, ran fingernails through her hair and over her skin. It felt… good.

No. Don’t bring me back with that. Tori shuddered.

“Don’t,” Tori ground out between clenched teeth. “Don’t.”

The hand immediately withdrew. “I’m sorry,” Vera whispered. “I’m just… Tori, please…”

Something welled up inside Tori, something she didn’t want to feel. She couldn’t. She slipped a little further down. “No,” she whimpered. “Please… Vera, don’t… Don’t bring me back, please…”

“I have to, babe,” Vera rasped. “I have to.”

“Why?” Tori sobbed, and pressed her face into the concrete floor. She felt pressure, but not the sensation of the concrete on her skin. She grabbed the feeling with both hands and shoved it down where all the pain went, deep inside her chest, so she could float without it.

“B-because…” For the first time, Tori looked up at Vera. Her lips were quivering. Tears ran freely down her face.

Something deep inside Tori cracked, moved just a little. Oh, no. That’s where the pain lives. Please, Vera, please don’t bring it back.

“…because I love you, babe,” Vera whispered. “And I don’t want to leave you where you are. I want to bring you back to me, so I don’t lose you.”

“I never fully understood why you went away,” Tori said softly, staring blankly at the floor a few inches away from her face. “Like, I understood the memories would come back and you’d get lost in those, but I never fully got why you just… left.” Tori laughed once, a broken sound. “Now I do. It’s easier here. It’s much, much easier.”

“Oh my god,” Vera breathed. Tori’s gaze flicked up to Vera. Vera sagged forward, pressing her face into her hands. Something stirred in Tori again, something she used to feel. Maybe a week ago, maybe a lifetime ago. She wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it felt like… like a thread, stretched from Tori’s heart to Vera’s, pulling so tight it hurt. All Tori wanted to do was cut the thread. Why can’t I just stay here without people trying to pull me back? Gavin doesn’t like me to dissociate either. Why can’t people just leave me alone to go where the pain isn’t?

“Tori,” Vera ventured quietly, “There’s no pain here. You’re not being tor—” Vera cut off with a choke. “You’re not being, um… put in, in pain, so… can you please… just…” Vera’s hand lurched forward and she snatched it back, biting her lip. “Can you please just come back? Just for a minute. And then if you… if it’s too much, you can… you can go.”

Tori sighed. “Promise?”

“Yes,” Vera whimpered. “I… I promise.”

Tori cowered against the floor, momentarily overwhelmed with a bone-crushing dread. No. Oh, no, I can’t go where the pain is, I don’t want to, please, please no, please don’t make me…

“Can I touch you?” Vera murmured.

“Yeah,” came the choked reply.

Vera slid her hand into Tori’s. Tori gripped her like her life depended on it, her intention suddenly flowing back into that arm, into that hand. Hold on to Vera. She told her body that, and it obeyed.

Breathe. I have to tell my body to breathe now.

She did, in and out, slowly, so slowly, coming out from underneath the blanket of nothing she’d been nestled under. It was bright, it was so fucking bright in here, in her body. The fluorescent lights and their constant hummmmm over her head threatened to break her, to drive her completely fucking insane.

And her neck hurt. Jesus fucking Christ, it hurt. It ached with every breath, burned with every single movement she made. The muscles in her neck spasmed and shuddered against where the coll—

NO PLEASE.

Have to be good for Vera.

Have to come back.

Collar. There’s a collar around my neck.

“There you go, Tori,” Vera said softly next to her. “There you go. Come back to me. I know it hurts.”

Someone’s sobs were echoing off the walls. Tori wished it would stop, the sounds were driving nails into her head. It’s not their fault if they’re crying. Isaac’s being raped, Sam’s being passed around like everyone’s personal punching bag, Finn has to watch us fall apart and now they know before they die, Leo’s going to rape them, too. I can’t blame them from crying. I just wish they would stop.

“You’re okay,” Vera soothed. Tori tried to tell her she was fine, that she didn’t need her help, but someone was just fucking crying. It wouldn’t stop. Her chest hurt and her face was wet and she couldn’t stop shaking but god please please please make the crying stop.

