#but my brain just flatlines as soon as I get home

[jgmartin]

THE RUNAWAY

The forest is black. Pitch black.

I pound over the dirt trail, my feet turning the pedals like twin pistons. The bicycle bounces and jolts, shuddering as it rolls across the wooden bridge. There’s something in the air tonight. A chill. 

But it isn’t the chill of autumn. No, this is the chill of unease. It crawls up my spine carrying the deep-rooted knowledge that something about these woods, something about this trail isn’t right. It’s the unmistakable dread of being watched. 

Pursued.

I stand up and ride harder. My lungs burn with every push of the pedals but I can’t shake the feeling that I need to get out of these woods fast. The hospital is twenty minutes away. I just need to make it there.

I’m close. 

So close. 

WOMP

Bass rumbles behind me. It’s followed by a rush of wind, enough to throw me forward while ravishing the forest like a tempest. Trees groan. Their frames break and kneel, surrendering to the gale. Branches and leaves come loose. They ricochet through the air like shrapnel, cutting into my cheek and and I throw up an arm to keep myself from losing an eye. 

This is insanity. 

It’s lunacy. 

I don’t know what’s happening, but I know I have to make it through this. I have to get out of these woods, get back to the hospital to see my sister before the heart monitor flatlines. 

She’s not doing well. Are your mother and father home?

No, ma’am. 

Can you get here to be with her? She doesn’t have long. 

Yes ma’am. No matter what. 

The distant bass nears, growing thunderous. It’s as though the whole world is shaking, like the Earth might split in two and swallow me whole. I grit my teeth. I let loose a defiant roar, sweat pouring down my temples as my legs tremble, willing my bike forward.

Faster, dammit!

Faster!

There’s a flash. Then another. 

Lightning?

No.

I’m answered by an explosion of light, so violent and bright that I can’t see a damn thing. I holler. Scream. My body jerks forward as my front wheel collides with what feels like a fallen branch. Next thing I know, I’m flying over my handlebars.

What’s the phrase?

Ass-over-tea-kettle.

Yeah, that’s it. 

I brace myself for a broken arm, maybe worse, but the pain never comes. Nothing comes. It’s as though I’m floating in limbo, like gravity’s unable to finish what it started. I can’t feel a thing– not the dirt beneath me, not my face pressed against the bark of a tree. For a little while, I think I’m dead. That I’m in purgatory. 

But then my eyes adjust. The world comes into focus, beginning as a blurry smudge, but soon becoming a picture-perfect recreation of my worst nightmare.

I’m not in the forest anymore. 

I’m above it. 

I’m looking down at the mess of trees and I’m terrified at how small they are, how much smaller they’re getting with every passing second. 

I’m floating into the sky, being carried by a narrow beam of light. 

___________________________

That was a long time ago. Thirty years, give or take. 

A lot’s changed since then, but one thing’s remained the same: the nightmares. I have them every night. I dream about that blinding light, that same low bass and that same gut-churning horror of being eaten by the sky. 

I used to think they were a coping mechanism. I figured that since the dreams came shortly after my older sister passed, that maybe they were just how my eleven-year-old brain was dealing with the grief. My therapist seemed to agree.

“You’re quite right that there may be a link there,” she’d tell me, lowering her glasses and offering a medical-grade smile. “It’s very likely that these dreams are a form of abstract healing, a means to allow your mind to come to terms with its trauma.”

For a long time, I thought she was right. Or better put, I hoped she was. Now though? Well, I think maybe we were both wrong. 

Shit. 

Where are my manners? 

I’m over here rambling about my childhood, and you’re wondering who the hell I am. 

My name is Isaiah Mitchell. I’m a boogeyman, but not the cool kind. I don’t hide in closets or haunt old houses. I’m the type that your parents rant about while watching the evening news, the sort that tinfoil hats point to whenever things go wrong.

I’m what you might call a Man in Black. 

The work I do is classified. It’s the sort of work that happens behind the scenes, with shadowy people in shadowy circles. So when I tell you that last night something catastrophic happened, I’m not talking about the stock market dipping a couple percentage points. I'm not talking about increased traffic on your morning commute. 

I’m talking about trouble. 

Lots of it.

It’s the kind of trouble that’s making me do something I don’t generally do, which is break rules. By the end of this, I might break all of them. But this is important, and in moments like these I find myself thinking about my late sister, Hope, and how she would have wanted me to do the right thing. It’s how she raised me, after all. 

So here goes nothing. 

This begins with a story, but it ends with a decision. The story is mine, and the decision is yours. When I’m finished, you get to choose whether you spend the time you have left a little wiser, or laugh this off as the ramblings of a lunatic. 

Whatever you choose, I’ll have made my peace. 

The story is a personal one. It’s about me, but it’s also about you– it’s about everything in the universe, right down to the last atom, and how all of us are facing a horror the likes of which we can’t begin to imagine. 

It’s the story of the worst night of my life, and what might one day be the worst night of yours. 

It goes like this. 

_______________________

The beam of light sucks me up and spits me into absolute darkness. The sensory whiplash is enough to give me a headache, something like a migraine that pulses near my temples and feels like a bulldozer inside my skull. 

It’s uncomfortable. 

But not half as uncomfortable as the situation I’m in. 

“Hello?” I mumble to the dark. I stumble to my feet, feeling around my environment blindly. It’s cold. Hard. It feels like I might be in a room full of metal, but I can’t imagine where that would be. A warehouse?

Footsteps echo in the distance. They’re closing in. 

“Who’s there?” I sputter, and I think maybe I’ve been drugged. People don’t just up and float into the sky in the middle of the night. It isn’t a thing. 

That means I’m hallucinating. 

That means whoever kidnapped me knows a thing or two about stealing kids. 

That means they’re a professional. 

What’s the phrase?

Serial killer.

Yeah, that’s it.

WOOOOMP

I clap my hands to my ears. It’s that same bass from the forest, except now it’s reverberating all around me. Another bass joins it. This one is different… coming from a new direction, with a lower tone. It’s almost like they’re communicating– like morse code. 

“Please,” I beg. “Just let me go. I swear I won’t tell anybody!”

Static crackles. It’s followed by a sharp squeal of microphone feedback, then the buzz of modulating frequency. “Communication calibrated,” a digital voice says. “Subject identified: homosapien. Geographic location: New Mexico. Language model: English.” 

There’s a pause, it’s long and silent enough that I can hear my pulse rushing through my veins. I’m positive I’m going to die. These things don’t happen to people who live to tell the tale. 

“Can you understand us, homosapien?” the voice asks.

Yes, I say. 

Can you turn on the lights? I ask. 

The only thing worse than being murdered is being murdered in the dark. 

Yes, they say. 

I’m blinded for the third time in as many minutes. I blink, my eyes adjusting to the green glow as it fills the chamber. Wherever I am, it’s strange. Alien. Tall vats of liquid are scattered around a large, circular room, each hosting tubes that extend outward to a central console. Everything is metallic. I can’t make out any labels– any sort of identification at all. 

“Is this level of light sufficient?” another voice asks, this one right behind me. 

I wheel around, and my breath catches in my chest. In front of me is something that doesn’t exist– can’t exist. It’s roughly ten feet tall, and it’s got sharp teeth, sharp claws, scaled skin, and a tail. It’s a monster. A living, breathing monster. 

Fuck.

I scramble backward. My back collides with one of the vats, and blue liquid sloshes against the glass. “Thehellareyou?” I shout all at once. 

“We are the Chosen,” says the first voice, approaching my other side. “We are lifeforms from many galaxies away, and we have come to save humanity.”

They stare at me through giant eyes, and each of those eyes are filled with dozens of pulsing pupils. Almost like ink blots. 

“I’ve been abducted…” I sputter, hardly able to breathe. “By aliens. Aliens… are real… and I’ve been abducted…”

“Correct,” says one of the aliens. I realize this one has gray scales, while the other has teal. At least I can tell them apart. 

Gray looks at his arm, and a digital screen comes to life. He taps at it with a crooked finger. “Readings indicate heightened levels of cortisol and increased adrenal flow. Source: Fight or flight response. Biologically rational, but devoid of purpose.” He looks at me, cocks his over-large head to the side. “You have neither the option to fight us or flee us, so it would be best to comply. Do you understand?”

My jaw hangs open. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. Are these aliens really standing there reading me my Miranda Rights? “Are you going to probe me?” I ask. “Like the movies?”

Teal blinks at me, his pupils dilating. “Negative.” He points to a vat. “We will break down your genetic tissue into usable material, harvesting your most compatible DNA strands while discarding the rest. It is for the greater good.”

I follow his finger to the tank, and now that I’m right up against it, I can see clearly what’s floating inside. My stomach twists into a knot. Inside of it is a human body. Everything from the man’s waist down has been dissolved, and what’s left of his intestines are dangling freely. 

“Jesus Christ!”

“There is no cause for concern,” Teal says. He lumbers across the chamber to the metallic console that all the tubes are feeding into. “Your disappearance will be accounted for. A clone will be deployed to resume your life, preventing suspicion and avoiding social disruption.” 

“Let me get this straight,” I say, trying to ignore how faint I’m starting to feel. “You’re going to kill me… to save humanity?”

“Correct.”

The room spins. My chest gets tight and my vision becomes a scrambled mess. My ears are ringing like church bells. I stumble, losing my sense of equilibrium and I think I taste vomit in my throat.

“No,” I mutter. “This isn’t happening… Can’t be happening…” 

I steady myself against a vat, looking up to see a dead woman’s face staring back at me. Pieces of her skull have been eaten away. I can see the wrinkles of her brain underneath.  

“Heart rate out of range,” Gray says, but I hardly hear him. He grabs my wrist, presses a device against the center of my hand. 

I struggle. Fight. I try to use my teeth, but he’s strong, much stronger than me. A coldness pulses against my palm, almost like an ice cube, and soon that frigid sensation is traveling across my fingertips. Up my arm. 

“What did you…” I mutter, but the sensation is rolling through the rest of my body. It’s soothing. My eyes find my palm and I see a strange shape seared into the skin, a scatter of dots surrounding a black square.  Suddenly I can’t remember the thought I was trying to finish. Was any of this really worth panicking over? 

It was just a few corpses in vats, after all. 

“You have been administered a sedative,” Gray explains. 

My heart rate slows. My ears stop ringing. The ghost of a smile sneaks across my face.

Gray’s staring at his display. “Cortisol levels reduced. Adrenal response suppressed. Biometric readings indicate subject has achieved a suitable level of suggestibility to proceed.” 

“Affirmative,” says Teal, working the console. 

I feel like I’m drifting through the lake on a warm summer day. My heart is full. I’m in absolute bliss, and all I can think is that Hope should get to experience this before she dies…

“Pulse is quickening,” Gray says with a frown.

Hope.

My sister.

My dying sister, alone in the hospital wondering why her little brother abandoned her. 

“Sedation effect dropping,” Gray says. “98%. 94%. Emotional instability reaching unacceptable levels.”

“Hope,” I sputter, feeling like I’m coming out of a daze. “I have to get to the hospital– please! My sister is sick! She needs me!”

Gray presses the device against my other hand, and another pulse of relaxation courses through me. “Invalid concern,” he tells me. “Clone will be a perfect recreation of you, body and mind. It will retain all memories allowing it to continue your life uninterrupted. Conclusion: your expiring sibling will receive suitable emotional support prior to her decomposition.”

Fucking aliens. It takes everything I have to fight against the sedative, to make my case. “How?” I groan. “How is my DNA supposed to save humanity? What the hell is it saving us from anyway?”

Teal turns from the console to face us. His giant eyes are narrowed in a thoroughly displeased manner. “Invalid request. Information too critical to risk dissemination.”

“Rebuttal,” says Gray. “Clone’s memory can be modified. Current biometric readings indicate high levels of emotional discontent, placing likelihood of a compromised harvest at 34%. Solution: permit subject to understand purpose of sacrifice. Result: sense of closure and enhanced probability of project success.”

Teal turns back to the console. “Rebuttal accepted. Proceed.”

Gray looks at me. He places his scaly fingers against my head, and I squirm a little. “Brace yourself for disorientation,” he tells me. “You will experience physical unease and hyperstimulation. After, you will understand the horror that awaits your species in the dark.”

_________________________________

For a long time, that’s as far as the nightmare gets. Gray prattles on that I’m about to see the truth, some twisted fate that justifies melting humans into sludge, but before he can deliver the goods, I wake up. 

Every. Time. 

Blue balls doesn’t begin to describe it. 

Last night, it happens again. The nightmare, I mean. Same aliens, same tanks of human soup, but this time I wake up in a cold sweat. My phone is ringing on the bedside table. There’s a name on the screen that I hate to see.

“Whatisit?” I grumble. 

“Jesus Christ, Mitchell. I’ve been calling for ten minutes!”

My boss. Lisa. 

She goes off. The words are coming out like machine-gun fire, and from the background chatter I figure she’s speaking to more than just me. It sounds like there’s a crowd around her, like she’s briefing suits as she jogs down a hallway.

“Got all that?” she asks. 

Something about a shitstorm. Something about an F35. The air force just shot down a UAP, which is how we say UFO these days to avoid getting laughed out of the room. Apparently it happened in New Mexico. My backyard. 

This calls for a liter of coffee. Maybe two. 

I stumble into the kitchen and put a pot on. I have some time while she holds the phone to her chest and barks orders at the drones around her. One cream. One sugar. My spoon clinks against the side of the mug as her voice blares through the speaker. 

“Mitchell?” she says. “Still there?”

She says she’s got coordinates. I take a sip of scalding java. I’m dazed enough I barely feel it burn my tongue. My fingers punch the coordinates into my laptop, bringing up the location the supposed UAP was shot down. 

I spit my coffee over my screen. 

“The fuck?” I mutter, leaning forward and doing a double take at the map. 

“What is it?” she’s asking.

“Nothing,” I’m saying. 

But it’s a lie. The truth is, the coordinates are a dead match for the forest where I had my waltz with psychosis thirty years ago. They’re the coordinates from my dream. Right down to the rickety old bridge. 

I ask her if she’s sure the numbers are correct.

“Am I sure?” she snaps. “Look, if you’re asking me if this is another Chinese spy balloon then the answer is go fuck yourself. I’ve been pulling my hair out for the past twenty minutes. This is the real deal, so suit up and get ready to go. I’ve got a bird on the way.”

The clock on my microwave reads 2:34 a.m. and my stomach is telling me to sort my life out. “Do I have time for breakfast?” I ask. 

Click.

The line goes dead. 

Twenty minutes later, a helicopter is landing on my lawn. I board it in a daze, and we take off in the direction of the crash like we’re trying to outrun a cruise missile. I’m watching the lights of the countryside drift by, and it occurs to me that from all the way up here, in the dead of night, they almost look like stars. 

I wonder how long it’d take to snuff them out.

How long it’d take to burn a whole galaxy to ashes?

To crush a universe in the palm of your hand?

Things to consider. 

The closer we get to the crash site, the worse my thoughts become. They’re bordering on obsessive. I’m tangoing with darkness. Radio chatter is coming through the com line, something about aliens and extraterrestrials, but all I’m thinking about is controlling my bladder. 

I’m drowning in hypotheticals. 

I’m wondering what happens if I lose my mind between here and the crash site, what the protocols are, where they’ll take me. Do I get the night off? The week?

“Everything okay, sir?” 

It’s the co-pilot. She’s turning in her seat and looking at me like I’m having a medical emergency. 

“You look a bit pale,” she tells me. 

My muscles work overtime as I twist my mouth into a smile. “Never better,” I lie. “How far out are we?”

“Twenty miles,” she says with a reassuring grin. She turns back in her seat and I take the opportunity to let out an exhausted sigh. 

I close my eyes. Take a dozen deep breaths. 

Happy thoughts. 

I try to ignore how dry my mouth is, how badly my hands are shaking. I try to ignore the fact that every time I look down at my palms, I see that same scatter of dots, that same faded square that no doctor has been able to explain. “I’ve never seen scars like that,” they tell me. “How’d you get them?”

I don’t know, I tell them.

I don’t know.

But I do.

I’ve known this entire time, probably, but I’ve just been too terrified to accept it. I’m not what I think I am– this world isn’t what I think it is either. It’s all of this that’s making me want to curl into a ball. It’s making me want to weep on the floor, to scream at the top of my lungs and pull my hair out with everything I have.

It’s making me want to throw open the helicopter door, take a breath of fresh air and then plunge head-first into the dirt like a human turnip. And if I thought it was that easy, I might just do it. 

But somehow, I know it isn’t.

I know it won’t save me– won’t save us, from what’s coming. 

See, last night I had the same dream I’ve had for the last thirty years. The same abduction. The same aliens. But last night, I got to see the director’s cut. The Extended Edition. Last night, when Gray told me he was going to show me just how fucked we all are, he actually came through. 

Imagine that. 

What I saw was everything. 

I saw how all of this ends. How all of it began. What I saw is what’s waiting for us in the black infinity of space. And the more that I think about it, the more I think it might be driving me mad. 

“Just up ahead,” says the pilot. “Ten minutes to touch down.”

Eight minutes.

Five. 

“Jesus,” he says, at the three minute mark. “Are you two seeing this?”

And up ahead is a plume of smoke, rising into the night sky. There’s the faint flicker of fading fires, the haphazard glow of industrial lighting, and there, at the center of it all, is the unmistakable shape of something that shouldn’t exist.

“That… doesn’t look like it’s from this planet…” the co-pilot mutters over the com line. 

“No,” the pilot replies, and his voice is shaking. “It doesn't.” 

They’re right. They both are. What it looks like is something extra-terrestrial, something alien. It looks like something ripped straight from my worst nightmares.

And really, that’s just where I wish it had stayed.  

__________________________

The moment Gray touches my head, static ripples across my skull. I froth at the mouth. Choke. For a little while, I think I’m probably dying, but then I lose all sense of awareness. I’m falling. I’m breaching the atmosphere of my mind and crashing into a dimension outside of myself, outside of everything. 

Images flash. They’re like a film reel, playing across my consciousness from every direction. They’re everywhere. Inescapable. It’s as if I’m inhabiting them, as though they were moments in time and everything from sight, sound and smell are collapsing in on one another like a dying star. 

Gray calls this ‘disorienting.’

But then, just when I tell myself I want out— that I can’t take it anymore because my disembodied ghost is about to explode… It slows. The whole process hits the brakes. The visual hurricane calms from a category 5 to a 3, and then settles into a 1. 

Whew-ie!

Moments float to the surface. Others sink out of sight. 

Like a sponge, my mind starts absorbing information– everything from quantum physics to the lyrical discography of Shania Twain. Knowledge becomes trivial. As soon as I want to know something, I reach out and take it. 

It’s exhilarating. 

But then, something catches my attention. It’s a series of shimmering lights in my lake of thought, gleaming jewels that seem to be drawing me toward them. Somehow, I know that these are why I’ve come here. These are what Gray meant for me to find, the so-called truth that would justify all of the abductions, all of the murders. 

So I reach out. 

Information bombards me. It carpet-bombs my mind, and in the overwhelming chaos of it all, the entire history of the cosmos is laid bare before me.

I see it. I see everything. 

Gray and Teal? Not monsters. An alien species called the Vytar. Their technology eclipses humanity’s, and they’ve existed for billions of years. They’ve done remarkable things in that time, everything from mastering hyperlight travel to creating edible spray cheese. They’ve even charted the entirety of the cosmos. 

What I’m saying is they've been busy.

But my revelations don’t stop there. No, they keep coming.

Tragedy. 

I see tragedy. 

I see it in the Vytar’s search for answers. In their quest to uncover every nook and cranny of the universe, they come across two devastating discoveries. Firstly, they learn that they are alone in the cosmos. Secondly, they discover their species is going extinct. 

How?

It happens like this. 

Near the edge of space, a Vytar ship discovers life. But it isn’t intelligent. Far from it. This life is microbial, viral, and it infects the explorers. They toss themselves into quarantine. They’re observed, and a shocking discovery is made– this virus?

Not so bad.

In fact, maybe it’s just what they've been looking for.

Soon, Vytarians across the cosmos are lining up to be infected with the virus. Within a century, their entire species are carriers. It jumps between them like the common cold, but they don’t mind. Not at all. Why? Easy. This virus comes with a satisfaction guarantee: biological immortality. 

Now there’s a deal. 

The trouble is, these Vytar don’t work like humans do. They don’t have sex and make babies and then sleep and then wake up and do it again. No, these Vytar lay eggs. And only certain members of their species lay eggs. And what’s more? They only lay eggs during a specific molting period at the end of their life cycles. 

See what I’m getting at?

Biological immortality or laying eggs. Pick one. You can’t have both if you’re the Vytar. But by the time they figure this out, this virus has infected every last colony of their civilization. Unable to reproduce, their population enters freefall. It develops what’s known as an existential crisis, and if there’s one thing civil society hates, it’s dealing with an existential crisis. 

Tempers flare.

Emotions run hot. 

This brings us to the crux of the Vytarian dilemma. War. 

And lots of it. 

Worlds erupt into conflict. Galaxies become battlefields, and whole solar systems are laid to ash. If you thought nuclear weapons were bad, then consider what happens when a moon is kicked out of orbit into the surface of a planet. The bloodshed is immeasurable. As the fighting escalates, the stars themselves become weapons. The Vytar discover that if you can just push one toward instability…. Well, boom. 

There goes the neighborhood.

These Vytar? Nothing if not creative. 

But it’s just this penchant for outside the box problem solving that massacres their species into the low billions. Over a single millenia, the Vytar are swept from an inter-galactic species, to one inhabiting a single world on the edge of space. 

Having met their downfall at the hands of their technology, the surviving Vytar turn toward spiritualism. Cults form. Different sects have different beliefs, but one eventually consumes the rest: The Way of the Chosen. The Way promises an end to Vytarian pain. 

No more existential crisis. 

No more killing. 

All the Vytar need to do is open their hearts and minds to a simple three step program:

Show a little pride. We’re the only intelligent life in the universe, so start acting like it!

Persevere. Immortality is our final test. Keep your chin up!

Ascend. Just make it to the heat death of the universe, and you’ll be granted salvation!

Believe it or not, it’s a big hit. 

The Vytarians flock to it in droves because it offers what they need– a sense of purpose, and a break from the emotional turmoil that’s consumed them for decades. In a matter of years, The Way becomes the dominant socio-political force across the Vytarian homeworld, bringing the last of the warring factions together. 

It’s a beautiful thing. 

But what’s the phrase?

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Yeah, that’s it. 

Not everybody is a fan of how The Chosen conduct business. But The Chosen make it easy for them– all who disavow their belief system are exiled. It’s for the good of the Vytarians, they say. And maybe they’re right. After all, these are a species of aliens that have seen just what disagreements can lead to. 

Fire. Fury. Mass graves and floating corpses in the vacuum of space. 

No thank you. 

That’s a risk they won’t take. 

One of these exiled Vytarians is a scientist. He has no name in the shared memory save for ‘The Heretic,’ and he is both the architect of humanity and the genesis of our greatest threat. In his assessment, the Vytarian extinction is an inevitability. He perceives their current peace as fragile, held up by a corrupt theocracy whose foundations could crumble any moment. Once they do, boom. Back to war. Back to genocide. 

It won’t be pretty. 

Worse still, when the last of the Vytar perish, so too will the last form of complex intelligence. Their species won’t just die– it’ll be forgotten. The universe will become a barren void, an unconscious minefield of drifting cadavers.

That will be their legacy. 

But the Heretic, he’s a mover-and-a-shaker. He’s the sort of individual who likes to solve problems, not create them, and so when he thinks of the Vytarian extinction, when he acknowledges it as a slow-motion inevitability, he isn’t giving up. No, he has a plan. It’s not a great plan, mind you. It’s not even a plan with a high-likelihood of success, and nor, for that matter, is it a plan that’s strictly legal.

But it is a plan. 

It goes like this: if the Vytarians are dying out, then something must replace them. There must be intelligent life to take their place, to give warmth to this cold cosmos, and remember their legacy. Since no other intelligent life exists in all the universe, that leaves him a single option.

He’ll just have to make some. 

And this Heretic? This mover-and-shaker?

Well, he succeeds. 

And really, that’s where this nightmare begins. 