“Breathe…”

“I AM BREATHING!” Tori shrieked, lurching upright, clumsy in her body still. Vera flinched back. “Ahh, fuck…” Tori wobbled and fell back onto her side, clutching her head in her hands. Her fingers tangled in her hair and she pulled, so hard she could almost feel the strands break. She panted, hard, every exhale coming out as a sob.

“Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god OH GOD FUCK!” Tori’s body was wracked with pain, shuddering waves of it breaking over her over and over and over until she felt like she might be sick. Her bones ached, her muscles twinged from the shocks pushed through her body at Gavin’s command. Her throat hurt, her throat burned, raw skin where the prongs sat tight against her throat, and pain with every turn of her head. Her body was pain, and nothing else.

“Tori, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Vera urged beside her. “I’m right here. I’ll help you through it. Okay? I know it hurts. I—” Vera choked out a sob. “I know. But I’m right here. Hold onto me if you need to.”

Tori’s hand shot out blindly, feeling for Vera, for an anchor, anything to remind her there was something in the world that wasn’t pain.

Something in the world that wasn’t pain, and rage.

“Fuck Gavin,” Tori whispered through vocal cords that felt scraped raw. “Fuck Gavin, fuck Gavin. He does this to us. He… he hurts us, he rapes Isaac, then he sleeps in his fucking bed and eats his mother’s fucking food and he gets to wander around and he doesn’t get to wear a collar and he doesn’t do anything to help us fuck him so fucking much, I hate him, I hate him, Vera…” Tori turned her gaze up to Vera, eyes wide and red with crying. “Can you kill him?” she whispered desperately.

Vera’s eyes fell shut and she dragged in a noisy breath. “Tori…”

“Please.” Tori clutched at Vera’s hands. “Can you kill him? Please. Next time he t-takes us… Please, Vera, please, just kill him so he can’t hurt me anymore.”

Vera bit her lip. “Tori, I… I can’t… He’s our only chance to get out of here. Our only chance. We just have to wait until his… mom…” Vera sobbed and pressed her face against her arm, her hands still clutching Tori’s.

“But… Vera, please, I don’t want to wait, I don’t want to, I don’t want to hurt, Vera, please…”

“Tori.” Tori’s heart sank at the tone of Vera’s voice. “I can’t. It’s not his fault. He’s trapped, too. You think he likes this? You think he likes hurting us?”

“He did before,” Tori said weakly. “When he put a co— a coll— when he put this on me…” Tori rested her head against the floor. “He liked it, before.”

“But he doesn’t now,” Vera said softly. “I swear, he doesn’t. I watch him. It tears him apart to hurt us. It makes him want to die, Tori. I can’t kill him. He’s going to get us out, as soon as he’s trusted.”

“I want you to kill him,” Tori whimpered against the floor.

“Tori…” Vera’s lips quivered. “He’s… he’s our family.”

“I’m your family,” Tori whispered. “He… he hurts me, Vera. Over and over and over…”

“I know,” Vera said, her voice twisted in a kind of agony that touched Tori, too. “I know, babe. But… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I know it’s unfair to ask you to take this, but… I would take it all myself, I would, please, babe…”

“I know you would,” Tori whimpered.

“So… Vera sobbed. “Please, Tori, please… I… It fucking kills me to ask you this but… please… hold on just… a little longer, please… He’ll get us out. I know he will.”

“How do you know?” wailed Tori. The sound echoed through the cell.

Vera shivered, then swallowed hard, forcing something down as she looked at Tori. “Because…” Vera said softly, “She stopped calling him Gavin Stormbeck. Now she just calls him Gavin. She doesn’t need to remind him of who he is anymore. She thinks he already knows.”

Continued here

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[the--sad--hatter]

No Good Deed (Steve x Reader)

For @adeleoctobre who gave me the lovely request... 

Hey, I don't know if you would want to write that but just an idea that crossed my mind. Reader is on the more administrative and diplomatic kind of thing, like relations with the UN... The avengers don't understand why they need her or the amount of work and stress she is under... I don't know if that would interest you or what ship would be good with that, it's mostly an idea 😅 

You weren’t egotistical enough to think you could singe-handedly change the world but you wanted to a part of the change. You wanted to be one of the people that broke on of the spokes on the wheel and stopped the endless cycle of corruption. You wanted to stand up for the little guy. It’s why you studied politics, why you moved to Washington and took on unpaid internships, fetched coffee for bastard politicians and made sure to schedule their dinners with their wives and their mistresses on different evenings, never overlapping.

 You needed to be in the game before you could really start playing you told yourself. Keep your head down, work hard, don’t make any noise until you’re in a position where they have to listen.

 But your years of patience didn’t pay off, they seeped into your bones, making you brittle and bitter.

The Sokovia Accords. They were the bane of your existence. All your carefully thought out arguments and research against them had been twisted and manipulated by your bosses and suddenly you were the woman who anticipated problems before they happened. Steps were taken to cover up and hide everything you’d been afraid of, pre-emptive press statements were drafted to cover the backlash you’d warned them of.

 “We aren’t stopping potential threats, we’re causing them. We make people sign their names, put them on a list and there will be blowback. Before you know it we have Enhanced individuals accusing us of waging war and they will fight back.” You warned.

 “You’re right. We need to make sure we have access to our own Enhanced individuals. People with these abilities have a duty to use them as well, let’s make sure that’s in The Accords. The UN needs to be able to use these assets.”

 You tried to stop it and you ended up making it worse. You’d worked your way up the chain of command to make a difference, naively thinking that the more power you gained, the less power the big guys would have over you.

 You weren’t one of the people who was breaking the wheel, you were just another spoke on the infernal thing.

 And to make sure they’d really rubbed the salt into the wound, your bosses gave you the worst possible assignment.

 On-Site Accords Liaison to The Avengers.

 Between Tony Stark constantly hanging up on Secretary Ross or putting him on hold, and Captain Rogers having defied the accords for months on end before he and his friends were pardoned and brought home, The UN had decided they needed someone at the base with the team. That was where you came in. Begrudgingly.

 Very begrudgingly. But it wasn’t like they wanted you there either. They made that clear from the get-go, with their overly stiff and formal hello’s, their watchful eyes and resentful remarks.

 Some were worse than other. Tony Stark, who had spear-headed the Accords but didn’t like beaurocrats, went out of his way to be as childish as possible. He was late for meetings, spoke over you, handed in sloppy reports and even his AI had been programmed to randomly close doors on you, stop the elevator at the wrong floor, ‘forget’ to pass on messages. Stark alone had doubled your already considerable workload.

 Then there was The Black Widow. She was extremely polite, always smiling at you and offering to pour you a cup of coffee when you passed each other in the kitchen. But her eyes were cold and calculating, and frankly terrifying. Every encounter with her left the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end and you went out of your way to avoid her. Which was probably what she wanted. At least her reports were always succinct, if a little descriptive about the violence.

 Captain Rogers was the worst. His old-school charm and manners held him back from ever being cruel or rude, but you knew what he thought of you. It was clear from the stiff body language, the way he would force himself to nod a greeting or just cross his arms and glare at you during meetings. Getting him to hand in his reports was like trying to get blood out of a stone.

 The only person who treated you with any measure of respect was Colonel Rhodes and even that was nothing more than professional.

 You were alone in a world that you were making a worse place, doing a job you resented and loathed by the people you respected most of all. But what could you do? Explain to them you were on their side? They would never believe you, hell, you wouldn’t have believed you either.

 You were tied up in bureaucratic tape though and no matter how desperately you wanted to scream and rage and tell Secretary Ross to go fuck himself with a rusty pitchfork, you couldn’t. So you did what you had always done, the only thing you could do. You held your head up, took all the shit and kept shovelling it.