_________________________________________________________________________

The helicopter touches down in a clearing that shouldn’t exist. 

I step out to find a forest that’s broken, smoldering, one that’s cleaved in two with a cloud of cinders in its wake. This isn’t how I remember this place. Not at all. I remember a wooden bridge over a lazy creek, and tall trees that–

“Mitchell!” 

Somebody’s calling my name. Running toward me. 

My boss.

Lisa’s got her phone pressed to one ear and her other hand is frantically waving at me. All around us are government personnel, fellow men-in-black types looking equal parts panicked and terrified. Nice to know I’m not alone. 

“Mitchell,” Lisa says, breathless. “Finally! Follow me.”

We take a stroll down the newest gully in America. Pieces of splintered metal scatter the ground, and here and there I see techs in hazmat suits brushing dust from the debris. Above us, the moon is being shrouded by a gigantic tarp. They’re extending it across the entire crash-site, likely hoping they can get it up before foreign satellites move into position and stick their noses into our business. 

“Looks like a warzone out here,” I say, loosening my tie. Is it hot out, or is my anxiety just turning my body into a furnace? Tough to say.

Either way, Lisa’s not paying attention. 

“Understood, sir. I’ll keep you posted with any and all updates as soon as we have them.” She hangs up her phone and turns to me. “Sorry, did you say something, Mitchell? Tonight’s been a nightmare.”

I can imagine. 

As we make our way toward the UAP, Lisa tells me the government’s been hounding her for details. 

What exactly did we shoot down? 

Are we going to war? 

She says we’ve probably got three hours until the media wakes up, and then we’ll need to start beating the journalists back with sticks.  “This is a fucking disaster,” she tells me, and she reaches into her jacket and grabs a flask. “Whisky?”

I shake my head. “Haven’t touched the stuff for years.”

“Suit yourself.” 

Bottom’s up. 

She wipes her mouth and shoves the flask back into her jacket, taking the sort of breath you take when you’ve hit your limit. “I should’ve kept on as an accountant,” she says. “I’d still be in bed right now.”

The closer we get to the UAP, the easier it is to see through the haze of smoke. The craft is no longer just a smudge in the distance. Now I can make out its general shape. Its general size. It looks big enough to pass for a stadium, and round enough to sell the illusion. 

“A flying saucer,” Lisa says, shaking her head. “You’d think these aliens never heard of a bad cliche.” 

We get to the edge of the perimeter and flash our badges. Three soldiers let us through. 

“Listen,” Lisa tells me, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Before we go inside this thing, I want you to take a few deep breaths, okay? We’ve had a couple incidents already.”

“Incidents?” I ask. 

“Sure. One guy pissed his pants. Another was taking photos of this… corpse in a vat, and he throws up all over the inside– of the vat, not the corpse. Whatever. Point is, he completely fucked the lab team trying to get a sample.” She runs a hand through her hair. Chuckles darkly. “Luckily, there are about a dozen other corpses where that came from, but still. The smell was awful.”

Vats. Corpses. My stomach does a front flip and I almost take a page out of the photographer’s playbook. “So this is the real deal,” I mutter, pretending this whole thing doesn’t feel uncomfortably familiar. “Aliens actually exist, huh?”

“Just wait,” Lisa says, stepping into the dark of the ship. “This next part is gonna blow your mind.”

_________________________________________________________________________

The Heretic creates life in his image, using Earth as his petri dish. 

His first lifeforms are what you’d call prototypes. Rough drafts. They’re giant reptiles, dinosaurs, and a scattershot of various traits and biology. They’re a means to discover what works and what doesn’t on the path to evolving complex intelligence. He studies them closely. Then he studies them some more. 

But what’s the phrase?

Nothing lasts forever. 

Yeah, that’s it. 

We’ve covered that the Vytarian are an advanced species. We know that they’re no strangers to space, and we’re well aware that their wars wiped out 99% of their population. But what we haven’t covered, is that some toys are still left-over from those wars. 

And The Chosen? They possess almost all of them. 

One of these is a fleet of surveillance drones, the sort that drift through the cosmos and ping headquarters if they see something suspect. One of these happens to drift by Earth. Can you guess what happens next?

Images of the Heretic’s well, heresy, are transmitted to The Chosen. Minutes later, he gets a collect call from 40 billion light years away. 

What is this, the Chosen High Council asks. 

Blasphemer, they condemn. 

But the Heretic isn’t shocked by this. He knows that according to The Way, the creation of new lifeforms is the exclusive domain of their deity, The Distant One. He knows that what he’s done is criminal. That maybe it’s also considered an affront against all of existence, and that it’s maybe grounds for execution and inviting the wrath of god upon all Vytarians. 

Relax, he tells them. 

It’s you or us, they say. 

I can explain, he tells them.

Don’t bother, they say. 

The line goes dead. The Heretic figures he’s got about a handful of weeks before The Chosen arrive to dish out their justice, so he flees to a neighboring star system. While there, he realizes The Chosen were never aiming for him– only his life’s work. A meteor is propelled into the surface of the earth, and the moment it impacts the planet becomes fire. Six trillion lifeforms scream in momentary agony before turning to ash. 

The Heretic weeps. 

_________________________________________________________________________

Years pass.

Then centuries. 

These turn to millenia, and millenia become eons, and the Heretic decides to risk returning to earth. He wants to find closure for the loss of his creation. He wants to pay his respects. But when he arrives, his sorrow becomes hope. Life, it seems, has survived. 

More than that, it has thrived. 

Yet this life isn’t the same that he set out to create. No, this life is the biological progeny of tiny balls of fur he created to feed his prototypes. They’re what you and I might call mammals. Except some of these mammals are impressive– they have large brains, opposable thumbs, and what’s more, they look a bit like you and I. 

They’re humans. Among the first. 

The Heretic is fascinated by these humans. He recognizes they possess complex intelligence, sentience, and a strong sense of adaptability. He observes them as they form social groups, watches as they create the ghosts of language. 

Yes, he thinks. This is it. These lifeforms will inherit the universe, and in doing so, immortalize the Vytar in their memories. 

But a problem remains. The Chosen.

If they discover the earth is teeming with life, then they’ll circle back and finish the job. This time, they won’t pull punches. The planet will become an asteroid field, and all of its life will be red mist upon the floating rocks. 

But what to do?

How to keep humanity alive, to shield it from the overwhelming might of the Vytarian military? It seemed impossible. Equations run through the Heretic’s mind, scenarios infest his thoughts and in not a single one can he fathom succeeding. He has but one spacecraft. No weapons to speak of. 

And it occurs to him. 

Humans are hardy creatures– adaptable. Given time, they will evolve to reach parity with the Vytarians. Then, their superior numbers could compensate for any gaps in technology. But such a plan hinges upon them getting up to speed, ascending to an evolutionary singularity in which their gains become exponential. He cannot afford to wait millions of years when The Chosen could discover him any day. 

No, he’ll need to interfere. Spike the gene pool. Rig the results. He’ll need to give humanity more than a push, he’ll need to throw it down the damn stairs if they have any hope of surviving. 

But there’s a way. 

Yes, there’s always a way. 

He devises a solution called Project Runaway. 

It starts by creating a new lifeform. It’s aesthetically identical to a human male, but it’s born from the genetic harvest of thousands of his peers. Each strand of his DNA will be carefully selected for, prioritizing the potential for runaway evolution. Then, these strands will be spliced with Vytarian genes. Not much, but enough to access fragments of the shared memory– the Collective Recall. This will allow the man to gain intuitive understanding of billions of years worth of wisdom. It’ll permit him to think faster. Adapt more quickly. 

Then, as this man spreads his genes through the population, his progeny will inherit his DNA. They’ll evolve quicker. Think faster. This is how it works.

This is how humanity inherits the universe. 

_________________________________________________________________________

“Watch your step,” Lisa says, stepping into the UAP. 

I follow her inside. For a moment, I’m blinded by the glare of industrial work-lamps. Then my senses are assaulted by a cacophony of sound and movement. We’ve entered a hive of activity. Crowds of people buzz around us, some in biohazard suits, others in military camo. 

Where we are is a large circular chamber, one surrounded by dark corridors leading to other locations of the ship. Right now, teams are taping those entrances up with plastic wrap. Other teams are setting up perimeters, hanging pieces of paper above archways labeled A through Z.  

“You alright, Mitchell?”

“What?”

“Are you alright?” Lisa says, and she’s got her arms folded. She’s looking at me like she thinks I’m about to become her newest headache, maybe piss myself all over the deck. 

“I’m fine,” I tell her, forcing a smile. “It’s just a lot to take in, you know? Never been in an alien spaceship before.”

“Sure,” she says, lifting an eyebrow. “Join the club. We’re heading down corridor D to find somebody named Major Luca– I was talking to her a few seconds before you showed up. She said she’s got something to show me. Something big.”

“Spare me the suspense, Lis. What are we after?”

“From the sounds of it? Bodies.”

“Bodies?” I say. “Like those corpses you mentioned, the ones in vats?”

“Not quite. According to Luca, these bodies aren’t exactly… Well, they’re not human. Probably.” She punches my arm, gives me a cheeky smirk. “Relax, Mitchell. The Major confirmed they’re already dead– nothing to be scared of. Let’s go.”

She leads us down the corridor labeled D, and every step I take is worse than the last. 

My heart is flying. It’s pounding a million beats a minute. I put on my best poker face, nodding along as Lisa briefs me on the UAP, but internally I’m having a breakdown. It’s taking everything I have not to hyperventilate. The further we get into the spacecraft, the more I’m wondering how much of my dreams were dreams.

The more I wonder if all I am is just some clone with a badge. 

“What did the bodies look like?” I ask, clearing my throat. “Did these aliens have scales, and tails…and  sort of look like lizards?”

Lisa laughs. “No idea. Luca didn’t give me much of a description, but I’d bet money they were little green men. It’d go with the whole flying saucer motif, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” I swallow. “Suppose it would.”  

She chatters on. This, that, something else. Apparently they’ve got an ironclad alibi to deal with the journalists, something banal enough to keep them far away from the crash site. But I’m too deep in my own thoughts to register what is. I’m too deep remembering all the awful aspects of the dream that wasn’t supposed to be real. I’m remembering him. 

The Runaway. 

And the more I remember, the more I wish I could forget. 

____________________________________________________

The first time the Runway opens his eyes, he’s twenty years old. 

He’s laying naked in the jungle, the sun scorching his skin with ultraviolet rays. He sits up. He has no instructions. No guidance. This world is entirely new to him, utterly foreign and in his stomach flutters the first ghosts of adrenaline. 

From the outer ring of Saturn, the Heretic watches.

The Runaway rises to his feet. He takes his first shaking, trembling step and stumbles into the grass. He groans. Pain. A new sensation. He gets back up, tries again. It’s harder than it looks, walking when you’ve never done it before, but eventually he gets the picture. For him, it gets easier by the second. 

After only an hour, he’s running through the ferns. Climbing trees. And his stomach is screaming. 

Food.

He must find food. 

But what to eat? 

By his third hour alive, the Runaway has learned to forage. By his sixth, he’s consumed enough poisonous berries to floor an elephant, and is writhing on the ground. The poison burns his stomach. It makes his tongue swell and his skin glisten with sweat, but as the seconds become minutes, the agony fades to pain fades to healing.

His body is adapting. His digestive systems are hardening themselves against the poison, and soon, the Runaway rises back to his feet. 

Evolution has begun. 

As the sun sets, the Runaway collects wild game from crude traps. He has begun subconsciously tapping into the Collective Recall, intuitively teaching himself to skin animals, to make fires, to cook flesh for taste and health. 

He is learning. 

As the week comes to a close, the Runaway is surrounded. A pack of wolves has been hounding him for days, and now they’ve come to deal with this trespasser upon their territory. They circle him. Their teeth gnash, saliva leaking from their jaws. In their throats is a growl, a threat of death, but the Runaway has learned to handle his fear. Now, it serves him.

His muscles tense. His hands flex in and out of fists, and his eyes follow the beasts as they pad the ground. The large one, he thinks. The large wolf will engage, and the rest will follow. But he doesn’t give it time– he dashes forward, faster than even the wolves can react, and he brings his fist down upon the skull of the largest. The animal is stunned. Dazed. He follows up by grabbing its jaws, and pulling with all of his might. 

The other wolves flee. They yelp and they scream as their champion falls to the dirt, dead. 

The Runaway dresses himself in its hide. 

At the end of the month, the Runaway has evolved to the point he barely needs to eat. Twenty calories a day serve him all that he needs. A handful of berries, and he can operate at peak mental and physical capability. By the close of his second month, he no longer needs to breathe. He fishes hundreds of meters below the surface, fighting off sharks for choice morsels swimming in the deep. 

On the anniversary of his birth, the Heretic observes that the Runaway no longer ages. His DNA suffers no damage each time it splits. He has become biologically immortal. 

After five years, he transcends humanity. The Runaway is now capable of perceiving individual atoms, and by the sixth year of his life, he can manipulate them. Matter becomes his plaything. The laws of physics become little more than suggestions, and so if he wants to fly, then he does. If he wants to reach into the minds of living creatures, he does that too. 

The Runaway has become the most powerful lifeform to ever live. But the Heretic is not concerned. 

No, he sees what his creation is. He sees that this anomaly, this Runaway is kind. Empathetic. With each passing year his interest in violence wanes. Before long, the Runaway cuts himself off from humanity altogether, unable to stomach their wonton savagery and thirst for blood. Some have taken to worshiping him. Others, reviling.

To him, they are all the same. Misguided, fearful, and ruled by instincts he has learned to see beyond. These humans may as well be a separate species. 

To find respite from this chaos, he meditates. Sometimes he does this at the bottom of the sea. Other times he does this atop high, wind-swept peaks. Anywhere his senses are sufficiently assailed to block out the madness of the world around him.

And it’s while meditating on one of these peaks that the Runaway begins looking to the stars. He wonders if there may be more out there. 

Is it possible, he thinks aloud, that there are others like me?

Could I find a companion of my own?

And it’s while he’s pondering these thoughts, while he’s gazing into the deepness of space, that he finds something looking back at him. A lizard. Housed within a strange capsule, floating in the outer rings of a celestial body we know as Saturn. 

It is the first time he and his maker lock eyes. 

Weeks later, the Runaway’s breached the atmosphere of Earth. A month after that, he’s traversed the solar system and made it to the Heretic’s ship. He’s tapping on the hull. The Heretic welcomes him inside. 

“Hello,” the Heretic says, in the ancient tongue of man. 

The Runaway peers at him. “Hello…” he says slowly, but it is not in the ancient tongue of man. It is in the low bass of Vytarian. “Your language is… strange… but I believe I can master it. Who are you? Why have you been watching… me?”

The Heretic doesn’t see the point of mincing words. He comes clean about everything– after all, the Runaway is capable of looking into his thoughts. What’s the use of playing coy? He starts with the extinction of the Vytarian people, and ends with humanity’s role as inheritors of the universe, and the Runaway’s role in leading them there. 

“Have you any questions?” the Heretic asks. 

“Many,” the Runaway tells him. “Above all, why do you fear me?”

“I don’t,” the Heretic says. 

“You do. I see it reflected in your thoughts.”

“The fear you see reflected in my thoughts,” the Heretic begins, speaking with careful deliberation, “... it does not belong to me. You are viewing fragments of the Collective Recall, a shared knowledge passed down by my people. You are viewing the beliefs of those of us who remain from the Old War– followers of the Way of the Chosen.”

“These followers,” The Runaway says, his expression twisting with shock and horror. “They think of me as a monster– an abomination!”

“Not exactly,” the Heretic tells him. “Strictly, they do not think of you at all. In order to protect my work, I cut myself off from the Collective sometime ago, so all you’re seeing are faint echoes of their dogma. To them, my work is blasphemy. But yes… I believe that should they learn of you, your vast capabilities would indeed frighten them. They would think you a monster.”

“And to you?” The Runaway asks. “What am I to you?” 

The Heretic reaches toward the Runaway, claps his shoulder. He smiles in the human way. “I am a barren lifeform, ravaged by a virus that has stolen the hope of my people. I am unable to achieve my biological imperative. Reproduction is beyond me. You ask me what you are to me? You are my legacy.” He slowly, awkwardly performs the human ritual of embrace, wrapping his arms around the Runaway.

You are my son.

_________________________________________________________________________

I take a breath. It’s brief. Gasping. Gray is standing in front of me, his pupils pulsing, and I’m suddenly aware that his name isn’t Gray it’s Wor. He’s 70 million years old. Not only that, but so is his friend– and his name isn’t Teal, but Kez. They’re both devotees of the Way of the Chosen. 

“Did you see?” Wor asks, and he’s no longer using his digital translator. After the thought transference it seems I can understand the Vytarian language, make sense of the various vibrations that previously just seemed like low bass.

“Yes,” I say, leaning forward. “But not everything.” I look up at Wor, and hit him with an accusatory glare. “There’s more to this story, isn’t there? What aren’t you telling me?”

Kez twists his neck to look at us. His pupils are blowing up and shrinking in quick succession– a reaction I now understand to mean I’m pissed. “You have seen enough, human. Prepare for genetic deconstruction and we will be done with this.”

“No!” I exclaim, and I’m surprised to hear my voice rumbling throughout the ship. It’s thunderous. I clear my throat. “No,” I say, and this time my voice is appropriately subdued. Vytarian is apparently a powerful language. “If you want me to jump into a vat and turn into… corpse chili or whatever, then you have to show me it’s worth it.”

The Vytar exchange glances. Wor’s pupils shrink– he’s nervous. Concerned. “To show you more may invite excess unease,” he says. “It was my hope that a brief glance at the history, the origin of everything could provide necessary closure to commence the harvest of your DNA.”

“Look,” I say. “I’ve seen a lot. I know that whatever genetic material you’re grabbing off people is a lot more useful if we’re agreeable. It’s like hunting an animal. Kill it scared, and the meat is tough. It’s a chemical thing– I get that, and I’m telling you that if you show me the rest, I’ll let you do what you need. I’ll play my part.”

“Invalid request,” Kez says. “Such knowledge is beyond your capacity to bear.”

I frown. “It’s him, isn’t it? The Runaway. It’s obvious he’s the source of your fear and this so-called mission to save humanity. Yeah. I might not have all the details, but just looking at your reactions– it’s gotta be. More than that, I can guess you haven’t had much luck dealing with him either.”

Wor and Kez don’t speak a word. Their expressions say everything I need to know. 

“The way I figure it,” I continue, getting to my feet and taking a deep breath. “Is that I’m a human too. On some level, I’m like The Runaway, just less… well, terrifying. But maybe there’s something in those visions, something in the Runaway’s actions or his behaviors that only a human could make sense of. Ever think of that? I mean, what if I can help you catch something you’re missing? Isn’t that chance worth taking?”

The Vytar are quiet. They stare at one another for a long while, and their pupils explode in waves of emotion. Kez turns away. He lets out a gruff warble and throws up his arms, cursing Wor and me both. 

“What’s his problem?” I ask.

Wor steps forward. He gingerly looks back to his companion, but Kez’s back is turned, hunched over the console in clear disagreement. 

“Kez does not wish to harm your mind,” Wor says quietly. “Your story of your sister… this expiring human you call Hope, well, it has moved him. He fears that if I show you the rest of The Runaway’s story it will cause your mind to fracture, shattering your consciousness in such a way that it may not be repaired. There will be no perfect clone. Your sister will find no solace in her dying moments.”

I look at Kez, watch him tap at the console’s controls and I can’t help but feel guilty for judging him so harshly. At the end of the day, he was just looking out for my sister. 

But, on the other hand, he also wants to turn me into DNA soup. 

“This feels important,” I say to Wor, balling my hands into fists. “If this is really about the fate of humanity, the fate of everything– well, I think Hope would want me to do anything I could to help.” I plaster a weak smile onto my face, trying to hype myself up with fake confidence. “Besides, I can’t imagine it’s that bad, is it?”

Wor places his hands on my temples. Closes his eyes. “You’re right,” he tells me. “You cannot begin to imagine how bad it is.”

_________________________________________________________________________

Images riot past me. 

I’m falling again, out of my body and out of my mind, back into the collective history of the Vytarian species. Millenia pass in moments. Epochs become blurs. My very consciousness is straining under the weight of it all, like a molten ball of mental energy growing redder with every new detail, every new memory. 

And then it cools.

The maelstrom of history becomes a focused lens. Once again I’m observing the spacecraft orbiting the rings of Saturn. It’s the same ship that the Heretic and the Runaway are standing in, exchanging words that will decide the fate of the universe.

“They have come for my world before…” The Runaway says, blinking as he scans the Heretic’s memories. “They took the great lizards then… I see it in your thoughts. Their strike was powerful enough to nearly wipe out all life, to bring the planet to its knees and make molten liquid scream from its surface. If they return…”

“Yes,” The Heretic tells him, placing a hand against the observation window. In the distance is a speck of green in a field of darkness, magnified by a digital overlay. “They will ensure the planet is shattered, along with all life it hosts. They cannot understand you, and this frightens them.”

“And if they understood me?” The Runaway asks. “If I visit them, if I go to this world of The Chosen and show them that I am not some tool of violence, would they forgive you then? Forgive my world?”

The Heretic’s pupils shrink, becoming tiny beads. “A million years of peace could not convince them to love you. It is against their nature. To them, you will always be a false god. A pretender.”

“A false god?” The Runaway mutters. “If I am a false god… then who is the true god?” His expression hardens, his eyes narrowing as he sorts through deeper pools of knowledge within the Heretic’s mind. Suddenly he takes a sharp breath. Stumbles against the hull of the ship. “... Him…”

“The Distant One,” the Heretic explains, predicting what his creation has seen. “Yes. He is the deity of The Chosen, a so-called omnipotent force that exists just beyond the reaches of the universe, in a place called Edge.”

The Runaway’s lips tremble. His eyes, unblinking, grow bloodshot. “This Edge… Have you ever visited it?”

“No,” says the Heretic, sitting down next to him. “It is an unreachable place. Many have set out on pilgrimages to traverse the Edge, but none have returned. If the universe can be called hostile to life, then that place holds an active malevolence for it. None who seek it survive.” 

The Runaway is silent. His mouth hangs open, and he gives the impression that even his ever-expanding intellect is struggling to handle this philosophical equation. Minutes pass. The Runaway does not move. He does not respond to The Heretic’s prompts. 

The two sit in silence for hours. 

The Runaway lowers his head. “These humans are not like me,” he says at last. “And nor are you.” Something wet slips from the corner of his eye. A tear?

Yes.

More come. They fall in a torrent. 

“I am born from these humans,” he says, his words fragmented beneath the weight of his grief. “I am shaped by them, but they torment me with their genetic influence! I am driven toward compassion. My body screams for connection! But to me, these humans offer nothing– their thoughts are too limited to grant me wisdom, their perspectives too narrow to afford me connection. With every passing moment, my mind expands. My function grows. I have become powerful beyond belief, but I would throw it all away to be like them.” He turns his head, locking eyes with the Heretic. “Why? Why would you make me this way? ”

The Heretic’s words are fragile. “I am sorry,” he says. “You must know that it was never my intention to hurt you, child. Were it possible, I would do anything to make that pain go away.”

The Runaway looks away. His hands become fists and he raises an arm, wipes the tears from his eyes. “Perhaps you already have, father.”

“Child?” the Heretic says. “I don’t understand your meaning.”

“Connection,” the Runaway explains, rising to his feet. He leans his head against the observation window, looks out into the black abyss of space and swallows. “I will find somebody like me, somebody that understands what it means to stand above all other forms of life.” 

An uneven smile slips across his lips. “I will find God.”

_________________________________________________________________________

My consciousness crashes back into me. I gasp, throwing my head backwards, smashing it against a deconstruction tank. “Fuck!”

Wor grasps my shoulders. He’s staring at me with a wild look, and Kez is right behind him, both of their pupils are exploding like fireworks. “You saw?” they ask in unison. 

“More than last time…” I mutter, rubbing my head. “The Runaway went to look for God… or The Distant One, I guess.”

“Yes,” Wor says somberly. “The Distant One. The Runaway sought out the Edge.” He pauses, looking concerned. “We had to pull you out of the Recall, biometrics indicated your body was under considerable stress. How do you feel, human?”

“A little fuzzy, but not too bad.” I blink up at the Vytar duo. “Everything alright?”

They exchange looks. Kez huffs, stalking back to his console, his clawed feet echoing off the metal deck. Wor’s eyes are wide. He’s pleased. “We were able to pull considerable data from you during the Recall. I think it may help us in our mission, greatly enhancing humanity’s chance for survival.”

“Great,” I say. “Does that mean you’re not going to deconstruct me?”

“Oh no,” Wor says. “Your genetic material has become even more useful. If we can marry it with the neurological data we processed during your time in the Recall, we can accelerate the production of our countermeasure!”

Maybe it’s the sedative wearing off, or maybe I’m just tired of being buried alive in cosmic horror. “So that’s it, then?” I snap, rounding on Wor. “I get an inch away from understanding the biggest dick in the universe, and instead of throwing me a bone, showing me how it ends, you just expect me to jump into a pit of acid and do my part?”

“No,” Kez says. “You will enter the Recall once more.”

“But–” Wor starts.

Kez’s pupils flare. “The human has aided our efforts at great personal risk. Now is the time to provide him the closure we promised.” His attention turns back to me. “Though this human must acknowledge he may not reemerge from the Recall. This final trip may destroy him.”

I swallow. 

Wor is fretting. “Another Recall could limit our ability to harvest the DNA. After what we just discovered–”

“When the Heretic created humanity,” Kez says, cutting him off, “he did so under the belief that humans would one day choose their own destiny. Perhaps it is time we let this one make such a choice.”

Wor turns back to me. There’s an expression of deep concern in his features. “Your last Recall has given us much data to work with. If you go back… If your mind fractures, then we may not be able to use what we recovered to aid in human salvation.”

They’re both staring at me. It’s like getting to the final episode of X-Files and being told you’ll never learn how it ends– not unless you doom every human on earth. “And if I can take it…” I say, sorting through my thoughts. “If I can handle another dip into the Recall, then is it possible you’d be able to pull even more useful data from me? Could I accelerate this so-called salvation even faster?”

“Hypothetically,” Kez says. “But the chances are slim. Your ‘Hope’ may not receive the support you desire, as the cloning process will be compromised. It may not be possible to produce a clone at all.”

A slim chance is still a chance.

“Do it,” I tell them. “Show me how this ends.”

_________________________________________________________________________

My mind catches fire. 

I feel my consciousness fracture and split, shuddering beneath an unbearable force. For the third time, I descend into the Collective Recall, and this time I know I can’t take it. Thoughts begin to burn up. Memories ignite, scorching to ashes as they’re blown into the void. 

I’m losing time.

Losing all sense of self.

My mother’s name. What was it again?

Wendy? Whitney?

No… Something else.

My birthday. How old am I?

Eleven? Fourteen?

I’m watching myself fall to pieces from the inside out, and it’s terrifying. Bit by bit, I’m forgetting who I am. What I am.

Human?

Vytar?

W   H   O          A    M          I     

And then it stops.

Everything stops.

The cacophony of panic, the missing memories and the impossible fear. It fades to black.

No, not black.

But space.

I’m gazing out into space. There’s a ship here, a metallic craft floating outside a large planet with rings, and suddenly, piece by piece, the memories come back. Saturn. The ship belongs to the Heretic.

I have to investigate. I have to know how this ends. 

Inside, the Heretic is pacing back and forth. He is deep in thought, and there is no sign of the Runaway. He’s gone, I realize. He’s left to find God, or The Distant One, or the Edge. Whatever it is– he’s gone. Missing. 

The Heretic is concerned. He does not think of his creation as volatile, as threatening, but if it were to make contact with the Edge– that place where the laws of physics become unknowable and violent, then there’s no telling what will happen. No. He must intercept the Runaway before he reaches the outer limits of the universe.

He must stop his child.

But his ship cannot track him. He is but one Vytarian and his resources are limited. This Heretic, he’s a smart guy– a real mover-and-shaker, and so he knows what he has to do. It scares him. There will be consequences, but perhaps not worse than the consequence of inaction.

He contacts The Chosen.

They have the resources he needs, controlling the vast fleet of surveillance drones scattered throughout the cosmos. If they allow him their access, then maybe, just maybe, he can find the Runaway and convince his child to stay in the bounds of this universe.

Maybe, just maybe, he can save us all. 

He opens a communication channel. The Chosen aren’t happy with him, not happy at all. 

What have you done, they say. 

You have doomed us in your arrogance, they tell him.

It was never my intention, he replies. If we move quickly we can stop him, we can still set things right. 

Remain where you are, they order.

He does as he’s told. For he is not a fool, and he knows that there is no longer anywhere he can run. This is a disaster he must confront head on. This is his reckoning. 

The Chosen imprison the Heretic. They deploy a fleet to intercept the Runaway, but they fail to reach him in time. He breaches the Edge, vanishes beyond the furthest reaches of the universe and enters that forbidden realm belonging to eternity itself. 

He is with the Distant One now.

God help us all.

Years pass. The Chosen torture the Heretic, they demand he tell them everything he knows. He does. He holds nothing back, save for the birth of humanity. That is a secret that he cannot reveal– The Chosen must never punish the humans for his folly in creating the Runaway. The humans must persist. 

He believes they may yet be our only hope. 

Decades pass. The Heretic sits in chains, buried in a prison deep beneath the dirt. He is being kept alive while The Chosen monitor the Edge, nervous of the Runaway returning. If he does, they may need the Heretic yet. He could hold the key to solving this. 

A hundred years pass. Then nine hundred more. 

At the thousand year anniversary of the Runaway’s blasphemy, a Vytarian vessel reports anomalous activity near the Edge. Space there is behaving strangely. It’s a phenomena they’ve seen only once before, when the Runaway stepped beyond the Edge to find God.

Something is emerging.

It’s him. 

The Vytarian military is deployed to intercept the Runaway. His appearance has changed, his body now sallow and long, his eyes sunken and black. Images are relayed to the Heretic, who has been called before the High Council to advise on the situation.  

This is not him, he tells them. This is not my son. 

Then what is it, they ask. 

But if the Heretic knows, he does not speak of it. He watches the video feed in detached horror, his whole body trembling as a thousand military vessels surround the Runaway. His creation does not move. He floats idly just beyond the Edge, unbothered by the building threat around him. 

“Surrender,” the flagship demands. “Or we will be forced to open fire.”

“Fire,” says the Runaway, and the words echo in the minds of everything across the universe. “You know nothing of fire.”

With a wave of his hand, a thousand warships are torn asunder. They crumble, exploding in blue and black flames as their video feeds are extinguished one by one. A distant surveillance droid relays the carnage. It shows the High Council the nightmare unfolding, and shows the Heretic too. 

He weeps. Howls in despair. 

But the High Council has had one thousand years to prepare for this. They are not yet finished. As the last of the warships burn to dust, they reveal a ring of planets surrounding the Runaway. These planets have come a long way. They have been carted from distant solar systems, distant galaxies, and they have come here for one reason. 

To become dust. 

The High Council flips a switch. Powerful thrusters begin to move the planets toward the Runaway, a hundred of them converging on him at faster and faster speeds. Their surfaces tremble. Their cores begin to shudder.

One by one, the planets crash into the Runaway.

He is buried beneath a solar system, the resultant shockwaves causing the galaxy to shake. From light years away, the High Council observe with bated breath. The Heretic does not look up, for he knows that this ungodly display of force is nothing compared to a god itself. 

What has happened to his child?

How has the Edge corrupted him so?

As the last of the planets impact the Runaway, as the last of their fire and fury fades to scattered rubble, he is revealed to be a mangled corpse. His torn carcass floats between the debris. Pieces of him are scattered millions of miles apart, and these images are shared across the Collective Recall to all living Vytarians. They jump. They cheer. 

The false god is no more. The pretender has been unseated from his crooked throne. 

But bit by bit, his mangled carcass begins to move. It drifts at first. Slowly. But then it picks up speed, and soon pieces of his arms are smashing into his torso, and fragments of his skull are snapping up against one another. He is reforming himself. Resurrecting. 

What returns in his place is a monstrosity. It is a twisted mess, an abomination with nine arms and three legs. Its head is over-large, misshapen and draped in patches of black hair, and his eyes… His eyes are swirling, endless pools of cosmic abyss. No longer, the Heretic thinks, is this thing living. It is now beyond life. Beyond everything.

But the High Council is not convinced. 

A thousand years is a long time, and it’s longer still for a race as advanced as the Vytar. They have suffered wars that have ended solar systems, turned whole galaxies into wastelands, and so they are no strangers to violence. This Runaway? He will learn his place, one way or another. Those planets were never meant to end the monster. No. They were merely an opening salvo. A distraction to give the High Council time to prepare their real weapon. 

And now it is ready. 

In the crackling feed of a distant surveillance drone, the Heretic watches as a red hypergiant star begins to pulse. Plasma lashes from its surface. It throbs. This is it– the most powerful weapon in the Vytarian arsenal, and they’re triggering it on one of the largest stars in all the universe.

Supernova. 

There’s a flicker of light, and the drone feed goes dead. Another drone is tapped from a neighboring solar system, and it reveals a distant glimmer that’s growing, growing. It’s an explosion that’s engulfing everything within millions, billions of miles. It’s stretching outward and consuming neighboring systems. Whole planets and stars are vaporized in the cataclysmic fury of a dying titan. 

And then the explosion fades. It reveals nothing. The whole of the solar system– multiple systems burned to less than ash. Even the Runaway is no more. 

It seems too good to be true. The Heretic wants to believe, but he can’t. He knows just what his creation is capable of, having already seen it recover from being splintered into pieces and scattered across space. He may be vaporized, but…

And there. Slowly, pieces of matter begin to grow in the void. They grow and they grow, reforming until the Runaway’s screaming mouth emerges from a body now wholly unrecognizable as human. It’s a skeletal figure, long and decrepit, with dozens of limbs and a thousand mouths. Its eyes have become one, and within it, there is emptiness. 

But the assault isn’t over. 

The High Council grip their table, watching with nervous trepidation as the final phase of their attack begins. At the center of the supernova, something is forming. It’s swirling. Matter is being drawn into it. Light itself. The hypergiant star has collapsed into a supermassive black hole, and its gravitational force is such that even neighboring galaxies feel its pull. 

The Runaway is being dragged toward it. Still weakened from the largest explosion since the birth of the cosmos, he cannot resist its might. The event horizon is calling to him, beckoning him toward the most powerful trash compactor in all the universe and he is powerless before it. 

Now we will crush him, the High Council declares across the Collective Recall.

Vytarians cheer. 

Now we will break his bones.

Vytarians cheer.

Now we will unmake the unmaker.

Vytarians cheer.

We do this for all of the Chosen! To bring glory to The Distant One!

They cheer and they cheer. 

The Heretic watches through the Recall as Vytarians celebrate in the streets, sing and dance, speak scripture as they hold their arms to the sky in the way of prayer. It is done, they think. This is their judgment day, their final test, and now they will join The Distant One in the Edge. Now they will be granted their salvation. They will ascend. 

But the Heretic sees what they cannot. 

As the High Council exchanges congratulations, the Heretic is watching as the black hole’s pull on the Runaway diminishes. It’s subtle. The distance the Runaway is covering is slowly being reduced from millions of miles per second, to thousands, to hundreds. He is evolving. As he reaches the event horizon, where time and space begin to warp, the Runaway does something he hasn’t done in a thousand years. 

He opens his mouth. Takes a breath. 

And this black hole, this unfathomable force of gravity, is sucked up inside of him. His mouth closes. He swallows. 

“I had almost forgotten…” the Runaway says, his guttural voice echoing across all of creation. “... What pain felt like.”

He blinks out of existence. 

The High Council exchange looks of utter terror. The Heretic is bawling on the floor, for he knows that what comes next will be a horror none can imagine. 

End this, he begs them. End us all. 

And in his mind, he hears screaming. In all of their minds, they hear screaming. Through the Collective Recall, they watch as Vytarians run in panic, fleeing a mangled creature with an eye of a melting star. 

He is here.

The Runaway has come. 

You, the High Council shouts, pointing to the Heretic. We have shown leniency but it’s clear that The Disant One demands your blood! 

There’s a foot on his head. A blade in an executioner’s hand. 

If you have any sense, he tells them, then you’ll give this whole planet the peace of death. 

This began with you, they say, and so it shall end with you. 

And the blade comes down. The Heretic’s head is cleaved from his body, and as his consciousness begins to slip, his final wish is for everything they said to be true. 

The High Council frantically scans the Recall, growing more desperate, more horrified. Any moment now, they think. Any moment The Distant One will intervene, he will deliver them from this monster, this evil made flesh and they will all ascend to join him, having proven themselves loyal. Dedicated. After all, the Heretic is dead, isn’t he? What more is there left for them to do?

But the screaming doesn’t stop. Their Recall is assailed by nonstop suffering, nonstop cries for aid, for mercy, and the High Council watches helplessly while Vytarians are pulled apart, piece by piece. They watch as the Runaway poisons their heads. As he infiltrates their consciousness, cutting up their thoughts and marrying the agony of their body with the agony of their minds. 

Please, the High Council is pleading. They splay across the floor, raising their hands above them in the way of prayer. Help us, Distant One!

And there’s a loud crack.

The Runaway appears before them. He’s levitating in the air, his torso a mangled mess of limbs, his large eye blazing the heat of a billion dead stars. His body is coated in blood. In skin. 

Deliver us from this evil! the High Council says.

Restore that which is holy! they plead.

Unmake the pretender! they beg.

Destroy the false god! they shriek.

And the Runaway spreads a dozen crooked arms, tilts his grotesque head and for the second time in a thousand years, he takes a breath. An uneven smile slips across his face.

He tells them, I already have. 

_________________________________________________________________________

I’m choking on my vomit. 

Strong hands roll me over, and I let loose what’s left of my dinner onto the deck. I cough. Sputter. My eyes are bulging, my heart is racing and it feels like a hundred tiny explosions are going off across the surface of my brain. 

“Human,” Kez says, turning my face to look at him. “Human! Respond!”

I grunt. The words come out a jumbled mess, and I stagger to my hands and knees. “I… I’m alive…” I say, trying again. Good. Those are real words. 

Progress.

“You have been unconscious for an hour,” Wor says, lifting my matted hair. “We thought you were slated for expiry. We had prepared the vat to dissolve your corpse, hoping to get what little data we could.”

He points to a lowered vat in the ground. It’s been emptied of the blue fluid inside all of the others. 

 “Jesus…” I mutter, rubbing my eyes.  The environment is blurry, but second by second it’s getting clearer. “I’m okay, I think. Just a little woozy.”

“Did you see it, then?” Wor asks. “How Vytar ends?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “But that was a long time ago. Where’s the Runaway now?”

Wor and Kez are quiet. It’s as though they’re not certain how to go about answering the question, like they’re worried it’ll unearth memories better left buried. 

“He is still there,” Kez says, eyes downcast. “He is taking his time inflicting pain upon our people. He pulls them apart. Sometimes by their bodies, sometimes by their minds. Often both. When their life gives out, he puts them back together again. Starts over. None can escape.”

Wor nods. “We were off-world when the Runaway attacked. Our task had been to monitor a distant area of the Edge for his reemergence, but once we saw what was occurring through the Recall… We fled.”

“Won’t he know to find you?”

“Oh yes,” Wor says. “He will know to find us. He will know to find Earth, and once he has had his fill of our people, I suspect he will come back and take out his pain upon humanity. Your genetic signature is what has caused him such grief, after all. It is what drove him to find our god.”

I shake my head. It’s almost too much to imagine– some all powerful monster tormenting a population for thousands upon thousands of years, remaking them every time they die. “How…” I mutter. “How do you expect to stop him? After everything I just saw… The Chosen threw a whole solar system at him, caught him in a supernova and even tried dragging him into a black hole. Nothing worked. How are you going to beat something like that?”

“We will destroy him the same way that we were destroyed– and the same way that he was born,” Kez says, placing a hand against one of the vats. Inside of it is a man, and his limbs are dissolved and so are portions of his cheeks. “We will create a virus with accelerated evolution, an evolution more rapid than even the Runaway’s. His immune system will attempt to adapt to it, but it will adapt to his defenses even faster, and then it will consume him, and destroy him.”

I look at the dozens of vats, the scattered corpses of humans being turned into genetic slush. I look at the tubes extending from the vats, follow them to the console in the center of it all, where I see a large capsule sitting on top. Inside, fluid is bubbling. Boiling. 

“Is that it?” I say, nodding to the capsule. “Is that the virus?”

“Yes,” Wor replies, pupils shrinking. “Though it is not yet ready. We are hopeful that we can complete its construction before the Runaway finishes with our people, and comes for your own.”

“How long?” I ask, my voice quiet.

“Two hundred and fourteen years,” Kez says. 

I blink, tears forming in my eyes. “Two hundred… Good God. That’s forever. What if it’s not done in time?”

“Correction,” Wor says, referring to the readout on his arm. “Two hundred and fourteen years was our previous assessment. However, with the data we were able to compile from your experience in the Recall…” His long fingers tap at the display. “We estimate it may be finished in as little as thirty three, assuming your genetic deconstruction goes smoothly.”

Thirty three. 

It might as well have been a million knowing what we were up against. “And what do you call it?” I ask. 

“Query unclear,” Kez replies. “In this instance, a name serves no purpose. The virus has a function and it will either succeed or fail in it, and that is all that we are concerned with.”

“But this virus…” I begin, reaching for the right words. “This is the universe’s last chance at saving itself. It’s humanity’s last chance of surviving. It’s your last chance. That’s a big freaking deal– it should have a name, shouldn't it?”

Wor’s biometric readout flashes. “Cortisol levels are rising. Please calm yourself, human, otherwise you risk compromising valuable genetic data.” He looks up at me over his display. “Your clone will have no memory of this, so such an emotional response is illogical. As it happens, should you wish to say goodbye to your expiring sister, we will need to begin your deconstruction immediately. The clone will take a day to prepare.”

I open my mouth to speak, but I don’t know what to say. Tears leak from my eyes. I sniffle, wiping at them as I feel my heart crushed beneath the weight of so much pain. 

My sister. 

Hope. 

She’s dying in the hospital, and I won’t even get to say goodbye. The best she'll get is some lab-grown copycat. On top of that, there’s a mad god rampaging across the universe and he could show up on our doorstep any second. 

My knees buckle. I collapse onto the ground, and for the first time since I was very little, I cry my eyes out. I lean my head against the vat of a dead person, and I cry and I cry. I cry for Hope, I cry for myself, and I cry for every Vytarian who’s dying over and over and over again just to satisfy the twisted whims of the Runaway. 

A hand grips my shoulder. I look up, blinking through the tears clouding my vision. It’s Kez. 

“It is almost time,” he tells me. “Are you ready?”

“Sure…” I mutter. “We all die someday, right?”

He helps me to my feet and leads me toward a lowered, empty vat. “Human,” he says, blinking twice as his pupils pulse with effort. “No– Is…Isaiah Mitchell. It distresses you that we have not named this virus. Why?”

“Because it’s important,” I say, exasperated. I find myself wishing I could be as much of an emotionless husk as the Vytarians. It might make this whole self-sacrifice thing a bit easier. “It’s the most important thing ever created… and it’s just… nameless. It feels wrong. Don’t you see that?”

“No,” he tells me, helping me into the vat. 

I step into the thick, transparent tank. Liquid begins to pour out of several connected tubes, pooling at my feet. It feels tingly. Almost like an anesthetic. 

“What would you name this virus?” he asks, standing above me. 

I close my eyes. I think long and hard, happy for a distraction from my own mortality. But try as I might, I can’t bring myself to focus on it– I can’t make myself think about the virus, the mad god or the end of the universe. All I can think about is her. My big sister. I think about how much I’m going to miss her, and how I wish I could have had the chance to say goodbye before this nightmare unfolded. I think about playing boardgames as kids. I think about her making us popcorn, and watching Jurassic Park past my bedtime. I think about the two of us swinging on the playground, late into the night, and her reading me bedtime stories while our mom and dad were passed out drunk. 

“Isaiah,” Kez says, snapping me out of my reverie. “The name?”

The liquid is around my chest now. I squint up at Kez, my mind already beginning to feel distant, hazy. This is it. The final frontier. 

I give Kez a smile, and I say the last word I’ll ever speak. 

_________________________________________________________________________

The place Lisa’s taking me is on the far end of the spacecraft. It’s deep enough inside that teams haven’t gotten around to rigging it with lighting. So we’re doing things the old fashioned way.  

Right now, Lisa’s making shadow puppets with her flashlight. 

“You have to admit this one looks like a giraffe,” she says, twisting her fingers in a way that looks nothing like a giraffe. 

“How far left?” I ask, ignoring her. 

She sighs. “It’s just ahead. What’s gotten into you tonight, Mitchell?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say, frowning. 

“I mean it’s usually me that’s all business. You’re the asshole who everything slips off of like cellophane, but now you’re all brooding and serious.” She shines the light in my eyes, and I stumble backward.

“Jesus! Quit it, will you?”

“Just needed to see your eyes,” she laughs, turning the light forward again. “Had to make sure the aliens hadn’t possessed you.”

“Give me a break.”

“A break? You only just got to work.” She stops suddenly, jerks her head to the side. Her flashlight illuminates a piece of paper hanging above the top of an entryway, and the paper reads D34. “This is us,” she says. “After you.”

I step inside. The room is dark, but to my right, in the far corner, is a scatter of lights and a small crew of people. They’re buzzing around a field of vats. I throw my light over, and my breath catches in my chest. The vats are filled with blue liquid. They’re filled with floating human corpses. 

“It’s real…” I mutter. “Jesus, it’s all real…”

“No shit,” Lisa says, pushing past me. “Major Luca?” she calls out.

A woman comes forward in a white lab coat, and on her uniform is a patch that reads LUCA. “Agents,” she says, pulling down her mask. “Good to see you. The bodies are just this way.”

She leads us through the maze of vats. There are people in lab attire standing above the tanks, dipping sticks inside to grab DNA samples. Others are draining the fluid with small portable pumps. This is it. This is the place I go every time I fall asleep. 

“Here they are,” Luca says. She points at a gray tarp, and I bend down and lift it up. Beneath are two bodies, both large, both dead. They have scaled skin, long teeth, serrated claws and even tails. Once I would have said they looked like monsters, now I think they look like old friends. 

Their name are Kez and Wor.

Lisa whistles, circling them. “Scary bastards, huh? Good thing they weren’t alive and kicking when we got inside. Probably would have gone all Xenomorph on our asses.”

Lisa makes a face, and Luca chuckles. 

I stare at the dead duo. How? How did they let this happen? They were Vytarians– the most advanced species in the history of the universe. How did they get shot down by something as archaic as an F35?

“Did the pilot give a report?” I ask. 

Lisa looks up, lifts an eyebrow. “You’re looking at the first real, flesh and blood aliens that anybody’s ever seen, and you’re asking about fucking paperwork?” She rolls her eyes. “Mitchell, I’m telling you– you’re losing it.”

“The report,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “What did the pilot see? Why’d they fire on the UAP?”

She sighs, long and hard. “Alright. Let’s get this over with. According to the report, the pilot picked up something weird on radar. Flew over to investigate. Once he gets there, he sees this giant aircraft that’s flickering in and out of existence, like one second it’s there, the next it’s gone kinda thing. Real strange. The pilot thinks maybe this is some kind of unknown Chinese spycraft and reports it in, but before he can finish the report, the UAP fires something into the sky.”

“It fires something?” I say, blinking. “Like a weapon?”

She shrugs. “That’s what the pilot thought. He figured it might be some kind of pre-emptive nuclear strike, and so he returned fire on it. Launched everything he had.”

“And what was it? What did they fire?”

“No idea,” she says. “NASA recorded it leaving our atmosphere, and the thing kept picking up speed until it cleared our solar system entirely. They lost track of it an hour ago.”

I shake my head. Pieces begin to fall together, and I wonder if maybe whatever it was the Vytarians fired required such immense power that they had to divert everything towards its launch. All cloaking functions. All shielding functions. That’s the only thing that made any sense to me– there was no way an F35 could match them otherwise. 