 “The UN wants a team to go to London and…”

 “Sightsee?” Captain Rogers asked coldly, raising a challenging eyebrow at you.

 Most ‘missions’ were recon, spying, sightseeing.

 “Collect information.” You continued, as if he hadn’t spoken.

 “Fine. Next time just email us all the information or have Friday relay it, there’s no reason for you to be here.” He said and you had to hold yourself back from visibly flinching at his words.

 “No reason for me to be where I’m not wanted you mean?” You asked coolly, collecting the files scattered around and piling them in your arms.

 The team had been walking out of the meeting but at your words they paused and looked back curiously, and that was what had alerted you to what you had said. You hadn’t mean to speak aloud but if you were honest, you were too mentally exhausted to put any effort into being polite anymore. So you just finished collecting your things and breezed past them all, ignoring them.

 You didn’t see them again until four days later, when they returned from their mission gone wrong.

 They had decided against observing and taken a more hands on approach, taking down the alien tech dealing base. To say the UN were pissed was an understatement.

 You could hear Secretary Ross yelling from the hallway as you hurried down it, slipping into the meeting room unnoticed.

 “On who’s orders did you decide that you could take down the base, rather than gather intel like you were instructed?” Secretary Ross demanded.

 “Mine.” You said quickly, autocratically, before anyone could say anything else that would land them in more hot water.

 “Yours?” Ross said derisively, looking at you for the first time since you entered the room.  

 “With all due respect sir, pre-emptively taking care of a problem before it becomes an issue is what I’m good at, it’s why you gave me this job.” You said bitterly.

 “And you thought that The Avengers needed to act, rather than observe did you?”

 “I did.” You said firmly.

 You saw Ross turn over the information in his mind, weighing up his anger against your record.

 “Fine. I trust your judgement.” He said, with just a hint of nastiness in his tone.

 The Avengers all studiously ignored you as Ross took a deep breath and nodded once.

 “Dismissed.” He grumbled.

 You turned on your heel and vacated the meeting swiftly. You didn’t want to stick around incase Ross came up with any more questions that you would have to think of convincing lies for, you needed time to come up with the story and put it into a report, changing the teams reports to match yours.

 The way you’d been doing for months without them knowing.

 “Why did you take the blame?” Steve demanded as you ran into your office, his hand stopping the door from closing behind you.

 You hadn’t even realised he’d been following you.

 “Because I could.” You sighed.

 “What did you mean, pre-emptively taking care of a problem before it becomes an issue is what you’re good at?” He asked.

 Your shoulders dropped and you hung your head as all the fight drained out of you.

 “I told the UN that there would be a backlash from enhanced individuals that didn’t want to sign the Accords. It’s why there’s a provision in them that The UN can call on anyone at any time to use their abilities for whatever The UN see’s fit.” You admitted.

 “You’re the reason that people are being drafted? You turned civilians into soldiers? You did that?” Steve spat furiously at you.

 “Yes, I did.” You said coldly.

 “Does free will mean nothing to you? Or do you really not see Enhanced Individuals as people?”

 “Apparently I don’t.”

 “How could you do that?” He asked.

 How indeed.

 “You ruined lives. I hope you’re happy with yourself, ma’am.”

 “Happy?” You snapped, looking up at him with so much anger that he looked taken aback.

 “You think I’m happy? I never wanted to do this Captain, I was trying to stop the Accords. I was naive and stupid, so convinced that I could make a difference. I thought I could change people’s minds, show them why this was a bad idea but all I did was give them worse ideas. My legacy will forever be this, putting people on a fucking list. My fucking hubris, my good intentions all led to me being the thing I hated most in the world. I don’t blame any of you for hating me, I fucking hate myself but don’t think I don’t know I’m a monster, don’t think I don’t lie awake at night feeling the full weight of my sins.” You raged, all your frustration pouring out of you.