“That’s not all, ma’am,” Major Luca says. Her voice is slow, almost nervous. “After I radioed you about the bodies, my team found something else. We think it might have been the payload. The one the aliens launched just before the jet took them down.”

“Show me,” I say, shoving past Lisa. “Now.”

The Major hurries past rows of vats, and I follow. The whole time, I’m trying to ignore the twisting horror in my gut, the creeping dread that my nightmares were more real than I ever was. I see the bodies dissolving in the blue fluid, and I wonder how many other humans are clones. I wonder if the original Isaiah felt any pain when he died. I wonder if he’d hate me now. 

“It’s here,” Luca says, stopping in front of a large metallic console. Yet another relic of my memories. She points to an empty pedestal on top, and in the center of the pedestal is a hole, some kind of chute. “We think the payload they fired was sitting on here,” she tells me. Her eyes move across the rows of vats, the dozens of dead humans and her lips curl in disgust. “Best as we can tell, we think they might have been using our DNA to create some kind of bioweapon. I think that’s what they fired tonight.”

“A bioweapon?” Lisa says, catching up. “Why? Were they trying to wipe us out and just missed?”

“Maybe,” Luca says. “Or maybe it’s like an ICBM, except instead of breaching our atmosphere it’s breaching our solar system. Might be it’s coming back.”

Lisa says something in response.

Luca replies.

They go back and forth. At some point, I think Lisa might be talking to me, trying to get my opinion on something, but my mind is a million miles away. It’s thirty years away. I take a step toward the metal console, toward the empty pedestal. This is where it was– the virus that Wor and Kez had been building to destroy the Runaway.

Hang on.

There’s something underneath it. 

A label. It might be the only label in this entire ship, but it’s covered by dust and made faint by decades of wear. 

Lisa grabs my arm. “Earth to Mitchell?”

I mutter something in response, but I can’t tell you what it is. Words. Just words. 

Just like the word sitting beneath the pedestal. It’s a word that brings back memories, but not memories of floating corpses, or exploding stars, or aliens and mad gods. No, this is a word that brings back memories of a hospital room. 

White.

Sterile.

Inside of it, a girl is lying in a bed, and her skin is pale and thin. She’s having trouble breathing. Tubes are pouring into her throat doing their best to keep her alive, but she doesn’t have long. This girl is dying. And she’s the most important thing to me in the entire world. 

“Chin up,” she’s telling me, and her frail hand rests against my own. She’s smiling. She’s seventeen years old, hardly even had a chance to live, and she’s smiling because she knows that’s what I need to see. “Everything will be okay,” she says. “You’ll see.”

But I think about our mom and dad. I think about how right now, they’re passed out on the couch, and how maybe if I’m lucky they’ll drink themselves to death before I get home. I think about the bruises up and down my arms. I think about the moment my guardian angel intervened, and pulled my dad off of me, just in time for him to shove her backward down the stairs.

I think about the sound her body made as it hit the floor. How still she was.

And now, I’m here, and she’s smiling at me, and she’s telling me that everything is going to be okay even though I know that isn’t. I know nothing will ever be okay again. “I don’t want you to go,” I tell her, and I squeeze her hand as gently as I can. Tears are pouring from my eyes. “Please…”

And I know it’s selfish. I know it’s pointless. I know that my older sister is dying whether I like it or not, and that putting this on her at the very end is cruel, but I’m a kid. Eleven years old. I know if I don’t try I’ll always wonder if it might have worked. If maybe I had just asked, she might have stayed. 

The machine that’s beeping in tune with her heart starts to slow. Beep… Beep. She leans forward, presses her forehead to mine. “I have to,” she whispers. “But don’t think for a second I won’t be watching over you.”

I blink back tears. “Promise?”

“Sure,” she tells me, pulling me into a hug. “That’s what big sisters are for, right?”

And we hold each other like that until the beeping stops. 

___________________________________________________

“I'm talking to you!” Lisa snaps. 

“Huh?”

“Fantastic! You’re still alive.” Lisa looks panicked. Her hair is a mess, and she’s taking another swig of her flask.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. 

She’s wiping her lips, putting the flask back into her jacket.  “Look,” she says. “If this thing really is a bioweapon, then we’ve gotta get information on it. And fast. Like Luca said, just cause we’ve lost track of it doesn’t mean it’s not going to loop back around for us." She pulls out a crudely printed map, starts tapping at it with a finger. "Here, I’ll organize a search through Alpha to Delta corridors, and you handle Echo through Hotel. Look for records, data– anything you can find. Got it?”

“Right,” I mutter. “I'm on it.”

“Great.” She starts fast-walking away, her hands balled into fists. “I’m fucked,” she's muttering, over and over. “There’s a fucking bioweapon out there and I don’t know the first thing about it… I'm fucked…”

I look back to the console, to the empty pedestal where the virus once sat, and I think to myself that what Lisa's saying isn’t quite true. We do know something about this. My fingers brush the dust from beneath the pedestal, revealing the worn label. On it is a single word, scratched by a Vytarian claw thirty years ago.

It’s a name.

A virus like this shouldn't need a name, Kez told me as much. But if it had one? Well, I think I would have named it after my guardian angel. 

I think I would have called it Hope. 

[beyondglass]

The train poem

I watch my guy best friend leap across the gym.

He looks so stupid.

I snicker as he falls flat on his face.

He'd be the perfect boyfriend for my family.

Me.

I meant he'd be the perfect boyfriend for me.

My friends whisper about their crushes at lunch.

It feels as if I can't breathe as they ask if I have one myself.

I glance around the room saying the name of the first boy I spot.

My brain instantly flatlines as I realize the name that just came out of my mouth.

My boy best friend.

I come back to life as my friends giggle and cheer.

They tell me it was obvious I like him.

They tell me that we'd be so cute together.

There's no surprise for me when he asks me to be his girlfriend the next day.

Yet part of me is surprised when I say yes.

I take him to meet my family.

We sit at the dinner table watching my family snicker at us.

"Glad you finally brought a boy home

Thought we were close to kicking you out of the family for being a lesbian"

Everyone laughs.

And I laugh along with them.

There's no reason for me not to laugh.

Me liking another girl?

That's impossible

Stupid even.

I watch my aunt getting married to her husband at their wedding.

I'm happy for them but there's something else.

My mind races as I clap for them.

I feel my eyes getting watery as I stare.

"You'll find a husband one day,

Your boyfriend seems pretty wonderful"

The people behind me say gently trying to comfort me.

But that's not why I'm crying.

The words ring in my ears.

They're being screamed so loud I can't hear what's happening around me anymore.

Is this really my fate?

Will I end up marrying a man?

My momma talks to me about boys on my way to summer camp.

I tell her there's nothing to worry about.

Beside I have a boyfriend.

My phone buzzes with texts from him

Wishing me goodbye and saying he'll miss me for the week that I'm gone.

I tell him that I love him.

I tell him that I'll miss him too.

As soon as i get to camp I enter my cabin.

My heart stops beating as I see my roommate.

Her ocean colored eyes stare back at me.

And I can already feel myself getting lost in the waves.

We spend all of camp together

As if we've already known each other forever.

We even hold hands as we dance around outside in the grass.

I feel things I shouldn't

My brain feels as if it's been turned into exploding fireworks and she's the one who lit them.

I've never felt this way in my life before.

Is this what love is supposed to feel like?

It's the last day of camp.

I kiss her in our cabin.

I actually kiss her.

And she kisses me back.

And there's a pit of shame in my stomach

Even though every other part of my body is telling me how good this feels.

I can't go home.

I can't live a lie anymore.

And neither can she.

She tells me about the jokes her family makes too.

I feel so connected to this girl I just met.

So we make a plan.

We sneak out together in the middle of the night.

We run through the forest as the camp counselors scream at us to come back.

But it's no use.

Because we get away.

The forest is dark and my heart is pounding.

She draws a heart on my arm with a pen

And I draw one on hers.

"I don't care if we go to hell we're supposed to be together" she says softly.

"Ill go to hell if it means you'll be the one dragging me there" I say, my voice breaking as I start to cry.

This is my fate.

Marrying a man was never my fate.

It was this.

We lay down on the ground together

Desperately grasping at each other's hands.

"I love you"

I tell her.

And i mean it.

"I love you too"

She says.

At least I think that's what she said.

But it was hard to hear her over the sound of the train bolting toward us.

- @secret.tikt0k.account

Tiktok

[ask-olikase]

I guess now would be a good time to say this blog is on a hiatus? Though it might already be obvious from the severe lack of updates Im just really not feeling askblogging or drawing in general rn, im sorry you can find me on twitter @ devsiies, i bitch there sometimes, idk I still love Fukase and Oliver more than anything so Im sure ill come back eventually to continue giving answers and updating the comic that will take 50 years to complete bc im a fool, but for now Im just. so tired. lmao. sorry Seeya

[chocoenvy]

Hey what about a teen reader who when transported to Teyvat always seems spaced out and tired?

Like its not like their in the villain au or anything, its just kinda their in shock. And when they find out they're god they're just like "oh uh...cool."

They dont particularly care or anything they're just silently existing while trying to process everything. How would the cult generally try to help reader?

Self-Made Screen

Warnings: cult behaviors, heavy dissociation/derealization, grounding technique, all described in detail. (apologies if it is not accurate, I based it as well as I could off of my own experiences)

Characters: Venti (main), Jean, Aether, Paimon (minor), Ei (mentioned)

Notes: Venti simps come get your soup. Did not mean for this to be that long oopsies hope yall enjoy <3 (and good luck with your pulls, whether it's for Venti or Ayato)

2.8k words

You didn't understand anything. One moment, you were home with familiar faces and places, now you're in a familiar world. But... it was always farther away. You weren't sure how to explain it, you could barely wrap your head around it. You did know that you still couldn't grasp the fact that this was real.

Sitting at the base of the tree in Windrise, staring at the pretty blue anemo crystalflies as they floated by. They didn't even fly away as you sat there, were you even breathing?

You sucked in a self-conscious breath at the thought. You were alive. Were you? How good of a dream were you in? You wanted out, you weren't having fun right now.

You don't... remember what happened or why you feel this way, but you just wanted the comfort of your room at the moment.

Muffled voices hit your ears, the only indication you heard them was the slight widening of your eyes. You saw multiple pairs of feet stop in front of you. Slightly, you tilted your head up but your eyes didn't follow the movements. Honestly, you couldn't bring yourself to force your brain out of the fog. These strangers didn't feel like danger, you knew everyone in Teyvat, and their outfits were too extravagant to be NPCs. You'd be fine... and you couldn't bring yourself to care even if you wouldn't be.

Their words hit your ears, "They look like... their excellency! Could it be..." Faintly, you recognized it as Jean, the dandelion knight.

"Their excellency?" The traveler questioned, "Who's that? This is..."

"The person who's been controlling you!" Paimon shouted , her awfully butchered voice brought a brief wave of amusement to your flatlining brain, "You know? That voice we hear sometimes?”

Your traveler made an understanding noise, and the three continued to talk about things you couldn’t care to wrap your head around. Your brain made a note, it knew you should be concerned about the fact that they could hear you, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to actually care.

You felt a hum bubble in the back of your throat, you wanted to tell them that you heard them, but you couldn't bring yourself to even attempt the vibrating in your throat. You just sat there, a slight frown tugging at your lips. The only indication of you being alive was the rise and fall of your chest, and the inconsistent blinking of your eyes.

“We should take them back to Mondstadt.” Jean’s sweet voice bubbled up out of the deep water you were floating through.

Maybe you should just go back to sleep...

Your heart stopped for a moment as strong arms from years of training wrapped around your backside and legs. Your breath stopped and your eyes focused in enough for you to look at Jean, who was holding you. Her eyes met yours for a moment and she smiled, breathtaking and beautiful.

Her mouth moved and yet only half of the words actually made it past the film over your ears, "-lency... you oka... we'll be... soon..."

Her gloved hand gently touched your forehead, your eyes drifted shut. Your head tilting in towards her chest to hide yourself from the sun. Maybe, if you went to sleep, you'd wake back up in your bed.

So you ignored the voices calling gently out to you.

*~

You did not, in fact, wake up back in your bed. But the bed you did wake up in was far more comfortable than one you'd ever been in before. So soft and welcoming, when you finally gained consciousness, you didn't want to leave. The clean, cool sheets, the pillows urging you to keep your head laid against them.

Nothing worried you here, nothing could hurt you here. You wanted to stay here for a bit longer...

A soft knock interrupted your dozy state, and your eyes opened blearily. With a soft groan, you forced your body to sit up. You couldn't exactly force your body to sleep anymore than it already had. Well, you could but you didn't really feel like it anymore.

In fact, you didn't really feel like doing anything anymore.

Your stomach churned, your chest hot and heavy, the heat tickling your throat and threatening bile to rise out of your mouth.

Maybe if you just... stayed still, and ignored the door opening, you'd be okay...

The feeling didn't go away, but the pair of bright teal eyes above you did distract you from the feeling of your insides burning. Just a bit.

The bright smile, too, as he saw your eyes. No matter how wilted they appeared, he couldn't help how bright his hues shone at the notion that you were finally gazing upon him with no screen or filter.

You were here.

Something passed by his lips, the honorific title they'd been using, you were sure, but it didn't get past your ears. Something you just couldn't hear.

"Venti..." You croaked out, just then realizing how dry your throat was. You cleared your throat and you faintly heard Venti ask a nearby person to fetch you some water, "Venti," You said, this time much more clearly, "What's... happening..?" You groaned as the world spun, you closed your eyes and buried them in the palms of your hands but the feeling persisted.

"Oh dear," He sat next to you on the bed and held his hands in yours, gently pulling them away from your face, "You don't look okay."

The person- who you couldn't bring yourself to identify- handed Venti the water and he gently held it.

"Here," He said the stupid title again, "We're going to be doing a little game, okay?"

You stared up at him quizzically but ever-so-slightly nodded.

"Thank you. Can you tell me five things you can see?" He smiled softly.

Your eyes fluttered up at him, bewildered. You knew this...

You pointed at him, he nodded encouragingly. Then the cup, the bed, the door, and finally a miscellaneous painting on the wall. One you hadn't noticed was there until just then.

"Perfect! Now, tell me four things you can feel."

"Your hand." You idly rubbed your fingers against his palm.

He nodded enthusiastically, "Good!"

"The blankets." Your hand ran over the sheets and in your head you repeated the fact that this was real and you were here, "The cup," You reached out to touch the cool glass, "Your hair," You gently touched the strands, "and... the drawer." You reached over to touch the wood of the bedside table.

"Very good-!" He said the title again.

"(Y/n)." You said with a grimace.

"Pardon?" He tilted his head.

"That's my name. Use it. Not that dumb title."

Venti's breath hitched in his throat, but he smiled gently and nodded, "Of course, (Y/n)."

The name felt like a wave against your skin, cool and refreshing and quelling the burning tightness in your chest. You gently grabbed onto the glass of water, your hands weak and shaky, and Venti helped you drink it greedily.

"Now... (Y/n)," There was an odd giddiness when he spoke your name but you opted to ignore it, "Three things you can hear." He held three fingers up, a cute smile on his lips.

It was odd how pretty looked... how real he looked. It made your head spin, everything was making your head spin. It hurt so much...

"Your voice." You croaked out, "My voice..." You strained your ears to hear other noises, "A... lyre... from outside." The corners of your lips twitched up.

"Do you like the lyre?" Venti tilted his head, staring at your smile with a dreamy smile of his own.

You nodded with a hum, "It's pretty. The bards here are so talented... I'd... I'd like to play the lyre..." You muttered, mostly to yourself.

"I can make that happen!" Venti giggled, "But I need you to finish the game first."

Your eyes met his, the eye contact made your head ache, but it was getting better. He was real, this was all proof of it.

You smiled at him, genuinely and nodded. He beamed.

"Two things you can smell." He held up the amount of fingers.

You paused and inhaled deeply, "The sheets were newly washed... I can smell that..."

"Mhm," Venti encouraged with an enthusiastic nod.

"And uhm..." Your eyes scanned for something you could smell, finally drinking in your surrounding of large and luxurious room. You were in Mondstadt, but none of the buildings looked as though they had a room this grand in it.

Your eyes locked onto the pretty cecilia on Venti's hat, and you leaned forward to sniff it. The refreshing scent seemed to almost surround all of Venti with a comforting earthy feel, "Your cecilia." You sat back down.

His cute round face, so surreal and breathtaking up close, was dusted in a pink hue.

"Ah," He chuckled, his eyes glowing in an otherworldly way. You weren't sure if it was because of his archon status, or because you weren't used to how... different this world felt. He gently took the flower from his hair and offered it to you, "Would you like to have it your grace? I can always find more. Plus, it'd look much prettier on you than it would me." He giggled, a sweet smile on his lips.

Your eyes widened, shifting over to the flower now being held in front of you. Gently, you gripped it and held it up to your face.

"Here," Venti tenderly took it back from your hands and intertwined the flower into your hair. Once it was snugly in, he retracted his hands and grinned, "Hehe, looks like I was right! It looks much better." His eyes softened in adoration, a look that made your head spin and your hands to tighten on the blanket.

"Thank you." You chuckled, your knuckles turning white with how hard you were grabbing the blanket, trying to stay attached to your own body.

"Final one!" Venti held up his pointer finger, "One thing you can taste."

"...does the water count..?" You muttered, idly drinking the last bit of the drink.

Venti hummed, putting a hand to his chin in exaggerated thought in an attempt to make you smile.

It worked as the room seemed to brighten with your breathy laugh.

"Hmm, possibly... though water doesn't really have a taste does it? Oh!" Venti hit his fist against his palm as a thought came to his head, "If you want to leave the room, we can go get you something proper to eat? It'd be good for you to walk around a bit, usually that helps me when I'm feeling similar to how you are," he off-handedly mentioned, "Or I could just bring it up to you, whichever you prefer."

Your lips tugged down in thought, "...I..." You gingerly held his cloak between your pointer and thumb, "I don't want to be away from you for now... just... will it be loud outside? Lots of people?"

Venti grinned, an almost lovestruck look in his eyes. He soon snapped out of it, though, and answered, "Ah, I can make sure you don't get overwhelmed. And if the people become too much for you," He leaned in with a mischievous grin, "I can whisk you away!"

You blinked in surprise before a huge grin broke out onto your face and you giggled, "Thank you, Venti."

Venti stared for a moment at your bright smile and wondered what he did to be so lucky. He giggled along with you, hopping up from the bed and holding his hand out to you, "Well then, (Y/n), shall we go?"

You nodded, grabbing his hand and carefully getting off the bed. Your legs were weak, but you could walk so long as you didn't overexert yourself.

Venti led you out of the room carefully, and outside your room was two guards standing watch. Non-vision wielders so they were easy on the eyes, less confusing for your brain to wrap around.

You smiled warmly at them despite having no clue who they were, and they reveled in your warmth. Bowing lowly and greeting you, made you feel a tad dizzy due to how odd the interaction felt, but you paid attention to Venti's grip on your hand. His palm against yours and the padding of your feet, the way the halls were simply but nicely decorated. Venti's soft humming and the faint sound of voices and bards playing their tunes.

It made you giddy and put a spring in your step, almost walking ahead of Venti in your excitement.

Venti wrapped his arm around yours, leading you down the stairs as though you were some sort of royalty. The playfulness and lightheartedness of all his actions made the whole situation seem like a fun children's game. It eased the burden of knowing how deeply and severely your life has been thrown off the rails. He made you feel like things were okay.

And maybe, if he was by your side, it would be.

*~

The moment the two of you got downstairs, you were already feeling your consciousness retreating as more familiar faces flickered in the other room. A big, meeting room, you observed.

Your brain was so... tired. Retreating into the recesses of your brain was just the easiest thing to do. There was no longer a screen between you and Teyvat, so your mind created one and put you behind it. Making your body mush and constantly slipping into auto-pilot or just not moving, the world around you feeling a million miles away despite being right in front of you. You still weren't sure if all of this was real despite how real Venti's hand was. How real the noises were, how real-

"(Y/n)," Venti whispered into your ear, his breath hitting the sensitive skin, causing you to jump.

You blinked at him, he felt closer than ever. Probably because the both of your noses were an inch apart...

"Can you sprint? Not necessarily run but we have to be quick if we want to go past them." He gestured to the large meeting room, bustling with vision wielders, "I could always carry you," He whispered, "But it might make you dizzy, I just have to make sure."

"I'll be fine," You squeezed his hand, "Lead the way."

His heart skipped a beat and he nodded with a dumb grin. Swiftly walking into the busy room and sticking to the wall, almost running to the nearest exit.

You were both caught immediately.

They shouted dumb titles and familiar otherworldly faces blotted your vision.

Venti, without a moment's hesitation, scooped you up in his arms and fled the room in a gust of wind with only a "Gotta go!"

Probably not the best thing he could've said but it worked and next thing you knew the both of you were in the kitchen, your hair in slight disarray and a dumb grin on you and Venti's faces.

"Quick!" Venti giggled, a playfully dark and devious grin decorated his face, "Ei brought all sorts of sweets! Let's grab them and run!"

You drank in the scene, surely, this would've been a cutscene in Genshin...

But it was all real, all of it was fully rendered and animated because you were actually experiencing it. Not pauses for dialogue, this was real life.

And you were about to live it to the fullest, grabbing the Shogun's deserts with reckless abandon while voices shouted throughout the halls. As soon as you were close to being caught, you and Venti's arms filled with sugary delights, he took you both to the hands of his large statue. There, you two sat, drinking in and fully immersing you in Mondstadt, while you ate stolen goods, watching people frantically search for you. Realizing that you had an imapct on Teyvat, that you were real in this world.

Squeezing Venti's hand, you grinned as the sun beamed down on you two.

"Hey, (Y/n)," Venti poked your cheek. You didn't notice the amused lilt in his voice.

You hummed and turned to face him. Immediately, you were met with a face full of messy cake decorating your face. Only a few bites actually made it to your mouth.

You squealed in shock, Venti's laughter ringing down to the people below as they started to gather beneath the statue.

Your yell swiftly turned to laughter, "Oh, you'll pay for that Tone-deaf bard!" You growled, shoving a piece of tri-color dango onto his face. He sputtered and yelled, giggling madly.

With a sly and playful grin he licked your hand, "Ew!" You shouted, pulling away.

People gathered below you, but you kept screaming and laughing and cheering. This was proof that you were real. You were having a real affect on the people around you. There was no dialogue, no reading, no waiting nor pausing. It was just you and Venti. And one day, when you're ready, it'll be you and the whole of Teyvat.

[teamhook]

Finding Hope :: A CS August Rush AU birthday fic

Hellol! Okay, before I go on. I swear this will be the last WIP I start. I had to. This story is for my favorite dork @hookedonapirate cause I love her to death. She had asked me to write it before but at the time I was writing the Forever My Girl CS AU.

Happy Birthday!! Hope you like your present.

Thanks to my beta @ultraluckycatnd she is the best!!

FFN

AO3

A love for music unites an unlikely pair. The rhapsody they unknowingly created will give life to the hope they still have in their hearts.

Killian Jones and his older brother Liam had arrived from London with nothing more than the clothes on their back to pursue a music career. The lives of the Jones brothers had been difficult since the beginning. Their mother died at a young age and their father had decided he was not made to be a family man.

The Jones brothers had formed The Outlaws with some fellow expatriates they met along the way. The venues they played weren't the best, but they managed to make a name for themselves enough to have steady gigs.

Emma Nolan had grown up with loving parents but after an unfortunate accident, she was left alone. Afterwards, her grandfather took her in. George Spencer was an ill-tempered man. He wasn't a doting person, which caused Emma to become closed off. She focused on solace in the cello. Thankfully, the man valued pomp and grandeur so, at the thought of his granddaughter attending Juilliard, he eagerly made it possible.

On a rare night out with her best friend Elsa, they decide to go to listen to a little-known rock band called The Outlaws they saw fliers for. It was love at first sight. The lead singer mesmerized the young cellist with his voice. The girls waited for the band to finish their set to introduce themselves to them. Elsa and Emma fit in with the band perfectly. The Jones brothers had quickly gravitated towards the blonde beauties.