 When the dam breaks, there’s always going to be some damage. And suddenly it all came spilling out of you, the helplessness, the frustration, the self-loathing. A garbled scream of fury and angst rose in your throat and you couldn’t swallow it back down, releasing a yell that sounded like a wounded animals you slammed your fists down onto the desk with a loud, echoing thump.

 “I wanted to do good!” You screamed.

 Abruptly, the anger whooshed out of you and you were left hunched over the desk, your shoulders shaking with unrepressed misery.

 “I just wanted to do good.” You repeated in a whisper, too far gone down the well of emotion you’d been drowning in for years to try and stop the tears burning in your eyes.

 When the first sob tore free you were so consumed by the pain and the freedom that came with finally releasing it that you barely registered the large hand that came to rest between your shoulder blades. The tears fell freely, splashing onto the wooden desk and that was when Steve Rogers rested against the edge of the desk and pulled you out of your hunched position over it, guiding you into his arms so he could close them around you and hold you while you fell apart.

 You cried for the person you could have been, the things you should have done and the innocent people your cowardice had hurt. You cried because you needed it, because you’d locked it all inside for so fucking long and you couldn’t contain it any longer. You cried because he was comforting you and he should have been hating you like you deserved.

 “I’m sorry.” You whimpered.

 “I believe you.” He said soothingly, rubbing his hands over your shoulders in an attempt to calm you.

 You stepped back from him, wrapping your arms around yourself and ducking your head to cover your embarrassed expression.

 “I need to write up my report for Ross.”

 “You should send it to us so we can make sure our reports match.” He said with a nod.

 “Just send me them, I’ll make the adjustments as necessary.” You said dismissively.

 A speculative look passed over his face as he regarded you before he nodded and left the room.

 You collapsed onto your chair, thoroughly spent. But, you had a job to do and so you did what you had always done. Straightened your spine, threw back your shoulders and got on with it.

 To your shock, over the next few hours you received several emails. Every member of the team submitted their mission reports to you, promptly. Even Stark. You felt some of the tension in your shoulders release at this little bit of stress being removed from your overfilled plate and went through them all with a fine tooth comb, making sure they all had the added detail of receiving the order to Engage from you directly. By the time you finished and forwarded them edited reports to The Un, the sun had long since slipped below the horizon and you were in need of coffee before you finished up for the day.

 Grabbing your mug you made your way to the communal kitchen, hoping it was empty. It was not.

 “We’ve been waiting for you.” Natasha said as soon as you walked in.

 The team all looked up from their various seats around the room. Apparently they were also knee deep in paperwork because their were boxes and boxes of files scattered around.

 “You know where my office is, there’s no need to wait for me to emerge to seek out coffee.” You said wryly, saluting her with your mug.

 “We knew you had a fuckton of paperwork to do, thanks to us, so we didn’t want to disturb you.” Barton said, pouring coffee into your mug for you.

 “We know what you’ve been up to little miss Un.” Stark said teasingly.

 “You’re going to have to elaborate on that Mr Stark, I do a lot.” You answered.

 “More than you should. We’ve been going through all our mission reports since you arrived. Want to know what we found?” Sam Wilson asked.

 “It appears you have been subtly changing details in our submitted reports, making sure everything was in line with The UN’s demands.” The Vision said, clearly not understanding that the question was rhetorical.

 “So what?” You sighed.

 “So what? So what she asks? You’ve just been casually watching our backs for months and none of us had any idea.” Sam said derisively.

 “What we’re trying to say is, we know that you’ve been helping us and we’re sorry we didn’t realise it sooner.” Steve cut in.

 You should have been relived, elated even. But you were numb and tired and frankly, it was too little, too late.

 “Apology accepted.” You said blankly, walking away before anymore could be said on the matter.

 Thankfully, nobody followed. You weren’t angry or bitter about the way they’d treated you and you weren’t happy or grateful about the apology. You were just tired.

 You were stuck in a rut of just doing your job and nothing else and that was what you kept doing in the following days. But there were little differences that you came to notice that slowly but surely loosened the constant knot in your stomach.

 Friday was infinitely more helpful, passing along messages, getting you to the right floor without you having to ask, casually reminding you that you’d been working for hours and should get some food.

 Reports were submitted in a timely manner, usually in person instead of emailed. Sam Wilson and Clint Barton always bringing a mug of coffee for you when they handed theirs in.

 Natasha and Steve were the biggest change, their attitudes warming considerably to you. Casual, yet heartfelt greetings were tossed your way when you passed by them, and genuine enquiry’s as to how you were doing.

 It took time for things to change, you were so deep into your little pit of misery that you couldn’t quite come up for air straight away but eventually you did.

 “Sup girl?”

 “That better be a big ass cup of coffee Wilson, do you have any idea how much rewriting I had to do to try and justify you fighting a helicopter with your bare hands?” You snapped playfully, smirking at him.

 He threw back his head and laughed, passing the mug to you.

 “But you were a little impressed when you read it, right?” He asked.

 “Was on the edge of my seat the whole time.” You admitted, shaking your head fondly at him.

 “Latest mission was pretty straightforwards, shouldn’t be too much editing to be done in this one.” He informed you, handing it over.

 “I’ll just put it here, next to this highly classified file.” You remarked ‘accidentally’ knocking the file to the ground.

 He played along and picked it up for you, eyes scanning over the information.

 “Hmm.” He said, grinning at you as he handed it back.

 “Be a shame if somebody saw that and warned Cap to get a lawyer to defend Barnes publicly, before the UN could make a big deal out of this.” You mused.

 “Yeah, real shame. You know that eventually Ross is going to figure out what you’ve been up to right? Not that we don’t all appreciate your help kid, but are you prepared for the backlash that’s eventually going to be coming down on you?” He asked in concern.

 “Going to be a mighty crying shame when Ross finds out that he coincidentally found out on the same day I got offered a job by Stark.” You sent a knowing grin at him and winked.

 “So you’ve got a back-up plan? Listen, we just don’t want to see you hurt.”

 “It’s all been worked out Sam, trust me. Pre-emptive strikes are my thing after all.”

 You were finally doing some good, protecting the protectors and you knew that one day it would all come crashing down around you but you didn’t care. You weren’t alone anymore, you were part of a team.

 “This might have to wait till tomorrow.” You said, glancing at the clock and tapping his report.

 “Oh, got a hot date?” He teased.

 “Matter of fact, yes I do.” You said smugly, your words coinciding with the knock at your office door.

 “You ready sweetheart?” Steve asked, a warm, excited smile gracing his features.

Yes, Steve Rogers had been the biggest change recently. His concern for you grew into something more and the comfort you found in his arms strengthened your soul. The hours he spent in your office, helping you rig the system had slowly become filled with longing glances and wondering thoughts. His chair always seemed to end up a little closer to yours every time he visited, his hugs lasted a little longer until one day his lips had sought out yours and it felt so right, so natural, so wonderful. You hadn’t looked back since.

“Aye aye Captain.”

____________________________________________

A/N - I know it’s not my best work, but it ain’t my worst either and I needed to get back into the swing of things so hopefully it was good enough that you liked it a bit. 

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[first-living-myth]

Summer Made Children

Picture credit to @unbeknownsst

Jade hurt his ankle, and is laid up with cast and crutches. Jesse is sitting next to him, doodling heart on their cast to cheer him up.

Summer-made children, to come back to,

JESSE

"Did you fell off the tree?"

Mom indeed been working temp as a nurse (that's why she's not home every nigh; she's working in the emergency unit though the evening till early morning) not even once-- Jess ever saw someone with broken bone and casted leg in front of his eyes. He sat a little away from the bed: unnecessarily looking terrified. This is one of the weekly trip to dad's place as the adults call it, holidays. Yet if it's a holiday why Mom always looked rather sour everytime he's being picked up of the apartment? He noticed so; children always do, her tightened jaw and stifled frown and a little bid of adieu that sounded like, I want him back in Sunday before 7 pm, instead of a nice 'Have a nice weekend!'

"Did bad kids hit you?"