Emma and Killian had slowly drifted away from the group. It ended up being the most magical night for the young lovers above New York's Washington Square.

Months later, Emma finds out she is pregnant. Somehow, she already loves her kid so much. Her grandfather makes his displeasure known, however, every moment of her pregnancy.

The day her life changed was gloomy and rainy. After an argument with George, Emma had gone to the store to buy some last-minute things for her baby. The drunk driver came out of nowhere. When she gives birth prematurely, her grandfather takes advantage while she is unconscious and gives the baby girl up for adoption. The moment Emma wakes up, she is told the news that her baby is dead. The news shatters her musical dreams and any hope of happiness.

You're not special. You're just like the rest of us... alone, nothing but an orphan.

The music... Can you hear it? Listen... I can hear it everywhere.

It's in the wind ...

in the light...

It's all around us.

All you have to do is open your heart and listen.

Sometimes the world tries to knock the hope out of you.

They tried to stop me from hearing the music...

I believe in music the way others believe in fairy tales. When I'm alone it builds inside me eager to erupt into a melody. I like to believe that what I hear came from my parents. That the music I hear is the same one they heard the night they met...

Maybe that's how they found each other and that's how they'll know I am theirs and find me...

Hope Swan had grown up in foster care. As a baby, she had been adopted but returned once the couple was blessed with their own flesh and blood. After that, she bounced from foster home to foster home.

In her shared room at the group home, she's currently at, Hope records herself humming a song that keeps playing in her mind, but is rudely interrupted by her roommate who mocks her. "You are not special. You're just like us, an unwanted orphan."

The girl walks away, slamming the door.

Hope's eyes water at the mean girl's words. She knows it in her heart that she is wanted and someday she will find her parents. She continues recording her humming of the song in her heart.

Hope is now eleven years old. She stands in the back of the group as one of the younger girls is adopted by a couple. Maybe she should be bitter and want to be adopted but if she was, she would never find her parents. They're out there and she will find them.

Hope runs away once more from her group home. Living on the streets she makes friends easily, but is still guarded. She knows that someday her parents will come looking for her. All she wants is to go home.

As she wanders the streets, runaway Hope Swan is getting closer to find her home. She knows she will find her family. All she has to do is listen to the music in her heart and follow it.

A kind man, Merlin, is assigned Hope Swan's case. She wasn't a trouble maker, but she was reportedly closed off with the couples. He is notified that she has run away. She has a history of running away. The picture of the young girl saddens him. He wishes he can find her and place her in a good home. She is a pretty girl, with blonde hair, vibrant sea-blue eyes, dimples, and a slightly dimpled chin. He posts her picture on the board.

Emma Nolan had moved away after losing her daughter. Her little girl, her grandfather told her the baby was a tiny girl. The heartbreak led her to become a music teacher to kids. She was always surrounded by children and music. That was the way she chose to honor her child. An unexpected call from her grandfather's doctor makes her break a promise she had made to herself years ago. He is the only family she has left.

Once she arrives at his house, she is summoned to his death bed.

His eyes tear up. "I thought you wouldn't come."

"I don't hate you Grandpa, but my heart hasn't healed. Time will never heal this wound," she sniffled.

He closes his watery eyes. "I think I can help with that."

Emma gets closer to his bed, confused. "How can you say that? My child is gone! You didn't want her, so you threw her away while I slept. You took that away from me. I couldn't hold her!"

"Emma, enough!" he screams, then immediately starts coughing from the effort.

"I'm sorry, I made a mistake. I know now that family is precious, that image doesn't matter. Emma, I have a confession. I hope it's not too late and that you will find it in your heart to forgive me."

Emma stares at him.

"She's alive. Your little girl is alive."

"What? How can you be so cruel and say that to me!" Emma says with disbelief and tears pooled in her eyes.

"Because it's the truth. She is alive. I gave her up for adoption, and I was the one who signed the papers. I was your next of kin since you weren't married."

Emma gapes at the old man as she let her limp body drop to the chair next to his bed. "You gave my daughter away as if she was property because I embarrassed you?"

George Spencer can't keep his eyes on his granddaughter. The once-proud man weakened by age and disease casts his eyes down in shame. "In my safe, you will find the documents."

"What good will that do me?" Emma asks.

"Emma, my attorney can help you find her," he says quietly.

"But-"

"Emma, if your parents were here, they would tell you that you should never lose hope," he says.

Emma stands up. "You're right, I'm going to find my daughter."

George sighs as he falls into a deep sleep, his machines flatlining. The nurse that had given them privacy to talk rushes in as soon as the machine goes off.

Emma finds the papers and with trembling hands, calls Mr. Gold, the attorney.

The man is a ruthless slimy bastard. He tries to convince Emma that her kid is better off where she is. Of course, he would say that seeing he had helped her grandfather do this to her; he was just covering his ass. She doesn't care about that. All she wants is to get her kid. She has a daughter and she is out there. She hopes to God that she is being taken care of.

Killian Jones had moved to California not long after The Outlaws broke up. He had given up his dream of singing, but somehow had managed to gain a thriving career as an agent.

He had also distanced himself from the memory of Emma. After the band broke up, his brother and former bandmates had moved to Boston. Killian thought the further away he could get would be better, though. He tried forgetting her, but he knew he could never forget her. It was only one night, but he would belong to her for the rest of time.

Liam had called him a few days prior to ask if he wanted to join them in a reunion of sorts. They were going to play at the little place where he had met Emma. The joint was going out of business so in an effort to raise money to save it, The Outlaws had agreed to come out of retirement for one night only.

Killian had yet to agree, but 'what if' rattled in his brain. Something inside him tugged at his heart. A man unwilling to fight for what he wants gets what he deserves, Liam had told him over and over. He decides he will do it. He will fly to New York and look for Emma. He prays to every deity he can that she is not married. It's a selfish thought, but he couldn't bear it if she isn't meant for him.

Killian picks up the phone and dials his brother's number. "Liam, I'll be there."

"Brother, you'll do it? What happened to never setting foot in New York?" Liam asks.

"Liam, are you going to question my decision? I thought you would be happy," Killian says through gritted teeth.

"I am, I am. I'm just surprised. Killian, this doesn't have anything to do with her, does it?"

"Brother," Killian sighs, "Even if it was, I don't have a way to contact her." Sure he was lying, but his brother didn't have to know all his reasons.

"We are driving out there," Liam says.

"I'll fly. I will text you the details once I've made arrangements," Killian says.

"Alright, see you then," Liam adds. "Brother, it's going to be good seeing you after so long. I miss you."

Killian sighs. "I miss you too."

The line disconnects. Alright Emma Nolan, what have you been up to? he thinks as he enters her name in the browser's search engine. He had thought of looking for her before, but he had never found any sign of her online. He knows her family has money but somehow she has managed to stay hidden. The only information that would come up was of her grandfather's business deals. His heart tells him that this time, though, things would be different.

Sure enough, he finds one headline: "George Spencer dies at home after a long battle with heart disease."

Killian reads the headline carefully and his heart sparks with hope to see Emma again. The newspaper lists her as the sole survivor of her grandfather's Estate. That means she would have to be at his home. He winces at the thought. He knows that his method to approach her while grieving will be considered to be in bad form, but if it is the only chance he has, he has to make the best of the situation. He takes a deep breath and alters his flight plans so he can arrive a couple of days earlier.

Mr. Gold had changed his tune when Emma didn't fall for his manipulations and offered his services. Emma reluctantly accepted his help. He told her to give him a couple of hours and at that time, he would have information to make her search easier. He quickly found out that her daughter had ended up in foster care. He gave her the name of the caseworker assigned to Hope Swan. That was her baby's name. Emma tries to ignore the fact that her daughter is in the care of the state. She wonders what she looks like? Does she take after her or him? Killian Jones, he had never left her thoughts, but before it was painful to think of him because inevitably her thoughts would end on her daughter. Emma smiles, realizing how fitting the name Hope was for their daughter. Emma thanks Mr. Gold and goes to see Merlin Wilde.

Emma arrives at the CPS office. Her nerves are getting the best of her. She approaches the information desk. "Excuse me, I'm looking for Mr. Wilde?"

The woman looks bored. "Do you have an appointment?"

Emma shakes her head. "No, I'm sorry. I must speak to him, though."

The woman rolls her eyes. "Fill out the sign-in sheet. I will see if he can fit you in today." She gets up and heads to a door behind her desk.

Emma is about to sit down when something catches her eye. Pictures of missing kids. Runaways. She gravitates to the board. Her heart is beating so fast as her eyes land on a name, Hope Swan. Emma smiles as she stares at blue eyes that reminded her of the pair that stole her heart all those years back. The sound of someone clearing their throat startles her.

"I'm sorry for startling you, Miss Nolan. I'm Merlin Wilde." He smiles at her as he looks over her sign-in sheet and signals for her to follow him.

"Oh, no it's okay. Yes, I wanted to speak to you in private. My situation is not a common story," Emma says as she follows him to his office.

They enter his office and he kindly motions for her to take a seat.

Emma looks around the office. She tries to get a feel for the man. He seems kind, but looks can be deceiving.

"Miss Nolan, how may I help you? Is there a child in a situation you are concerned about?"

Emma nods. "Mr. Wilde, yes, in fact, that is the reason why I'm here."

"Alright," he starts taking notes. "May I have the child's name?"

"Hope Swan," Emma says. "I'm her mother."

Merlin looks up from his computer. "I'm sorry," he says as he types rapidly on his computer keyboard, before looking up quizzically. "Her case says she is in the care of Mrs. Emerald."

"I'm afraid you misunderstood me. I'm Hope's biological mother." She takes a deep breath. "I was young and unmarried when I got pregnant with her, and my grandfather didn't think having a child was appropriate." Her eyes begin to sting because of the tears. "He took it upon himself to decide that giving my daughter away while I was unconscious because of an accident was the appropriate decision to make. Until recently, I thought Hope was dead. I'm here because I need your help getting my daughter back. I understand she is in foster care, so it shouldn't be a big deal, right?"

Merlin keeps his eyes on her and laughs. "She is a good kid, the people that had fostered her before never had a complaint about her. She loves music and she always hummed a melody to herself. She was just not open to letting them in. It's like she knew she didn't belong there. I'm afraid that has caused her to run away on several occasions. I was just informed she ran away from the last home."

Emma's eyes tear up. "I loved my daughter from the moment I knew she was there. I used to play a song on the cello for her that her father sang the night we met. Until the day I thought I had lost her, I played the same song. I need to find her."

"And we will, Miss Nolan. I have put up fliers all over the city."

Emma nods. "I will look for her myself. I plan on hiring a private investigator. Could I have a picture of her?"

"Of course, Miss Nolan. I will do all in my power to help get your daughter back. I'm going to go looking for her at Washington Square Park. That is a hot spot for runaways. If you would like to join me? We might get lucky," he says as he hands her the picture of Hope from her file.

Emma smiles. "Sure, I will. Thank you for asking."

Hope is sitting on a bench at Washington Square Park and then she hears some music playing. Instantly, she is drawn to it. A boy around her age is playing the guitar. She smiles wide and sits down to enjoy the show. People surround the boy as he plays and they drop change on a baseball cap on the floor. Once he finishes playing, the boy picks up his cap and puts the money in his pocket. He grabs his guitar and thanks the crowd before leaving.

Curious, Hope follows him to an abandoned theatre.

Killian arrives on the first flight of the day. He rents a car and makes his way to the Nolan Estate. He is a nervous wreck. What will Emma think of him showing up unannounced? He hopes she will be happy to see him.

The boy Hope was following introduces himself as Henry. She likes him. He is nice and he promptly explains that all the runaway children live there. They had been taken in by Walsh Oz, the "Wizard". The man provides a roof over their head and food.

"Don't worry, Hope. He will teach you how to perform in street corners to pay for your part. If you're lucky and any good, he will let you use one of the park's spots," Henry says. "When he gets home with food, I will introduce you."

Hope thinks to herself it couldn't be that bad. This way, she won't be picked on for playing music.

Henry smiles fondly at Hope. "So why did you run away?"

Hope smiles back. "I'm going to find my parents. How about you?"

"My adoptive mom didn't love me." He shrugs. "Hope, I know you will find them."

Hope beams. "Thank you, but how can you believe so?"

Henry smiles. "I have a feeling that you will find them and then you will have your happy ending."

The Wizard hadn't always lived in condemned buildings. He once had been a success in his art but lost it due to some scandal years ago, but he could still spot talent. The young girl Henry had brought to him had loads of talent. She had played a song that most of the other kids couldn't play. The girl was magical. She appeared to be a musical genius with savant-like abilities and perfect pitch. He knows he could make a good living off of that girl. He smiles wickedly as the girl plays with his prized guitar, Roxanne. "Well, looks like we found our top earner thanks to Henry," The Wizard says to the group. He pulls Hope to the side. "Alright, you are going to be in my old spot at the park and you will be using Roxanne." He scrutinizes her. "Now what should we call you?"

"My name is Hope," she says.

He walks back and forth contemplating and shaking his head. "I know, I shall call you Odette."

Emma and Merlin arrive at the park. They split up in the hope to cover more ground.

Merlin posts missing posters of Hope on every corner he can; he even hands some to the people walking by.

Emma is walking around the corner when something catches her eye. They have some posters for an upcoming event displaying some talent from Julliard. She smiles wistfully, she misses her music. She takes out her phone to call an old friend. Elsa had ended up at their old school as a teacher.

Somehow her connection is stronger now. She has a sudden need to play. She feels it will help her connect with her daughter.

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[snowwhitelass]

Sam Heughan: "Any Actor Would Never Say They're Not Interested In James Bond"

The 'Outlander' actor on those 007 rumours, not understanding 'Tenet', and the time he thought Andy McNab was about to kill him

By

Tom Nicholson

09/03/2021

We didn’t bring up James Bond. Sam Heughan did. For the record: he’s flattered, interested, coy and sceptical, in roughly that order. His new film does feel like a none-too-subtle hint that he could be comfortable behind the wheel of an Aston though.

SAS: Red Notice is a Big Action Flick based on Andy McNab’s novel of the same name. In which the very McNab-ishly emotion-free Special Forces operative Tom Buckingham, played by Heughan, has to sort out a bunch of mercenaries who’ve taken a trainful of hostages in the Channel Tunnel while rooting out corruption at the heart of the British establishment.

Buckingham is part Bruce Wayne (independently wealthy, dead parents, sage butler), part John McClane (trapped in a terrorist siege), and, yes, a bit of MI6’s least consistently secretive secret agent too (love of country, mild psychopathy). He is, at least, aware that the ease with which he throttles, stabs and grenade-launchers his way through life might indicate that there’s something wrong with him.

“And I think we can all relate to that, you know, we all have these feelings.” Heughan says over Zoom. He pauses. “[I’m] not saying we all think we're psychopaths. But, you know, it's a man who's slightly lost.”

Over lockdown Heughan’s been busy with work and very slowly learning the piano – “I think I've got up to ‘When The Saints Go Marching In’” – and waiting to hear about the next series of Outlander, his day job and the root of his considerable and vociferous personal fanbase. 

“We're shooting season six. And hopefully, there'll be some news soon, about next season – a possible next season. So we'll see about that. But yeah, I don't know. I think as long as people enjoy it, and we enjoy making it then yeah, long may it live.”

Is it unsettling hanging out with someone who describes themselves as a psychopath?

I found myself at one point in this sort of cave, we were doing some tactical training in Leeds, there was no one there but me and him and we had some weapons with us. I just thought, 'Oh, my God, what am I doing here?' Like, I'm with a guy who's a trained killer, who is a self-professed psychopath. Like, what if he just doesn't like me? What if he thinks I'm not good enough? And he just, that's it, you're gone [Heughan imitates gunfire.] But it was really fascinating because he is the most gregarious, charming, outgoing, intelligent man – by studying him I realised that's how to play him.

Are action heroes necessarily psychopaths?

Somebody asked me earlier, "Is James Bond a psychopath?" There are a lot of high functioning, 'good' psychopaths, as we call them, in the military, but also lawyers, doctors, surgeons – people that have to be in these high stress situations that need to be logical, and not allow their emotions to take them over. It might be a learned behaviour, or it might be something they've been born with, but in a stressful situation they can turn down their empathy, they can turn up their logical thinking, or whatever it is. If they need to be charming, like maybe James Bond, you know, he could be more charming. It's very much about them being able to just manipulate their emotions and turn them on and turn them off. That's what Andy did: he was doing these studies with Oxford University and they had a heart rate monitor on him and checking all of his biometrics. They were showing him a lot of very graphic images and videos, and they saw his heart rate go up, and then just flatline. There's almost like something in his brain just switches off and he can just be totally fine.

You mentioned Bond there, so I’m going to ask the question: is it something you’re interested in?

I think any actor would never say they're not interested. Of course, you'd be interested. I mean, it is all rumours, and sometimes you think, should I, should we even talk about it? Because you don't want to jinx it. I'm sure the people, whoever runs [Bond] – you know, Barbara Broccoli and Eon and all that – they must be sick of it; people sort of throwing their hat into the ring. But yeah, he's a great character, and would be certainly be a fascinating character study and place to kick off. But I think in SAS we have our own authentic note based on real life scenarios, we have our authentic character, so I'd love to explore this one more.

In the past you’ve talked about wanting Scottish independence. Where are you at with that now?

I’m firstly very proud to be British, but certainly seeing the way that that Scotland has been surviving and been very well led, and also the way that the democratic system is set up; that Scotland, despite [being] promised that if we voted to stay in the UK, we would stay in Europe, and then we weren't, we were pulled out of it. The majority of Scotland wanted to stay in Europe, and I think it's important for us to work together with our European neighbours, and to be part of that. It's a time to remain open to other countries, rather than sort of closing our borders off. I think it's also dangerous to have actors sprouting their politics, but that's my personal opinion. I think it's a great country, Scotland, and I certainly would love to see it thrive and do well.

Most people who see SAS: Red Notice are going to see it at home. How’ve you been coping without cinemas and theatres?

I do miss them a great deal and theatre as well. Obviously, [as] an actor they're where I grew up and I would love to see them open again. After the first lockdown, I managed to get to the cinema a couple of times. I love that sort of shared experience, when you're with other people and you're not talking to them but there is this feeling when you're in a theatre or cinema [that] you're having a shared experience.

What did you see?

I saw Tenet and I saw On The Rocks with Bill Murray. Two very different movies.

What did you make of Tenet? Did you understand it?

Honestly as an experience, no, I didn't enjoy it. Watching it as a movie maker, I was in awe of how incredible it was. The action sequences are just stunning and I read about how they did the fight scenes – you know, in SAS, we have some great action sequences and I know how long that takes and how hard it is, so for them to then learn it backwards is ridiculous. But yeah, I was confused, to be honest. Still am.

Have you picked up anything over lockdown you’ve not had time for before?

I actually started teaching myself piano. I got a keyboard and I haven't touched it for about a month but I was enjoying it. I think we've all baked soda bread and drunk alcohol and read books and watched movies. I think now it feels like the spring is almost around the corner, I'm ready to get back outdoors and I really can't wait to get back out into the mountains, especially in Scotland, go hiking and stuff.

Best hike in Scotland?

There’s so many but I'll say an unknown but really beautiful ridge walk – and I love a ridge because you know they curve right the way around – is the Ballachulish ridge. It's a little known ridge, but it's stunning.

SAS: Red Notice is available only on Sky Cinema from 12 March

https://www.esquire.com/uk/culture/a35760811/sam-heughan-interview-james-bond/

[winchesters-favorite-girl]

Flatline-Part Nine

A/N: Jensen and his sixteen year old daughter get into an argument before she goes out for a night with some friends. A few hours later, Jensen gets a call that is going to change his family’s life forever.

Word Count: 2,087

Warnings: Swearing, hospital setting, suicidal ideation

Masterpost

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“Hi honey, how’re you feeling today?” Your nurse Jenny asked as she walked into your room. Shrugging your shoulders you continued to stare at the TV as she looked at the monitors you were hooked up to before adjusting the fluids you were being given.

“When can I get breakfast?” You asked quietly, still not making eye contact with your favorite nurse. 

She let out a quiet sigh, “You’re having what should be your final surgery today, they’re gonna place the rod in your right leg and put some screws in your left ankle so that they should be in working order for you once you start to walk again.” She said with a forced smile, she knew how much you hated surgeries.

You let out a groan and laid your head back on your pillow so that you were looking up at the ceiling, “If I can walk again.” You reminded her, “I have so much metal and scar tissue in me that I probably won’t be able to walk again, remember?” 

Jenny gave you a playful glare, “I remember that the dumb intern stated his inexperienced opinion near your door during rounds one day, which I yelled at him for by the way. They wouldn’t be doing all these surgeries and putting you through this if they didn’t think you had a chance.”

“Agree to disagree.” You told her before turning your attention back to the TV but stopped yourself and whipped your head back to look at her, “They’re gonna intubate me again, aren’t they?”

Jenny gave you a sad smile which you couldn’t help but groan at, “I’ll be sure to have ice chips ready for you and grab you some ice cream from the cafeteria.”

“I hate those god damn tubes.” You replied.

“Language missy, and I know you do, but remember, this should be the last time. No more surgeries after this.” She said before looking at the clock, “Surgery is in two hours, want me to do your hair?”

A small smile broke out on your face, “Can I have braids?” You asked quietly.

“Of course.” She beamed at you as she grabbed the hairbrush and small hair ties she needed.

“Any idea where my dad is at?” You questioned as she finished up your hair.

“I think the doctors wanted to speak with him this morning before surgery, he should be back here soon.” She spoke right before someone knocked on the closed door.

“Knock, knock.” Your dad’s voice rang into the room.

“We were just talking about you.” Jenny told him as she moved the curtain in front of the door, “Just finishing up our girl’s hair. Wanted to have it all pretty for her final surgery today.”

“And it looks amazing, as usual.” He said, entering the room and placing a kiss on your forehead, “How you feeling today kiddo?” He asked, pulling a chair out to sit next to you.

You shrugged your shoulders, “Kay, ready for this to be over with I guess.”

“I know sweetheart,” Jensen said, giving your hand a squeeze, “But the good news is I just spoke with your doctors, they’re gonna do a CT first to see how everything in your body is doing. Make sure no brain bleeds or anything are happening, see how your organs are doing and healing after the bleeds you had during the accident. Also gonna check on your bones and how they’re healing. Then they’re gonna do the surgery on your ankle, place those screws and the rod in your leg. After that, no more surgeries.”

“Promise?” You asked, sticking your pinky out to your father.

“Promise.” He replied, locking his pinky with yours. “The bad news is that in about three days we’re gonna be moving to another unit.”

You furrowed your brows, “Whaddya mean?”

“He means you’ll be leaving me.” Jenny told you, a sad smile on her face. “You won’t need to be in the ICU anymore, so you’ll be heading to a step down unit.”

“Jenny can’t come?” You spoke sadly. She had been your nurse since the second day you were in the hospital and had become extremely close with your family.

“Sorry hon.” She replied, giving your hand a squeeze before heading to the sink in your room, “I only work in the ICU, but don’t worry, the nurses on the step down unit are pretty awesome too.”

You let out a sigh, “I wish she could come with me.” 

“I know sweetheart, me too; but once you move to that unit they’ll start doing some therapy and we’re hoping that in two weeks you’ll be able to go home.” Your dad said, a huge grin on his face.

You looked at him in shock, “I-I get to go home soon?”

Jensen nodded his head, “We’re already starting to get things ready for you. You’re gonna have to stay on the first floor for a while but we’re gonna make it easy for you to get around and have all the food you’ve been craving waiting for you.”

You let a watery chuckle, “Okay, one more surgery. New unit. Therapy. Home. I can do that.”

Jensen couldn’t help but tear up at the sound of hope in your voice, you’d been in the hospital for five weeks and have been miserable most of the time; but now, now you were smiling and he could see a glimpse of his daughter from before the accident. 

“You ready to head to CT?” Jenny asked, turning to look at you. “Transport is here for us, we’ll head down, then come back up here to prep you for OR.”

“Sounds good.” You told her, a brightness in your eyes she hadn’t seen before.

“Well alright then, give her the good luck kiss Mr. Jensen and we’ll be on our way.”

“Ow.” You whispered as you slowly moved your hand to your neck.

“Morning sunshine.” Jenny’s voice spoke softly as she grabbed your hand before you could touch your neck. “Open your mouth, I have some ice chips for ya.” She told you as she lifted a spoon to your mouth which contained two small crushed pieces of ice. “Suck on those for a minute hon. Here Mr. Jensen, can you give her more when she’s ready?”

“Course.” Jensen replied in a serious tone, giving your hand a squeeze.

You opened your eyes a little, the lights were dimmed and the door was shut, making it extra quiet, “How’d it go?”

“Surgery was perfect.” Jenny stated., “Now we’re just gonna focus on keeping you comfy for the rest of the day, maybe grab you some ice cream and jello in about an hour if you’re up to it.”

“Always up for it.” You smiled at her, “Besides, gotta let you spoil me while you can, a few days from now I’ll be someone else’s problem.” You joked, but the smiles on Jenny and your dad’s faces dropped with your words, something you noticed quickly, “What is it?”

Jenny shot your dad a look, “I’m gonna go chart your vitals, I’ll be back soon with your snack.”

As she left the room you quickly looked at your father for answers, “What is it?”

Jensen gripped onto your hand, “Sweetheart,” He sighed out.

“What dad?” You asked, confused at what was happening.

“The doctors read your CT while you were in surgery.” He told you.

“Okay….and? That’s what doctors do.” You replied.

“I know honey, it’s just-everything looks good, better actually than they expected.” He stated.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You questioned.

“Yeah babygirl, it’s really good. You’re healing a lot faster than expected which is a positive sign.” He informed you.

“Then what is it?” You pushed, “Cause you look like someone died.”

“Honey…” Jensen braced himself for what he was about to say, “The CT showed a lot of scar damage on your spine, they’re-they’re gonna have to do another surgery to remove some of it and place some screws in order for you to have a chance at walking again. They gotta wait for you to heal some from this one so it’ll be about a week, then they’ll do the surgery but you’re gonna be in the ICU for about another two weeks, maybe more.” 

Jensen watched as the tiny flame in your eye that was there this morning died out as you looked at him with tears dropping onto your cheeks. You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to.

5 Days Later

“Hey honey,” Your dad spoke into the phone leaving a voicemail for your mother, “They wheeled her up a few minutes ago and are getting her comfortable in the room. Doctors said everything went great but they had to take out more than planned, she’s gonna be in a lot of pain so we probably shouldn’t have any visitors other than you and me the next few days. I gotta go, Kristen is waving at me, I think Y/N is waking up. Call you later, love you.”

Jensen quickly hung up the call and sped to your room, where one of the other nurses you had often, Kristen, was standing at the entrance while Jenny stood near the machines you were connected to, pushing different buttons on them.

“Give me just a second honey, I’m working on making it better. If it doesn’t help I’ll give you a push of fentanyl to make it stop.” Jenny told you, trying to comfort you the best she could.

“Hey babygirl, you okay?” Jensen asked, nearly smacking himself in the head for asking such a stupid question.

You looked over at your father the best you could, your neck was in a brace to try to keep you as still as possible. Tears were pouring down your face as you tried to calm yourself down. “I-it-it hu-uu-rts-s s-s-o bb-aa-d.” You puffed out, as you began to hyperventilate. 

Jensen grabbed onto your hand, giving a squeeze before he put his hand on your forehead, moving some of the stray hairs that had fallen from your braids out of your face. “I know sweetheart, Jenny is doing what she can to make it better. It’ll be better soon, I promise.” Jensen placed a kiss on your head, wishing he could do something to help you.

“Yy-ou prom-ised n-n-o mm-ore s-s-ugeries.” You started to sob.

Your dad saw Jenny rush out of the room, likely to grab you pain medication and he felt his heart break, “I know I did sweetie, and I’m so sorry, but this was the last one. Okay? No more.”

“I-I don’t believe you.” You told him, tears continuing to pour from your eyes.

Tears started to form in your father’s eyes, “I’m so sorry sweetheart.” Jensen whispered, not knowing what to do.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” You spoke in a broken tone, “You keep putting me through these surgeries. And for what? Nothing? I’m not gonna be able to walk again. I won’t be able to play basketball. My life is done. Just let me go.”

Jensen looked at you confused, “What’re you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this!” You shouted in a hysterical voice, “These surgeries are all pointless! They’re not helping, they just keep adding more problems to me and make everything hurt! I don’t wanna hurt anymore Daddy, just make it stop.” You sobbed, “I want it to stop, I don’t wanna be here anymore! Make it stop. Make it stop!”

Jenny walked in and froze for a moment at the scene she walked in to but was quick to move to your IV so she could give you the pain medication you needed, “It’ll stop hurting soon hon, you’ll fall asleep but it won’t hurt.”

“Daddy please, make it stop.” You begged.

Jensen continued to grip onto your hand, “It’ll stop soon babygirl, I promise. The pain meds are kicking in and you’ll pass out soon.”

You stared at your dad as silent tears fell, you felt the medicine starting to pull you under and your hold on your father’s hand started to loosen. Jenny looked at the monitors, seeing your blood pressure and heart rate start to drop, showing the medication was working.

“I wish the car had killed me.” You mumbled, looking straight into your dad’s eyes, “It should have killed me. I’d be better off.” 

Jensen stared back at you, tears falling as he heard your words and Jenny grabbed onto your other hand.

“I wished it had killed me.”

Next

(Text divider by @writeyourmindaway)

[augustwxllow]

part three

maybe this will be the last instalment maybe it won’t be idk, we’ll both find out at the end together

henry’s pov

henry watched as the doctor scrambled for the paddles and the nurse started doing chest compressions on alex

he didn’t know if the doctors knew he was there but soon they probably would if he sobbed loudly

“charging... clear!”

the anaesthesiologist took the oxygen tube, which connected to the machine, out of henry’s mouth and the nurse removed her hands just in time as the shock was delivered

both the nurse and doctor, as well as henry, looked at the heart monitor

no change

the nurse immediately went back to doing chest compressions as the doctor waited for the paddles to recharge

“charging... clear!”

it was a routine that went on for two minutes and henry started to panic

he felt his hands fidgeting with the strap across his chest

henry caught attention of the doctor who took a step back and shook his head at the nurse

the nurse didn’t stop but instead nudged her head towards henry’s direction

henry’s panic only became worse when the doctor turned around and saw him and went wide eyed

the doctor quickly turned back to look at his patient and then back at henry and then grabbed the paddles immediately

“charging... clear!”

no change happened but he looked at the nurse

“go find me as much ice as you can and bring it here. im not having the death of the first son of the united states on my hands”

the nurse immediately ran out and almost came back immediately with two buckets and placed it around alex’s head

henry’s panic kept rising as he watched the clock

“come on love. don’t do this to me” henry whispered

“don’t leave me”

“charging... clear!”

no change

the nurse resumed compressions

“it’s almost four minutes doctor”

henry thought he squeaked at that and he knew he did when the nurse looked at him

henry knew not all medical shows weren’t accurate that didn’t mean he didn’t research stuff afterwards

but henry knew that after four minutes there would be permanent brain damage

“please love. i love you. please” henry begged one last time

henry watched as the doctor charged the paddles

“history, huh? bet we could make some” henry whispered to himself

henry looked down at his feet as he listened to the doctor deliver the last shock which would help prevent permanent brain damage

that sound

the sound of reassurance

the sound of life

the sound of henry’s fiancé being here

henry looked up and saw the heart monitor beeping at a normal rhythm and watched as the doctor quickly put the paddles away and worked on fixing alex’s shoulder

“fucking hell alex you dramatic asshole” henry let out in a shaky breath

henry watched as the doctor finished up with tying the wound up without the worry of alex would flatline again

henry stayed where he was

he didn’t think he could move after he watched alex laying lifeless on the table for nearly four minutes

suddenly the sound of a door opening caught henry’s attention

he turned around and saw the doctor there looking at him

“apologies your royal highness. im sorry you had to witness that”

henry held back the urge to roll his eyes

“the first son is in a stable condition and hopefully he will make a full recovery. we will have to keep him here for awhile to see if there is any brain damage due the amount of time he was deprived of oxygen”

henry just nodded and the doctor looked at him

“i know im not to speak to like this in front of a royal but he is one lucky bastard”

henry smiled at that and laughed smally

“that he is” henry replied

the doctor nodded and moved his head in the direction of the exit and showed him to alex’s private room

when the doctor reached it with henry he turned around when he heard his sister yell out his name

“you do rather need to be quiet in places like this bea”

“im sorry but i did call out for you four times but your brain was clearly preoccupied with the thoughts of your fiancé being okay”

henry sucked in a breath as the doctor looked at him

“i will not speak a word” he said simply as he held the door open for bea and himself

the two of them stepped in and bea handed him a bag with some clothes in it

“please do get changed so we can burn that uniform. i don’t want to see it again”

“when did you have time to get the clothes?”

“well when you originally told me to go get them i went downstairs and got shaan and zahra and then when i was waiting out there i got bored so i decided to go home and get you some clothes and eat your hidden stash of jaffa cakes”

“excuse me?”

“oh hush hush. just get out of that hideous thing”

henry listened to his sister and went into the bathroom and stopped out of the uniform

“you know what have a shower too” bea called out

henry did do that because he needed something to clear his thoughts before he sat down beside alex’s bed for the next god knows how many days waiting for him to wake up

henry felt clean when he stepped out of the shower and felt comfortable when he pulled out his sweatpants and the alex’s shirt

when henry stepped out, he saw bea had taken occupant of the lounge as she channel surfed so it left henry with the chair next to alex’s hand no doubt bea doing it on purpose

henry sat down and took hold of alex’s hand just as zahra and shaan burst into the room

“shhhh!” bea scolded

shaan shot bea a look but zahra’s eyes were focused on the rise and fall of alex’s chest

“i have to call ellen” zahra stepped out of the room, shaan not far behind

shaan and zahra never came back in and henry could only presume they were standing outside guarding the door

it had been hours since henry last ate and he was starting to get hungry but as if bea knew she left and immediately came back with food for henry

“you can go home bea. i will be quite alright” henry told her as he ate a bit of whatever she got him

“so who proposed to who?”

henry choked

“what?”

“did you propose to alex, or did alex propose to you?”

“it is none of your concern” he told his sister simply

“oh dearest brother, how could possibly think i would not want the juicy details?”

“i really do not think you would want to know bea” he gave her a look

she did not deserve to know who proposed to who it was henry of course as if she couldn’t tell by the band that was around alex’s finger

she also didn’t deserve to know the aftermath either henry hid a smile after remembering that did more than just two rounds after alex said yes

bea just gave him a disappointed look

“you’re no fun baby brother”

henry smiled at that and finished off whatever he was eating and just looked at the rise and fall of alex’s chest

henry had no idea how many days had passed

two???

three???

he didn’t know and his heart began to sink at the thought he would recover

bea had persuaded henry to go home multiple times but he refused there was no home if alec wasn’t there

ellen had flown in two nights ago with june and nora in tow

they’d all stayed for a bit and nora grinned when she saw the band on alex’s finger and june freaked out and ellen just gave henry a kiss

henry didn’t realise how welcoming they claremont’s had let them into their arms nora was a given since she was dating june

what surprised him most is when his nan had sent flowers to alex though when he looked at the card he could tell they were not from her as the words were too kind for her bitter heart about henry’s love for alex

henry was sitting in one of the chairs when he heard someone enter the room. he turned around and saw his brother standing there

“phillip?”

“i just wanted to pass on my congratulations to you and alex”

“im sure you don’t mean that” henry scoffed

“i know i may not approve of it like nan does not but bea may have slapped some sense into me the other night”

henry took notice of the bright red handprint which cover his brother’s cheek and he held back a laugh

“oh... well um thank you i suppose”

awkward silence sat between the two of them and henry wished he would leave already

“just because i do not approve of it-”

“phillip” henry gritted out

“doesn’t mean i shouldn’t stop you from being happy”

“bea made you say that didn’t she” henry said after a moment

“no. i may have had martha slap some sense to me too” he commented as he pointed to his other cheek

at that henry did laugh

“i’m sorry if i haven’t been the best of brothers but hopefully some time in the near future we could become better”

henry sat there for a moment and thought bullshit like that would happen

“i’d like that” henry said simply i would very much not like that

not long after henry said that phillip left and bea entered the room

“did you really slap phillip?”

“yes and it felt bloody good to do so” she beamed

henry laughed at his sister

“mum wants to come to visit but she can’t bring herself to. she thinks it’s her fault since the assassination attempt was on you because she made you go out to the research facility”

“mum can come. im not mad at her or hurt by her if that’s what she thinks”

bea nodded at her brother and then left the room silently

henry let out a sigh and bea entered the room again

“also, not the best time but there are a whole bunch of music playlists people have been making on spotify-”

“bea” henry groaned

“you need to listen to them. the playlist all have to do with you two and i don’t know whilst you’re waiting for your fiancé to wake up maybe you could pick out a song for your wedding”

“you need to stop saying it like that”

“i will ask alex, as soon as he wakes up, who proposed to who, watch me”

bea left the room again and it was just henry and alex

alex and henry

just the two of them like it was and how it should be

stealing moments together

but not like this

this was pain and torture

“please love. come back to me” henry said as he squeezed alex’s hand

not long after henry released his grip, the other hand twitched and henry felt his heart surge up and almost go through his mouth screw the exaggeration

henry looked at him and the heart monitor started to increase slightly but died down when alex’s eyes opened

“love?”

alex gave him a quizzical look and henry almost burst into tears

he didn’t like that look

not one bit

he hated himself for having to witness that look

the look of ‘who are you?’

[thedevilnamedlola]

"Usually, I lie. At a party, someone asks the question. It’s someone who hasn’t smelled the rancid decay of week-dead flesh or heard the rattle of fluid flooding lungs. I shake the ice in my glass, smile, and lie. When they say, “I bet you always get that question,” I roll my eyes and agree.

There are plenty of in-between stories to delve into; icky, miraculous ones and reams of the hilarious and stupid. I did, after all, become a paramedic knowing it would stack my inner shelves with a library of human tragicomedy. I am a writer, and we are nothing if not tourists gawking at our own and other people’s misery. No?

The dead don’t bother me. Even the near-dead, I’ve made my peace with. When we meet, there’s a very simple arrangement: Either they’re provably past their expiration date and I go about my business, RIP, or they’re not and I stay. A convenient set of criteria delineates the provable part: if they have begun to decay; if rigor mortis has set in; if the sedentary blood has begun to pool at their lowest point, discoloring the skin like a slowly gathering bruise. The vaguest criterion is called obvious death, and we use it in those bizarre special occasions that people are often sniffing for when they ask questions at parties: decapitations, dismemberments, incinera- tions, brains splattered across the sidewalk. Obvious death.

One of my first obvious deaths was a portly Mexican man who had been bicycling along the highway that links Brooklyn to Queens. He’d been hit by three cars and a dump truck, which was the only one that stopped. The man wasn’t torn apart or flattened, but his body had twisted into a pretzel; arms wrapped around legs. Somewhere in there was a shoulder. Obvious death. His bike lay a few feet away, gnarled like its owner. Packs and packs of Mexican cigarettes scattered across the highway. It was three a.m. and a light rain sprinkled the dead man, the bicycle, the cigarette packs, and me, made us all glow in the sparkle of police flares. I was brand new; cars kept rushing past, slowing down, rushing past.

Obvious death. Which means there’s nothing we can do, which means I keep moving with my day, with my life, with whatever I’ve been pondering until this once-alive-now-inanimate object fell into my path.If I can’t check off any of the boxes—if I can’t prove the person’s dead—I get to work and the resuscitation flowchart erupts into a tree of brand-new and complex options. Start CPR, intubate, find a vein, put an IV in it. If there’s no vein and you’ve tried twice, drill an even bigger needle into the flat part of the bone just below the knee. Twist till you feel a pop, attach the IV line. If the heart is jiggling, shock it; if it’s flatlined, fill it with drugs. If the family lingers, escort them out; if they look too hopeful, ease them toward despair. If time slips past and the dead stay dead, call it. Signs of life? Scoop ’em up and go.

You see? Simple.

Except then one day you find one that has a quiet smile on her face, her arms laying softly at her sides, her body relaxed. She is ancient, a crinkled flower, and was dying for weeks, years. The fam- ily cries foul: She had wanted to go in peace. A doctor, a social worker, a nurse—at some point all opted not to bother having that difficult conversation, perhaps because the family is Dominican and the Spanish translator wasn’t easily reachable and anyway, someone else would have it, surely, but no one did. And now she’s laid herself down, made all her quiet preparations and slipped gently away. Without that single piece of paper though, none of the lamentations matter, the peaceful smile doesn’t matter. You set to work, the tree of options fans out, your blade sweeps her tongue aside and you battle in an endotracheal tube; needles find their mark. Bumps emerge on the flat line, a slow march of tiny hills that resolve into tighter scribbles. Her pulse bounds against your fingers; she is alive.

But not awake, perhaps never to be again. You have brought not life but living death, and fuck what I’ve seen, because that, my friends at the party, my random interlocutor who doesn’t know the reek of decay, that is surely one of the craziest things I have ever done.

But that’s not what I say. I lie.

Which is odd because I did, after all, become a medic to fill the library stacks, yes? An endless collection of human frailty vignettes: disasters and the expanding ripple of trauma. No, that’s not quite true. There was something else, I’m sure of it.

And anyway, here at this party, surrounded by eager listeners with drinks in hand, mouths slightly open, ready to laugh or gasp, I, the storyteller, pause. In that pause, read my discomfort.

On the job, we literally laugh in the face of death. In our crass humor and easy flow between tragedy and lunch break, outsiders see callousness: We have built walls, ceased to feel. As one who laughs, I assure you that this is not the case. When you greet death on the daily, it shows you new sides of itself, it brings you into the fold. Gradually, or maybe quickly, depending on who you are, you make friends with it. It’s a wary kind of friendship at first, with the kind of stilted conversation you might have with a man who picked you up hitch- hiking and turns out to have a pet boa constrictor around his neck. Death smiles because death always wins, so you can relax. When you know you won’t win, it lets you focus on doing everything you can to try to win anyway, and really, that’s all there is: The Effort.

The Effort cleanses. It wards off the gathering demons of doubt. When people wonder how we go home and sleep easy after bearing witness to so much pain, so much death, the answer is that we’re not bearing witness. We’re working. Not in the paycheck sense, but in the sense of The Effort. When it’s real, not one of the endless parade of chronic runny noses and vague hip discomforts, but a true, soon- to-be-dead emergency? Everything falls away. There is the patient, the family, the door. Out the door is the ambulance and then farther down the road, the hospital. That’s it. That’s all there is.

Awkward text messages from exes, career uncertainties, generalized aches and pains: They all disintegrate beneath the hugeness that is someone else’s life in your hands. The guy’s heart is failing; fluid backs up in those feebly pumping chambers, erupts into his lungs, climbs higher and higher, and now all you hear is the raspy clatter every time he breathes. Is his blood pressure too high or too low? You wrap the cuff on him as your partner finds an IV. The monitor goes on. A thousand possibilities open up before you: He might start getting better, he might code right there, the ambulance might stall, the medicine might not work, the elevator could never come. You cast off the ones you can’t do anything about, see about another IV because the one your partner got already blew. You’re sweating when you step back and realize nothing you’ve done has helped, and then everything becomes even simpler, because all you can do is take him to the hospital as fast as you can move without totaling the rig.

He doesn’t make it. You sweated and struggled and calculated and he doesn’t make it, and dammit if that ain’t the way shit goes, but also, you’re hungry. And you’re alive, and you’ve wracked your body and mind for the past hour trying to make this guy live. Death won, but death always wins, the ultimate spoiler alert. You can only be that humbled so many times and then you know: Death always wins. It’s a warm Thursday evening and grayish orange streaks the horizon. There’s a pizza place around the corner; their slices are just the right amount of doughy. You check inside yourself to see if anything’s shattered and it’s not, it’s not. You are alive. You have not shattered.

You have not shattered because of The Effort. The Effort cleanses because you have become a part of the story, you are not passive, the very opposite of passive, in fact. Having been humbled, you feel amazing. Every moment is precise and the sky ripples with delight as you head off to the pizza place, having hurled headlong into the game and given every inch of yourself, if only for a moment, to a losing struggle.

It’s not adrenaline, although they’ll say that it is, again and again. It is the grim, heartbroken joy of having taken part. It is the difference between shaking your head at the nightly news and taking to the streets. It’s when you finally tell her how you really feel, the moment you craft all your useless repetitive thoughts into a prayer.

At the party, as they look on expectantly, I draft one of the lesser moments of horror as a stand-in. The evisceration, that will do. That single strand of intestine just sitting on the man’s belly like a lost worm. He was dying too, but he lived. It was a good story, a terrible night.

I was new and I didn’t know if I’d done anything right. He lived, but only by a hair. I magnified each tiny decision to see if I’d erred and came up empty. There was no way to know. Eventually I stopped taking jobs home with me. I released the ghosts of what I’d done or hadn’t done, let The Effort do what it does and cleanse me in the very moment of crisis. And then one night I met a tiny three-year old girl in overalls, all smiles and high-fives and curly hair. We were there because a neighbor had called it in as a burn, but the burns were old. Called out on his abuse, the father had fled the scene. The emergency, which had been going on for years, had ended and only just begun.

The story unraveled as we drove to the hospital; I heard it from the front seat. The mother knew all along, explained it in jittery, sobbing replies as the police filled out their forms. It wasn’t just the burns; the abuse was sexual too. There’d been other hospital visits, which means that people who should’ve seen it didn’t, or didn’t bother setting the gears in motion to stop it. I parked, gave the kid another high five, watched her walk into the ER holding a cop’s hand.

Then we had our own forms to fill out. Bureaucracy’s response to unspeakable tragedy is more paperwork. Squeeze the horror into easy-to-fathom boxes, cull the rising tide of rage inside and check and recheck the data, complete the forms, sign, date, stamp, insert into a metal box and then begin the difficult task of forgetting.

The job followed me down Gun Hill Road; it laughed when I pretended I was okay. I stopped on a corner and felt it rise in me like it was my own heart failing this time, backing fluids into my lungs, breaking my breath. I texted a friend, walked another block. A sob came out of somewhere, just one. It was summer. The breeze felt nice and nice felt shitty.

My phone buzzed. Do you want to talk about it?

I did. I wanted to talk about it and more than that I wanted to never have seen it and even more than that I wanted to have done something about it and most of all, I wanted it never to have hap- pened, never to happen again. The body remembers. We carry each trauma and ecstasy with us and they mark our stride and posture, contort our rhythm until we release them into the summer night over Gun Hill Road. I knew it wasn’t time to release just yet; you can’t force these things. I tapped the word no into my phone and got on the train.

I don’t tell that one either. Stories with trigger warnings don’t go over well at parties. But when the question is asked, the little girl’s smile and her small, bruised arms appear in my mind.

The worst tragedies don’t usually get 911 calls, because they are patient, unravel over centuries. While we obsess over the hyperviolent mayhem, they seep into our subconscious, poison our sense of self, upend communities, and gnaw away at family trees with intergenerational trauma.I didn’t pick up my pen just to bear witness. None of us did. And I didn’t become a medic to get a front-row seat to other people’s tragedies. I did it because I knew the world was bleeding and so was I, and somewhere inside I knew the only way to stop my own bleeding was to learn how to stop someone else’s. Another call crackles over the radio, we pick up the mic and push the button and drive off. Death always wins, but there is power in our tiniest moments, humanity in shedding petty concerns to make room for compassion. We witness, take part, heal. The work of healing in turn heals us and we begin again, laughing mournfully, and put pen to paper.

Daniel José Older"

[dreams-of-valeria]

For the Xmas request thing can you do 7-Fluff and 1-Smut together?

@chiefharbour asked:

For the Christmas prompts, could you do Smut # 1 & #9? I’m living for your writing!

Cold cuts

F7: Christmas gifts

S1: Secret Santa

S9: Dealer's choice (Surprise)

Pairing: Jim Hopper x female reader

Warnings: Age gap, language, dirty talk, Hopper being his sexy-ass self, SMUT

A/N: Thank you, thank you, thank you for all the sweet things you guys have said! I am overwhelmed with all the love and although this isn't strictly secret santa, I hope you like this one! Merry Christmas!