His eyes are all doe; the thing that would still be with him once he later grown up into a man, doe, big eyes. Although little legs just decided to took himself onto the chair right next to the older kid's study, keeping distance from the bed, afraid those little clumsy hands of his would leave the boy in pain accidentally. (he is clumsy, big one.)

"Is it broken?"

(Little gasp!)

"Do you need help!"

JADE

Jade Huang was twelve and he fell from the stairs.

The classroom is large and daunting, far too threatening for Jade's tiny brain to comprehend. He did not like it, not even the slightest. However, he dare not to refuse his mom’s will, forced him to get off to school no matter what. Typical Asian parents, he dare say. He wore plain silky white shirt, short sleeve, tapered western, baggy lightweight black pants, then also his most remarkable sceptical and somewhat supercilious, with its odd rectangular, thick dark brown glasses. It was quite unhinged actually, due to the constant damage he shoved.  He likes to throw things around when too immersed with something; bad habit never cease, just like wonder does.

Jade never once revel in commingling coeval groups, simply enough, he prefers to be alone. Hence, he wouldn’t get surprised anymore if the peers around him despise his presence; uncanny, an oddball, yet shrewd to say the least. He could never mingle well, a perfect misfit. Then, when lunch time comes, he always sits beneath the tall primeval, verdant, gigantic and gnarled, shady trees, all alone but with his fine, readable, small leather-bound books. He would read anything, from classic literature, until full-colored comics. 

Whether he will understand the contexts or not, possibly more coherent with the latter, it wouldn't be a problem. Reading was and only his solace, in amidst of boisterous cacophony.

“Oi, clotpole!”

A chubby, bald, slanted eyes, noteworthy flabby tummy, has appeared. He seems cute, yes, to others, indeed. But Jade, himself, saw the other child, named Jason, as his mortal enemy; Jason oftentimes beat Jade until he felt like his end was near, pulled childish pranks, such as stole Jade’s favorite toy and many others. As usual, he chose to be wise, at least he thought, to ignore the impudent boy. 

“I said, oi, clotplole! Didn’t you hear or are you deaf?”

“What do you want this time?” He asked, nonchalantly. 

“Buy this for me! You’re rich, aren’t you?”

Jason said with a glimmer in his eyes, playful just like a misbehaving child would, while proud, holding up a crumpled, frayed brittle, piece of paper. There was a picture of something, he was unable to limn it, because it wasn’t considered as one of his interests. One thing for certain, it was some kind of toy.

“Why?”

“Because I want to!”

“Why?”

“You’re rich?”

“Why?”

“Just buy it, motherfucker!”

“But I don’t want to, and my statement is final.” his tone surprisingly even, almost studious.

“You bloody wonker!”

The next thing Jade knows, he was at home, laid up with cast and crutches. He was unconcious for a while, and refused to talk. Even when the old fine looking aunty was talking to him, he kept his mouth shut. Albeit seen disheveled, his gaze fixated on looking at a child of eight or nine, all pale skin and thin bones and dark, tangled hair. 

Ahn Jaesuk, the name of the child. But he prefers to call him Jesse, as prolly everyone did. This is their third meeting, Jade was slightly content, thrilled yet he did want to show it. 

“Hi, Jesse.”

JESSE

"Did it hurt?"

The kid talks so much. So-fucking much, he pulls the chair closer to the bed that his curious side grows. Frown curls in response; he's so expressive in the contrary to the older boy regarding to his either reaction or feelings, big, even. He gives big reactions to almost anything.

(His expressions changes often when he's trying to read Jade's collection of books; the expression where he barely understands letters, the expressions where he found a new verb he never heard before, the expression where he  found BIG ACTIONS in the comic books! Later growing up he'll find fondness specially towards DC Comics.)

"I mean, when the bad kids hit you."

Did he come too straightforward? No means to offend, but,

"Or did you really fell off the tree!"