Word count: 3,156

You swayed your hips in beat with the smooth acoustic that pervaded the air of the small kitchen, as you wrapped your Christmas gift to Hopper.

Elvis crooning about being left alone on Christmas rang from his record player and with you alike, because it was 10 pm and your boyfriend wasn't home yet. You found it odd to call him your boyfriend--juvenile even, but maybe it was just the townsfolk rubbing off on you. They definitely were, considering you just said townsfolk.

As long as their opinion on age gaps in relationships didn't rub off on you, you didn't care.

Two years ago, you were just the new girl in town whose sole reason to pick Hawkins was to leave her bankruptcy behind as she paid off her student loans. A lot of help your marketing degree was doing you in a place where people called the ATM a banksy. You hated living there and missed the nice life but little did you know that meeting a certain policeman would make it all worth your while.

What followed after that fated and chaotic meet at the bank was petty banter and frustrated sighs, which took both of you a month to understand was pure sexual tension and once you'd fucked and got that out of the way, you had plenty of time for the romance.

Neither was of you was very fond of the chocolates and flowers bit, but were experts in the nude. Sure, there were plenty of gooey and touchy-feely memories along the way, and the amount of gentleness Hopper showed threw you at times. But at the same time, you loved how rough he was with you in bed. It was what you were both good at and you had no complaints. Except for the tardiness.

You sighed as you did the final knot and wrote his name on the card, vowing not to bring it up. You would not be one of those people who chastised their partner over the amount of time they spent doing their very crucial work. Provided it didn't extend beyond 11 pm. Your patience really started to wear thing close to the witching hour.

You headed to the tree and placed the small present by the trunk, grinning in anticipation. You couldn't wait to see his face when he opened it. Your heart beat in wait as you tightened the bow of your grey robe, and fidgeted with the ornaments to cut time.

You noticed that your present was the only occupant under the tree, and told yourself not to be disappointed if Hopper forgot to wrap his. Or get you a gift in the first place.

It was unlikely, but still a possibility. He was just so fizzled out lately, and you hoped it was only a bad streak.

You had just corrected the tilt of a rogue red bauble when the lock turned behind you and your boyfriend (--lover?) walked through the door, brushing the snow off his coat and boots.

“Hey, stranger,” you greeted him at the entrance, leant against the wall with your arms crossed. His face looked flushed like you'd just sat on it and rode it to your climax, and there was something to be said about his unruly hair.

“I know I'm late, baby. Some people, I swear to God . . .” he grumbled as he passed by you, leaving an ice cold kiss on your lips before he settled before the fireplace, warming himself up.

You watched him as he rubbed his hands together, and the way his arms flexed underneath that tight uniform shirt. It was the hottest thing you'd ever laid eyes on, and never failed to leave you wet and wanting.

“Dinner smells amazing,” he commented with a smirk, shooting you a look from under his thick eyebrows. They matched his beard, all rich and prickly, and you suspected one of the reasons he kept it was because of the noises you were making when he went down on you.

“Did you spend all day cooking for me, darlin'?”

You smirked at him with your arms crossed.

You couldn't cook to save your life. Which meant your significant other was calling Swanson's TV dinners his darling. Nevertheless, the endearment made your knees weak. And your panties damp.

“Oh you know how I can't resist my gastronomy when I'm waiting on my tardy hunk.”

“Gastronomy?” He frowned as he kicked off his boots.

“Word of the day,” you told him as you took a seat on the couch next to him. “I thought we could do presents first.”

“I'd rather do you first, but sure,” he shrugged, turning to face you as smiled. You shook your head and watched him with a face-splitting grin, expecting him to retrieve his present from under the tree. But he just sat there watching you quizzically, dumb as the doorknob that's been keeping you company on Hopperless nights.

You sighed and told him what he was supposed to do, but he simply twisted his face unwillingly. “I'm burned, sweetheart, could you get it for me, please?”

“It's two feet away, Hop.”

“I'm not as young as you are anymore.”

“Oh really? You weren't born with a receding hairline?” You snapped as you fetched him his present, but he man laughed, which nearly made his eyes close. You absolutely loved those laughs.

“Should have thought of that before you fell in love with an old man, kitten.”

“I'll remember that for next one,” you teased, making him laugh again as he took his present with a thank you.

Maybe it was your excitement rubbing off on him, but he suddenly seemed thrilled that he had a present with his name on it. You imagined he didn't get a lot of presents before you, when he lived in that Godforsaken trailer like a hibernating hermit. You'd flat out refused to move into that rectangle and that was when he had mentioned a cabin his grandfather had owned, and the two of you had made it your own.

“Let me guess, it's a sign up sheet to Smokers Anonymous?” He teased as he undid the ribbon, and you found your back straighten in anticipation.

“Don't be silly, that's for New year's.”

He let out an amused snort as he peeled off the paper and opened the small box, and his smile died immediately on seeing the content.

It was exactly what you'd expected. He frowned deeply at the piece of paper, with the words 'Pull Me' scribbled across in your handwriting. Hopper looked up at you for answers, but you simply got to your feet and made your way over to the record player, and changed discs. You figured after Elvis, Eartha Kitt would set the mood just right.

“I don't understand,” Hopper let you know as the disc crackled for a few seconds before the song started. You wordlessly made your way over and stood in front of him with a smile, hoping his gaze would land on the ribbon tied around your robe.

It did soon enough. They didn't make him the Chief for nothing. A smirk spread across his lips when he saw it, perfectly capturing the naughty but playful mood Eartha was lilting.

You saw his eyes darken as his hand tapped his thigh, signalling you to get on. You gulped down your heart in your throat and straddled him, kneeling on the couch on either side of his legs.

“Closer.” Hopper demanded, and you leaned forward until your waist was inches away from his face. He moved his hands out of his lap, and you hoped he would touch your bare legs, and slide them up to the apex. Your heart thud in anticipation, and nearly flatlined when he locked eyes with you and took the end of the ribbon into his mouth and held it firmly between his teeth. It took you a moment to understand you had to move back for the bow to come loose.

His eyes were on you throughout the delicious process, but only until your robe parted and revealed a glimpse of red lace.

Hopper's breath caught and he looked up at you to confirm his suspicions, and you smiled as to say yes. Before he could tear your robe away, you stood to your feet again, Eartha Kitt's silky voice giving you courage.

You lightly swayed in place to the beat, and slipped the robe off your shoulders bit by bit, until you were standing only in your lingerie: a red demi cup lace bra with matching panties and a garter belt.

Hopper's breath caught, and you witnessed first hand what it looked like for a person's jaw to hit the floor. Just to up the ante, you moved around in an impromptu dance with the music, giving him sexy rolls of your hips and a view of your back, and watched him grow restless in his seat.

His knuckles blanched from squeezing the edge of the couch, but a ghost of a smile still lingered on his lips. You watched the crotch of his pants shift from within and smirked, turning around to give him another look.

The song was approaching its end, and you could hear the couch springs shift. But you still yelped when his arms closed around your waist and pulled you back to straddle him as he attacked your lips.

The disc had screeched and absolute silence lingered for a beat, before Hopper slipped his tongue into your mouth and your body reacted. Loud.

His hands were frisky and urgent, just like the first time you had sex. You couldn't wait to get each other naked and take everything as quickly as possible. It didn't turn out to be quite as quick as you imagined, just like when you fantasized about him with your fingers in your underwear before you knew each other, fucking your brains out.

His calloused hands cupped your breasts and kneaded, and given the sheerness of the bra, it might as well not have been there at all. It wasn't in the next second, as his fingers unclasped the hook while his tongue still teased yours, danced with yours.

You pulled back for a breath of air, and he locked eyes with you as his hands ran over your erect nipples, pinching and twisting them until they matched the color of your lips.

“F-fuck . . .” You hissed, grinding your hips onto his bulge as his tongue teased your nubs, and you fisted your hands in his hair, goading him to swallow you whole.

Between his prickly beard and moans that vibrated through you and the friction of his pants against your clit, you could feel yourself close to your release, and started to pant in welcome.

But he clamped your hips down captive and bared his teeth against your nipple as he spoke.

“Not so fast, baby. I get to tease you too.”

“Hop, please,” you panted as your vision blurred. “I'm so close.”

He smiled wickedly.

You knew exactly what begging did to him.

“Then finish,” he breathed, before shifting you onto his left thigh. You also knew exactly how much he loved it when you rode his thigh.

“Yes, sir,” you grinned despite your aching need and started off slow, watching him as you rubbed your core against his thigh. You did it knowing it would make him cocky and let it go to his head, but you loved the dominant side of him. Especially in uniform.

Your moans escalated fast enough as you grinded against his thick cord of muscle, and Hopper helped you by flexing occasionally, hitting your clit in a rhythm. Your hand squeezed his shoulder as the other steadied yourself against the couch, and the zing birthed from your apex, and then exploded until it touched every nerve ending, and you collapsed in his lap into a moaning mess.

“That was nice,” you panted, moving your head that was on his shoulder so you could see his face, but only saw neck. Licking your lips, you kissed your way up his neck, and Hopper's answering groan was everything.

You nipped along his skin, determined to leave a bruise. Somewhere his collar couldn't hide it. Hopper said it made him look unprofessional, but you knew that secretly, he loved showing off to the entire town what you did to him. He certainly returned the favor.

Your fingers set to unbutton his shirt as you devoured his neck, the warm flesh yielding easily under your lips. Hopper was in his undershirt by the time you'd moved back to his lips, and his fingers lightly trailed down your bare back and ending behind your knees.

You yelped again when he threw your back to the couch and hovered above you, throwing his white tee over his head and onto the floor. You stared up at him with pure, unrestrained lust, and his eyes drank it all in. Every pant and heave of your naked chest spurred him to pace up undressing, and the way you licked your lips nearly sent him off the edge.

“Do you know how gorgeous you look right now?” He panted as he unbuckled his pants, kneeling between your legs.

“Yes,” you smirked, sitting up to help him get his pants off, but he pushed you back down, tutting as he pinned your arms by your sides. Your hips inadvertently met his, and you locked your legs around his waist, feeling him hard against your core.

“Tell me what you're thinking,” Hopper pleaded, kissing down your neck.

“I was thinking how nice it would be to watch you fuck me like this.”

“Yeah?” He gritted his teeth as he kicked off his pants completely, and his erection bounced free.

“Yeah,” you panted, lifting your hips as he slipped your panties off. “How nice it would be to watch your cock disappear inside me.”

Hopper groaned into your neck as he positioned himself at your entrance, and teased you by rubbing himself between your folds.

“What else?” He watched you roll your hips, wanting more.

“We'd finish and then have dinner.”

Hopper paused his teasing to glance up at you in confusion.

“And then I can hound you about not getting me a Christmas gift.”

He chuckled, kissing your nose. “Baby, I am the gift.”

Your back arched when he pushed inside all the way at once, and you could never get used to the feeling. Of how it made you feel full. Complete.

“Oh, God,” you moaned, fingers digging into his biceps as he moved.

“I did get you a gift, by the way--Godamnit, you feel so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” Your words were punctuated by his thrusts, slow but relentless. “What is it?”

“All good things to those who wait.” He whispered in your ear, before angling himself differently. “Hold on,” he instructed, and your hands immediately flew to the couch, gripping whatever they could. You knew what was coming.

Hopper got up to kneel and grabbed your hips, before starting a rhythm of deep, penetrating thrusts that made your teeth clatter. You held on to the arm rest as he moved, as he made your body feel incredible with only a few inches of his. Well, quite a few inches.

You smiled and bit your lip as Hopper's moans quickened, and you knew he was close. He reached his thumb down to your clit and rubbed, and you felt that zing ready to explode again. You sat up on your elbows and watched him disappear deep inside you, as his fingers helped you along to a climax that was even more spectacular than the last.

You fell back as stars formed in front of your eyes, and soon felt his release inside you, before Hopper's heavy, spent body collapsed on top of you.

You panted out your highs, wrapped in each other's arms like that. The only sounds were from the crackling fire, the heartbeat in your ears, and the breath of the man you loved above you. This was exactly how you saw your evening pan out.

After a while, when you'd circled your fingers in his damp hair, he asked, “Where'd you get the lingerie?”

You smiled. “Believe it or not, Flo helped me.”

He snapped his head up to look at you, face blanched.

“Not like helped me pick it out, jeez baby,” you chuckled, smoothing his hair back. “I meant she told me about a store in Carbondale.”

“That's two towns over,” he commented, nuzzling his head back into the crook of your neck.

“I know.”

“Looks like Flo helped both of us,” he said after a while, and freed his arm from underneath you.

“So you liked it?”

“Of course,” he smiled, hovering on his elbows above you. “You want me to get exercise one way or another, but I didn't mean this is what Flo helped with.”

You frowned, seeking out answers from his crystal blue eyes. Hopper sighed and stroked your face, leaving a feather like kiss on your lips.

“She pushed me--well, threatened is the word really, that if I didn't stop jerking around and give you this gift I've been carrying around for a year, she would burn my hat.”

“You've been carrying a new microwave around for a year?” You frowned.

“No. What? No.” Hopper shook his head. “Wait, you wanted a microwave?”

“Yeah? To cook dinner.” You said in a matter of fact voice, and he sighed with his eyes closed.

“I'm sorry to break it to you, princess, but I'm not spending that much money on a girlfriend.”

You stilled, and his playful smirk was the only thing that kept you from going off the rails. And then when he held out his gift to you, your heart did go off the rails.

“However, I would change my mind if it was for my wife,” he smiled, holding the small diamond ring between his fingers in the space between you. You could feel your jaw drop this time as tears came to your eyes, and your hand flew to your mouth.

You knew about his history. You knew he had had an unsuccessful marriage, and still, he was willing to try. For you.

“So, what do you say, kitten? Microwave or not?”

You chuckled through your tears, holding his face in your hands to kiss.

“I'm gonna reheat so many leftovers for you, baby.” You sniffled, and watched his lips form into a grateful smile. And it only grew as he slipped the ring onto your finger, shedding a few tears himself.

“Sorry I didn't have time to wrap it.”

You chuckled between kisses, stroking his hair lovingly. “You can make it up to me.”

“Newly engaged sex?” He grinned, eyes full of adoration.

“After dinner,” you promised, standing corrected.

The evening did not pan as you'd foreseen.

And you were grateful.

J.

[avenging-fandoms]

Could you please do the "I almost lost you kiss" with Spencer from Criminal Minds? Love you! 😘

*based on s1ep22&23, but parts and people are mixed up

11: “I almost lost you” kiss

–

“sleep, you need sleep. get some rest so you can come back tomorrow, we’re gonna need your brain on this case” hotch tells you and you nod, hotch getting someone to bring you home. 

“i’ll walk you to the car” spencer grabbed your things and took your hand as you followed another agent down to the car. spencer opened the door and put your stuff in, sighing softly. “i’ll see you tonight, hm? date night” he smiles and you laugh, spencer leaning down to kiss you. “i love you”

“i love you too, spence” you kiss him again and get in the car. he leans in to steal one more kiss, closing the door and waving as he agent drives away. he smiles and sighs, spinning on his heels and heading back inside. 

“you just can’t get enough of her, can you?” derek teased and spencer rolled his eyes, his cheeks a little red as he stared at the clues. 

you wave goodbye to the agent, unlocking your door and shutting it behind you. you throw your things on the chair, slipping off your shoes and falling on the couch. you close your eyes and slowly fall asleep, until your woken up by footsteps. you open your eyes and gasp, staring up at the man who had burns all over his face, holding a gun to you. 

“h-hey, we can talk this out” you looked at your gun and then back to the intruder, reaching for your gun but he fired, shooting you in the chest. he ran out with your badge and wallet, you gasping for air as your heart pounds in your ears. you reach for your phone, blood on the phone as you dial 9-1-1. 

“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?”

“i’ve.. been.. shot..” you gasp, dropping the phone. you fall to the ground, police sirens fading in your ears as you stare at the ceiling, flashes of spencer in your line of sight. “sp..spence..” you gasp, the paramedics rushing through the door, your vision going blank.

-

“why weren’t we alerted of this sooner?!” hotch asked, spencer’s eyebrows furrowing as he went over. 

“what’s.. going on?” hotch sighed, looking at him. derek came over, holding his shoulder. 

“spencer.. yn.. yn’s been shot” derek spoke, hotch not being able to say it to spencer. his face drops, heart rate speeding. 

“you’re lying”

“she’s on her way to the hospital, spence- spencer!” hotch called after him, but he was already rushing out the door. he bolted to his car, turning it on and burning out of the parking lot, speeding to the hospital as he wipes away his tears. 

he rushes into the intensive care unit, holding the desk tightly. “fbi, i need to know where yn yln is, now”

“uhm, she’s in surgery right now, she was shot, sir! you can’t go back there!” spencer didn’t listen, hands on the glass as he saw the flatline and your lifeless face, tears falling. 

“no, no, no! fight it! you’re a fighter, come on!” he sobbed, derek dragging him out. “no no no” spencer cried, falling to the floor with derek following, holding his friend tightly. 

“calm down, spence. it’s okay” derek said and spencer shot up. 

“no it’s not okay! my girlfriend’s fighting her her life when she should’ve been sleeping! this is bullshit!” gideon ran over to spencer, and he crumbled. gideon took him into the waiting room, closing the door. derek sighed, putting his heads in his hands.

-

“it’s all my fault. i sent her home” hotch sighed, shoving a hand into his pocket. 

“i put her things in the car, i sent her away” spencer whimpered, head resting against his hand. 

“it was nobody’s fault but this.. fisher king. it’s nobody’s fault here” gideon reassured and hotch stepped out, grabbing cups of coffee and handing one to reid and gideon. 

“morgan, you ready to go?” derek nodded, standing up and patting spencer’s shoulder. “gideon..?”

“no no, you guys go. i’ll.. stick here with reid” he smiled softly and both men nodded, leaving the room. soon spencer’s eyelids felt heavy, and he soon fell asleep. gideon noticed, but let him sleep. 

-

“spencer, spencer, come on, wake up” he jolted awake, rubbing his eyes. 

“oh, i’m sorry” he sighed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. he looked up at gideon, who had a smile on his face. “is she awake?”

“room 107″ spencer jumped up, rushing down the hall and stopping at your room, taking a deep breath and turning into the room, smiling with tears in his eyes as he sees the heart monitor going up and down. he walks over, holding your hand and kissing the back of it. 

your eyes flutter open, turning your head softly and looking at spencer and smiling. “spence..” you whisper, a tear falling down his cheek. 

“yeah, it’s me” he leaned down and kissed you like you were a piece of glass, kissing him back slowly. “i thought i lost you, oh my god i almost lost you, angel” he sobbed, face in your neck. 

“it’s okay..” you whisper, linking your fingers with his. he smiles and sniffles, kissing you again. he sits in the chair next to your bed, holding your hand and watching you fall asleep, before falling asleep himself, all while still holding your hand. 

[barfzal]

summer wine 

word count: 6,000

warnings: smut, masturbation, oral, a little rough - some choking, spanking, daddy kink

requested: highly!! haha 

a/n: oh my gosh, guys! i haven’t done this in like practically forever, so please forgive me if this is a little rusty. i’m so stoked to finally get out of my funk, and get this out to you, and i hope you enjoy it. you know i had to write for baby boy josh. the title comes from the song summer wine by nancy sinatra. i just wanna thank you from the bottom of my heart for the loving and kind messages i’ve received even on my hiatus. i can’t wait to keep writing for you guys. soon i’ll post an update on what my writing future will look like, but for now, i seriously hope you guys like this one. all the love ⋆ mia

The last few moments spent in the porcelain tub full of essential oils, epsom salts and frothy bubbles are filled with thoughts of Josh. You remove yourself from the tub with your boyfriend in your mind. Wrapping a fluffy towel around your body and reaching for the long stemmed glass of wine resting on the vanity, you take another long sip of a tart pinot noir; the wine leaves behind a faint heat on the apples of your cheeks as you swallow it. Your skin feels like satin after your heavenly bath, and the warm air of summer fills the bedroom through the open doors of your balcony. Once changed into a mauve colored satin robe that hangs off of one shoulder, you take a seat on the enormous bed you shared with Josh. You pour more of the chilled wine into the glass, and take another sip while your eyes watch the sun’s slow descent over the horizon of Columbus’s skyline. The sky is a dusty rose color, and the wine makes your head feel delightfully heavy. 

Having consumed one glass of wine too many, your eyes wander to the cold, vacant space next to you in the bed that Josh usually occupies, but the bitter reality seeps: Josh is with the guys in Nashville, and he isn’t due back until tomorrow despite the fact that you could really use his company at the moment. You swallow down some more of the sweet liquid while sliding the tips of your fingers from your knee to your inner thigh. If Josh were with you right now, he would be squeezing the warmth of your inner thigh, and you would be able to just faintly hear the hum from the back of his throat while he admires your soft skin and leaves kisses on your inner knee. You could squeeze your own thigh and slip your fingers under your robe, but it would pale in compare to the way he touched you. His fingers are thicker, longer than your own, and every time his deliciously tough hands slipped down your body, it made your mind flood with warm light, raising every hair on its end. Another sip of wine and you giggle quietly to yourself at the thought of just how good Josh is with his hands. 

The sun had been hung just over you and Josh in the center of your picnic blanket. His sweet tongue tasted like peach juice, and it teased the edge of your lips and you felt his hand slyly sneak under your sundress. Your breathe caught in your throat when you felt his fingers slowly rubbing over your folds through your panties. You frantically pulled away from the kiss with hot cheeks, and you whispered to him to knock it off. Just beyond the hill there was another couple enjoying a picnic as well, and you could hear the girl’s faint laughter. Josh hushed at your worry and pressed the whole of his index finger deep inside of you, making you whine out. “They’ll never know if you just keep your pretty mouth shut,” he hummed just into your ear. His lips pressed a kiss into the cartilage of your ear while he worked another finger into you, and curled them in and out of you. His wide, blue eyes glanced up to make sure no one would see him with two fingers inside of you, unraveling you in the broad daylight. His other hand covered your open lips and he nodded for you to cum when he could feel your body tensing. “That’s my girl, cum just for me,” he encouraged you. Your head had spun, while you tried desperately, with the aid of Josh’s big hand over your lips, to stifle the filthy sounds of your orgasm. Your legs were left trembling while Josh had smugly sucked your flavor from his finger. “Lunch was delicious,” he says smugly while sucking on his other fingertip. 

That memory makes you feel a familiar pulse between your legs. Your excitement brings you to hastily turn on a soft song that over the speakers in the master bedroom, and you quickly turn to light several large eucalyptus candles that line the walls in your bedroom and on your nightstand. At the very bottom drawer of your nightstand you found the polaroid photos you frequented when Josh was out of town and you were feeling particularly needy. You had taken these pictures on a romantic trip to Florence that Josh had surprised you with about five months back. There were three photographs that were tied with strong memories of that particular night you and Josh had spent together. Two belonged to you, and one Josh had was a picture of you, neatly tucked behind the black card in his wallet to revisit when he wasn’t with you. Next to the pictures, you found your favorite toy, and you bring it out from the drawer with the photos. Pulling open your robe, you pull the first photo up to see Josh’s eyes. They looked the color of the sparkling blue waters just outside of your room from the flash of the camera, and the sweat that glistened off of his neck and hairline in the photograph so perfectly that it looked staged. In the picture, he wore a drowsy post-sex smile that made you both smile and bite into your bottom lip all at once. One of your hands was placed on the center of his full chest in the photo, and the picture brought back memories so vivid you could feel them in your bones. 