He's careful not to jump into the bed. Sick people needs bigger space, Mom once said. She's the nurse afterall; a pro in sick person, making them less sick, helping the doctors to help the sick. The easy way in comprehending the term in the brain of a nine year old.

"So, do you, need a help when you need to go to pee? Was it hurt when they put the cast on your feet? Mom said where the bone is broken it will be swollen and painful.

JADE

Jade is the only child and he didn't know how to deal with a little brother, the one who acted and played like so. He didn’t know how to deal with Jesse, even though he had done lots of research. By all means, reading many books that he could possibly find, few have been proven useful, but the rest look ridiculous though. A snippet from Jade’s reading material, ‘Raising A Kid’, ‘Teaching Boy About Things’, ‘Shit Brothers Said’, ‘I am A Brother’, and the list goes on. Well, what would you expect from someone mediocre, twelve years old, plain yet geeky boy? 

“Hey, do you know what word to describe someone that asks too many questions, talk too much, like you?” 

Jade asked, mimicking a wiseacre or smart aleck look alike’s expression, his brow wrinkled as he leaned in close to headboard, which was covered in white pillows, in his smaller and rather austere bedroom. 

“I read it in a book, apparently those people are called loquacious.” Jade slurs. He was slightly worried if this is the right choice or not; he was concerned, he hardly believed anything at all. One of the human nature, future is always seemed scary, because they cannot control it; predictions, however, is in another hand. Now, Jade prayed with all his might, he's able to, at least, produce a good outcome through this.  

Even so, Jade stilled in disbelief, a hefty sigh escaped successfully. It’s not like it should be a surprise, or anything, because even at the very first meeting, Jesse couldn’t shut up; a brazen young boy, inquisitive most of the time. But the child seemed fastidious about Jade’s current condition and all. Many would think Jesse was being annoying, making the whole plight vexatiously so, most certainly to a sick, helpless boy. However, Jade saw things differently, it was adorable, cute to be truth, and amusing to look at. 

He felt the sudden urge to squish, pinch those plump cheeks, when he was watching vacuously open, soft vermeil, comparatively dainty lips of Jesse’s keep moving and talking. And so, he did, unconsciously and makes wonder spread in his chest.

“It’s hurt, the pain still lingers but I guess I’m okay.” He laughed, dryly. “Someone pushed me. From the stairs. It was scary. It was high. He was bigger than you. Strange.” He said, intermittently so.

JESSE

"What?"

He sounded as chirpy, until a really, foreign word hits his ear, over a pronounciation that the little boy barely could repeat. Mouth opens; involuntarily, a gape visible, and he doesn't even know that he's making that face for that brief moment,

<: O

(That's exactly the face he is making.)

Doe-eyed, mouth-gaped, briefly silent; do all 12 years old be this cool? Or only because Jade spent more times with books instead of communicating with actual person? But Jess surely never heard that word before.

  "--Lo, locucious." Hey, he tried his best to repeat that out. Hopefully the older one still has that emphaty to correct the kid, or he will grow sticking to it until someone else is kind enough to point out. But Jess knows the word, retaliation!

Don't ask where did he learn that but Batman comics taught him so! Inclusing many scientific terms (he believed they are scientific, because, Detective Comics,) that came out of the same comic book series.

Jess also spent too much time reading colorful comics.

He gave out big reactions, remember? Again, big frown curling over his big displease of an expression in which  shifted in no time upon the progression of the story; someone pushed me, fell from the stairs, it still hurt--- he cringed a big fear, he was bigger than you; and his frown curling up into a fright. As if the older boy was telling him a horror, bed story time. (Would Jade read him bed story times?).

And he looked up the other boy with  that same fright. Is he worried? Well, look at his face right now? "....Joshua got his knee hurt too when we played football in school," Joshua, Joshua Carson, his classmate, but he didn't mention about the fact that the mentioned boy as his classmate. "He skipped school for two! Weeks! I envy!! But then I missed him so I visit him everyday after school."

Chirpy, chirpy little boy,

"Uh-oh do you want me to take your drink!!"

(The story is still in progress).