Josh’s fingertips press into your hips while he forced you all the way down onto his shaft. You could only rock back and forth desperately, and when you had, Josh let out a low groan. His muscles in his thighs tensed harshly while he finished inside of you with dark moans and heavy breaths. You were spent from the energy you exerted while riding him and the two electrifying orgasms prior. The both of you stood frozen in ecstasy for a few long moments, and the bliss washed over you, and you giggled quietly. Josh let out a sweet laugh. Sweat slicked back his dark hair, and he laid back, hands draping over your thighs, lightly rubbing over each thigh when you grabbed the camera and snapped a picture of him. He laughed at it and shook his head. “Stop, I look awful after sex,” he had complained with a slight chuckle. “No you don’t, you look the best just like this,” you said holding up the developing photo of him, and you sank down next to him after climbing off his lap. “Maybe next time you have a season ticket holder party, I can come and get this autographed,” you joked, and Josh laughed even heavier at your comment. “Do that and see the spanking you get when I come home,” he warns while pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you giggle to him while he buried his head into your neck.  

You turn the knob on the toy to the lowest setting and slide it down over your pussy, while your eyes hang over the image of Josh. You sigh quietly at the subtle vibrating against your lips, and subtly increase the pressure to your clit. The dull humming of the vibration made your thoughts flatline, and it made it so that all your senses were focused solely on the pleasure that rippled through you from your core. The image of your boyfriend with his forehead lined in sweat is burned into your mind, and it makes you murmur his name quietly to yourself. You could imagine the way he feels inside of you, and slowly pushed the length of the vibrator inside of you with a heavy breathe. It was much slimmer than his shaft, but the length was comparable, and you could feel how full you would be of his length, and it makes a moan sneak past your lips. 

The quiet purring of the motor in your vibrator, the soft music in the background and your own desperate noises, created a quiet symphony in your head, and when the front door to your apartment creaked open, you don’t register the sound above the other noises. Josh’s black leather duffle bag hangs over his broad shoulder while he makes his way to the bedroom where he could hear the music and a low humming sound that he assumes is your blowdryer from the bathroom. Unbeknownst to him what was inside waiting for him, he swings open the door gently, and his round eyes widen a bit at you sprawled out on your shared bed with a toy between your thighs, but his initial shock dissipates as quickly as it had come, and his lips pull up into a dark smirk. His eyes took you in without your knowledge. The thud of his duffle bag on the floor makes your eyes shoot open, and when you see your boyfriend, you stammer quickly. The wine had made it so that your brain was moving far too slowly to get out a quick explanation, so your thighs closed shut almost instinctually, and you pulled the robe over your bare chest, and you only manage to start forming the word ‘what’ when Josh’s fingers slip over your knees and between them, pushing them back apart. “No, by all means keep going,” he smiles while rubbing his hands on the inside of your thighs, squeezing them and massaging the soft skin as he pushes your legs wide open. “But Josh, w-what are you doing h-” you stutter to him, but he cuts you off before you’re able to stammer it out. “I missed you, so I left the guys a little earlier than planned, and obviously you missed me too, eh?” he jokes with a soft chuckle while taking the photos of him in is hand, and you can feel the red hot embarrassment spread over your cheeks, like you had been caught staring by your crush, as he smirks down at them. Your thighs are left ajar from when he insisted on spreading them, and he sets the photos on the nightstand. “It’s okay, I used the photo of your last night,” he remarks while picking up your glass of wine. “Keep going, kitten. I wanna watch,” he murmurs quietly while taking a sip. 

You carefully pull the vibrator out before pushing it back inside of you, and he groans at it. Josh swigs down the remainder of the wine in the glass, while his other hand holds steady on the inside of your thigh, and due to the size of his hand, it took up a majority of your skin. His fingers feel electric on your skin, and it makes you moan out blissfully as you pushed the toy back in leisurely. His fingers run coarsely through his soft, brown hair and his eyes seem to flicker back and forth from your pussy to your face, but your eyes stayed fixed on his, reading the clear amusement in his expression. His soft lips hang apart, and his tongue snakes past them occasionally. His hand tenderly slides along the inside of your thighs, and you can feel a warm kiss on the inside of your knee. You squeak out, insinuating your approval, and Josh moves to reposition himself so he is laid next to you on his side, his bicep curls under your head to hold you still and his other hand is squeezing into the fullest part of your thigh. “Good girl,” he praises you softly while you moan out and start to accelerate the pace of the toy. His fingers fold over yours, and he takes hold of the toy to push it inside of you, forcing a moan from your throat. Your hand finds his stomach and gently clench the fabric of his shirt while your eyes lift up to his, and he groans under his breathe while using the toy on you. “God, you’re so fucking wet,” he mumbles to you before pushing his warm lips to yours. 

While his tongue lightly grazes yours, Josh pulls the toy out of you, and it makes your breathe catch in your throat when his middle and index fingers roll over your clit. Your sound of pleasure is smothered by his mouth, and he pushes two of his thick fingers inside of you, forcing you to take your lips away from his and moan out. “Just like that, daddy,” you hum out to him with your lips hanging open and audible breaths leaving them. “Yeah? Does my girl like it like that?” he lets out gruffly while curling his fingers inside of you and pushing them in and out quickly. You watch his forearm flex while he does, and you nod your head helplessly while he fucks you with two of his fingers. Your own fingers reach to curl into his hair, sweeping back some of his curled strands back from his face and taking his full lips into yours again. His lips are warm and supple against yours, but he breaks the kiss to your dismay. Your lips open to beg for his kisses again when you feel a kiss placed at your inner knee, and his fingers have left you, making your hips wriggle for attention. Josh shifts to reposition himself between your open thighs, leaving wet kisses on the inside of your sensitive thighs as he makes the transition. His kisses make your toes curl at the sensation. He pops his fingers into his mouth, sucking on the wet tips of his fingers, humming at your flavor.  

Josh’s large hands roam over your calves, and they slide over the inside of your thighs. His hands forcefully push back on your inner thighs, drawing your legs wide open and far apart. His tongue presses to your skin as he lines the inside of your leg with wet kisses. Almost immediately, your fingers are pushing tufts of his soft, golden brunette hair back while his tongue flattens against your pussy. His tongue is warm and spreads open your pussy in a way that makes your eyes roll back in your head. “My girl tastes so fucking good,” he groans out lowly. He lays flat on his stomach on the bed, his growing cock threatening the zipper of his jeans. Your legs are pushed wide apart, and his face is buried between them. His nose presses to your clit while he licks your entrance, and the feeling of his tongue pushing inside of you makes you come undone under him. His wet tongue slides over your clit, and one of his hands comes down to the hood of your clit, pulling back and exposing it to him. Josh’s round, innocent blue eyes flicker up to yours while he sucks your clit between his pink lips and sucks harshly on it, releasing it from his lips with a ‘pop.’ His eyes look darker now with his tongue between your legs. Your breathing is heavy and staggered at this point, and a feverish sweat has begun to break as your fingers helplessly rake through his hair. 

His lips pull back and his hair is gorgeously disheveled from your busy hands, and a bruise is coming to surface on your hip where Josh had been forcefully pushing it down to keep you steady while he licked you. His pink lips are covered in saliva and your juice, while he lightly spanks your pussy. His fingers come down harshly on it before rubbing your clit. “Oh fuck, look at that pretty pussy,” he comments with a long groan while spreading you open with two fingers. He slides his tongue over your clit and starts lapping up between your legs, his tongue makes those lewd wet sounds you loved so much, and Josh licks you until you’re squirming to get away from the overstimulation of his expert tongue. Josh slides both palms over the front of your hips and pushes them down into the mattress, pinning you. “Be a good girl and stay still,” he demands before delving his tongue between your pussy lips, and you let out a strangled gasp. “Daddy please,” you whine out at the feeling of his steady licking and the way his thumb begins rubbing at your clit with a firm pressure. His rough stubble starts to delightfully irritate the innermost part thighs that are wet from your excitement and his saliva, and you feel the pleasure building in the pit of your stomach. You are desperate to pull away from the stimulation before it became too much, already seeing spots in your vision. The knot in your stomach aches as the pleasure mounts and took you right to the edge. Josh’s tongue continues to search inside of you, licking at you while his button nose rubs against your clit, and he watches you squirm, one large hand rests on your pelvis, anchoring you down, and the other lays between your breasts, pressing your back firmly to the mattress. You writher and squirm until your orgasm comes over you, and it leaves you whimpering and your pussy pulsing.

Your breathing is uneven and heavy, and Josh lets out a low chuckle and nibbles on your inner thigh, kissing into the portion rubbed raw from his beard, before he starts to make his way up your body, and taking you by your throat, he kisses you. His fingers wrap over the side of your neck, and his thumb presses into the center of your throat as the two of you kiss. Josh’s tongue and lips taste of you, and you can smell the deep mahogany and tobacco scent of his cologne. Your fingers rake through his hair before sliding your palms down the front of his chest and tugging at the hem of his shirt. You slide the shirt over his ribcage and your hands slip up his toned abdomen, feeling the muscles flexing as he leans over your body. Josh lifts his shirt the remainder of the way off of his head, and your fingers slide over his broad chest, kissing into the nape of his neck while he lets out a soft whimper. “Fuck, baby,” he sighs out while leaving a kiss on your shoulder. You start to push on the center of his full chest until he is laying back on the bed. His bright, blue eyes follow you with anticipation while you crawl between his open thighs.

Your lips begin at his, fingers traveling down every inch of your boyfriend. From the sculpted portion of his chest, down his stomach and between his legs until you find the bulge under his distressed denim. His tongue dips into your mouth softly, and he lets out a quiet moan against your bottom lip when you squeeze his growing cock. Your lips wander down the front of his throat. His skin is warm and smooth under your lips. You kiss over the center of his broad chest and your nails rake down his abdomen, the muscles clenching under your fingertips. Josh whines when you start to feverishly unbutton his jeans and pull them open and off of him. He eagerly lifts his hips, to help you rip his pants and underwear off of him, and you slide down to your stomach between his open thighs while his thick length rests on his lower stomach. His cock was undoubtedly big as his build and size would have suggested to you before the two of you were even intimate. The first time you had seen him naked, the sheer size made you giggle. 

With Josh’s lips at your neck, and his big hand grasping a handful of your ass, you moaned into his ear, kissing him there while your fingers knit into his soft, thick hair. He smelled delicious and warm, and it made you want to sink your lips into his neck. Your stomach flinched when you had the craving for him, and though neither of you had taken it there, you felt one moment of rare courage, and you weren’t going to let it slip from your fingers. You and Josh had been seeing each other for a little over a month, and on every date, he had been respectful and thoughtful, so you knew you had to be the one to up the ante. Ambitiously, you had sunk down to your knees, and you could see Josh’s eyes light up as you reached for the button on his pants. “God yes,” he mumbles while helping unzip his pants. His fingers brush back a strand of your hair, delicately tucking it behind your ear. “You’re sure?” he questions, eyebrows furrowing, his big blue eyes filled with concern, and you had let out a breathy laugh. With a wide smile, you nod your head up and down. “I want you so badly,” you whisper to him while you both eagerly shove his underwear down his thighs, and he lifts his shirt up over the prominent V line of his hips. His big cock springs up, and your mouth unintentionally opens, and you immediately giggle. “Wh-what?” Josh laughs along nervously. “Josh, you’re huge.” You both let out a laugh while you squeeze his shaft, and he looks down at you. “Can you handle it?” he asks with a little smirk, his eyebrow cocked just a bit at the end of his question. “Mmm it might take some practice,” you murmured to him while sliding your hands up and down his shaft, and Josh audibly groaned at your sentence and curious hands. 

You press a soft kiss onto the inside of Josh’s full thigh, while he pushes them apart to allow you room between them. Your hands slide over his big thighs, and one remains there while your other hand takes his length, and brings it up to your lips where you place a kiss on the head of his cock. Josh stifles a groan while you stick your tongue out and lightly slap his cock against your warm tongue. Josh’s hands clench into fists at his sides and his jaw clenches noticeably. His eyes constantly glancing from your lips to your eyes. Your lips close around the tip of his cock, and he breathe come out audibly. “You look so pretty with my cock in your mouth,” he groans out while your lips slowly inch up and down his shaft. You move slowly always at first, never quite taking him down your throat right away. Not only did you do this to tease him, but you often had to work little by little to fit him all the way down. His fingers slide over your hair, raking over your scalp, fingertips grasping your hair at the back of your head, and lightly guiding your head along. You pull your lips from him, and spit on his cock, getting it wet and slippery. Josh moans out louder than before while both of your hands now work his shaft, and you look up at him through your lashes. “Like that, daddy?” you say with an innocent grin, and Josh chuckles at this. “Fuck you’re such a good girl,” he groans out while you wrap your lips back around him, and you start to take him down deeper and deeper. Slowly, inch by inch, your lips find the base of Josh’s dick, and his muscles tense. With his eyes closing, his face scrunches up in pleasure, before releasing a long moan. “Oh fuck,” he grunts as you slide your lips off of his cock that is throbbing in your hands.

Josh hastily, pulls your face to his, and brings you into an unchaste, lip-bruising kiss. His lips are desperate and harsh. His tongue dips into your mouth, and when he pulls away, a string of saliva hangs between your lips and his. He quickly flips you over by your hips, so you’re on your hands and knees in front of him, and he lines himself up behind you. You can feel the large tip of his cock leisurely rubbing between your folds and focusing over your clit gently, before he slides to your entrance and pushes into you, stretching you with every inch, until he is all the way inside of you. 

You both moan out harmoniously, and your nails dig into the sheets, starting to lean into them, you turn to look back at your boyfriend. His broad chest is flushed pink, and his full lips are hung open, while he lets out a soft moan. “God you feel so fucking good, baby girl,” he grunts quietly to you while pushing into you and rocking his hips gently. Josh’s firm grip holds you up by your hips, and slowly he starts to thrust into you, his powerful body rocking yours back and forth as he does so, and soon you both find a euphoric rhythm. At this angle, his cock brushes your g-spot effortlessly, and you’re letting out helpless moans underneath him. “Fuck, it’s so good, daddy,” you whine out to him, and it beckons him to keep up his firm pumping. One of his hands steadies you by holding your hip, and his other hand raises and smacks down onto your ass. You take in a sharp gasp, as the splotchy red hand print forms, and he squeezes your ass, groaning at the mark he left. Throughout his strong thrusts, Josh’s hand comes down on your ass harder with each strike, your ass stinging from the spanks, and his lips curl into his small side grin. “Yeah? You like that, baby? What do you say?” he grunts out, raising his eyebrows at you with a wide smirk. “Thank you, daddy,” you struggle to get out through heavy moans that won’t cease from his heavy thrusting. Between the wine, the lit candles and the warm summer breeze wafting in from the open balcony doors, you both had a glowing sheen of sweat covering your bodies. Josh’s fingers grasp at the ends of your hair. Wrapping your hair around his finger tips, he pulls your hair into his large fist, and his other hand comes to cup the front of your throat. Josh brings you up off of your arms and holds you by the hair and throat while he fucks into you from behind, leaving you a moaning, whimpering mess, completely at his will. Josh’s harsh thrusts start to let up as he slows down his pace, leaning over you to press a kiss into your shoulder blade. 

Sex with Josh was this perfect harmony of gentle and rough. One moment he would be clenching his strong hand around your throat while the other he was delicately kissing the apples of your cheeks or nuzzling into your neck his fingers were just at. This time was no different as he pulls out of you. The loss of contact made you ache for more of him. Josh gently guides you to lay down with him on the bed, his large frame making you feel protected as he pulls you back into his chest. His warm chest presses into your shoulders while he brings his lips to the nape of your neck and kisses you there. His large, rough palms trace down your silhouette. “I love you so much, baby,” he hums sweetly into your ear while kissing against your earlobe. His hand comes to your cheek and guides you until your head is turned to the side to meet his gaze, and when you meet the wide pools of blue, he takes your lips in a warm kiss. “I love you, Josh,” you moan into his lips as he slowly pushes himself inside of you again. He presses his damp forehead to yours, and his breathing slows. His heavy arm drapes over you, holding you under your breasts while he rocks his length into you, making you moan out. “God you feel so good, Joshy,” you whimper to him while he kisses your lips and he nods his head, soft whimpers leaving his lips. “You’re so fucking tight, baby,” he moans to you, lifting his eyes to meet yours while you rock back into him. 

You and Josh stood like this, grinding into one another until his primal appetite kicked in again. You could feel the pressure of his grip grow as he squeezed your chest, and started to rock his hips up into you harder, this new angle was just right, and you knew that within seconds you would have another orgasm that would rob you of your ability to think straight. “D-daddy, I’m - I,” you choke out, but Josh’s lips are already curling into a wide smirk. “Yeah? Cum for me. That’s my girl,” he growls lowly into your ear, his normally sweet and soft voice, growing darker as he grunt from his powerful thrusts, and the pleasure of being inside of you. “Good girl, cum on daddy’s cock, come on,” he encourages you while bringing his hand down between your thighs. He begins rubbing his fingers over your clit, and you were periodically forgetting to breathe, only taking breathe in when you gasp out strangled moans. Your orgasm feels electrifying, and makes the world go white for a moment. Your eyes are squeezed shut, and, what feels like, every muscle in your body is clenching. 

Josh’s hand cradles your cheek and draws your lips into his, the sweat is rolling down the side of his neck as the two of you kiss, and your fingers roll through his damp hair. One strand of wet hair is curled and hanging over his forehead. He pulls himself from you, with a soft sigh, and he starts to sit up. His frame towering over you makes him look that much bigger. He starts to spread your weak legs open once more, and as he does so, his fingertips gently squeeze your inner thighs, massaging them in his coarse pals, while his cock rests against your core. “Are you good, baby? It’s not too much?” he asks with eyes that reflect his genuine caring nature. It makes your lips pull into a sleepy smile. “I promise I’m good,” you murmur to him while lifting up off of your back to lean into him and give him a kiss. Josh’s palms are at either side of your body as he leans into you, kissing you tenderly on the lips. One of his hands shifts to guide himself inside of you again, and very slowly he enters you. 

You both moan against one another’s tongues, and you lay back into the soft sheets of the bed. Your fingers grasp around his wrist that’s leveraging him over you, and his other hand is grasping at your waist, holding there while he pushes himself all the way inside of you. You take this time to admire him. It had been the first time tonight you’ve been able to just lay back and take him. His lips are slightly ajar, glossed over with saliva. His creamy skin is dewy with sweat, and his chest is glistening, flushed a light pink. His wide, freckle-sprinkled shoulders are completely relaxed. His blue eyes are lidded from the pleasure of being inside of you. His dark hair is slicked back from his eyes. His big cock fills you up completely as he settles as deep into you as he can, and he sighs out. “God, you feel so good,” he groans out slowly as his fingers trace up your body, squeezing into your chest. His one hand that is resting on the mattress moves to your throat, wrapping over the front of your neck, holding you there, squeezing gently by leaning into it, while he finds a strong rhythm of pumping into you. Your breathe catches in your throat as he squeezes you gently, and he growls in the back of his throat. “Such a good girl,” he moans out to you while he pushes into you.

The combination of restricted air and his cock filling you to your limit, made your mind blur. All you felt was the pure bliss coming from between your legs, and you let out strangled moans. Josh’s thumb slides over your chin. He drags your bottom lip down while pumping into you. “Such a pretty girl,” he moans out to you while his thrusts become sloppier and more desperate. His two large fingers push into your mouth, and your cheeks hollow as you suck on his digits, moaning around his fingertips. “You want me to cum inside of you, pretty girl?” he asks lowly with soft grunts escaping between words. You notice the way his stomach tightens, showing the muscles in his abdomen as he comes closer. “Want me to fill that pussy?” he asks with his fingers still crowding your tongue. “Yes, daddy,” you struggle to get out around his fingers. “Tell me again, baby girl. How badly do you want my cum?” Josh smirks as he takes his hands from your lips and now puts them both on either side of your head, rocking into you harder. Drops of sweat fall down from his neck and chest onto your chest. “Please, daddy, I want it so badly,” you plead, and you craved the warmth of his cum so much, he didn’t really need to implore you t beg for it. “Please,” you whine out as his breathing deepens. 

Josh’s moans come out more liberally and loudly as his hip work gets sloppier, and he suddenly pauses, pushing himself all the way inside of you, and releasing deep inside of you. His breathing is shaky and his moans are long and quivering. “Fuck, baby,” he moans out. He pulls his cock out of you, his hand wrapping around his sensitive shaft, and as he leans back on his knees, he rubs your clit gently, making you hum quietly. Only a small bead of his cum drips from you, and the rest of it remains inside of you, filling you with his warmth. 

Josh wipes his damp forehead with an exhausted groan, and immediately his face brightens with his adorable post-sex grin. His lips are a deep crimson from the kissing and licking, and his cheeks are flushed from the work. “Do you know how much I love you?” he starts as he lays beside you, already wrapping his strong arm over you, and pulling you in effortlessly so you’re laying on a portion of his chest. You kiss the surface of his hot chest, and smile up at him. “No clue,” you joke back, and he rolls his eyes, letting out his cute giggle. “I’m serious, I really love you so much. You know that right? Even when I’m rough on you?” his eyes raise to yours while your finger gently stroking his soft cheek, tracing over his cheek bone. You can’t stifle the giggle. The sweet Ontario boy coming out evidently. “I love you, Josh, and I love it when you’re rough on me,” you say reassuringly, flattening out and tidying his messy hair that was a product of your constant groping and grabbing. “You’re the sweetest boy, you know? Thanks for coming home early,” you say while kissing his button nose. Josh rolls over a bit so he can nuzzle his head into your neck and kiss you there. “With what I came home to, I’ll probably never leave the house again,” he jokes while kissing behind your ear, his fingers gently tracing your back, scratching between your shoulder blades. “Torts would come over here and drag you out of this bed,” you say, and Josh lets out his sweet laugh that you can feel vibrate in his chest. Josh’s fingers tuck your hair behind your ears, and he pulls you to him again, pressing his lips on your forehead, and humming. His exhaustion was clearly setting in, and you pull the tufted duvet over  his hips, while he relaxes into the bed, murmuring something about how much he loves you while he kisses you lazily and sleepily. His lips stop moving, and slowly part to let out a deep breathe, and for just awhile longer, you lay your head on the center of his chest, and listen to the sound of his gentle heart thumping under you evenly. 

[boldlyvoid]

Me Before You

*coming soon*

Summary: When he dies, the last thing he expects is to meet his soulmate in heaven.

Content Warnings: Major Character Death. Afterlife, soulmate au.

PREVIEW:

"When I die, I hope to go to Heaven, whatever the Hell that is."

- Ayn Rand.

Death is a lot warmer than he remembered.

Given the last time he died, he was in a cemetery suffering from shock and high as fuck, this was a lot different. This time he went out almost the same way he entered this world. Close to his mother, hearing her crying beside him as the machine let out one final elongated beep.

He flatlined, just like that.

What he doesn’t expect is the afterlife.

The completely white room he wakes up in is nothing but 4 falls, a bed and a mirror. He gets up, walking towards it carefully to see himself as he remembers from yesterday. 41 and tired, not yet aware of the fact his brain was about to self-destruct. Completely naked like he was at birth, he feels reborn in a sense. He examines his body in the mirror carefully. Counting scars and placing freckles, insure that this was really his body and he was seeing this with his own two eyes.

But there’s text on the mirror, the way there is fine print on a rearview mirror, there’s a warning.

“Objects in mirror are subject to change,” he reads it aloud. Thinking of what it could possibly mean, he remembers what he looked like in his mid 20’s, flowing long hair and a pep in his step. He wanted that again. Simply blinking, he opens his eyes to see his former self staring back at him, fully clothed and how he remembered.

The room switches then, pixellating from white to green, it becomes his living room back at home. All his things are where he left them, it's cozy and warm and yet something feels off. He doesn’t want to trust it yet. Scared it's all too good to be true and he was actually sat in the depths of hell, destined to be stuck in this little room forever.

There’s a knock on the door that makes his head spin, he stares in horror, waiting for something to let him know he should open it. They knock again, “Spencer, open up.”

“Gideon?” He rushes to the door and flings it open, looking at him for all of 2 seconds before wrapping his arms around the man. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you more, kid,” he replies fondly, “I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Spencer assures him.

“I know,” Gideon rubs his beck as he holds him. “I read your file, that’s why I’m here.”

“What is here?” He asks as he pulls away.

“The rest of your life,” he smiles. “Welcome to the good place.”

“I’m going to need a lot more clarification than that.”

Gideon laughs, “I said the same thing when I got here.”

“Who was waiting for you?” Spencer can’t help but ask.

“Sarah,” he smiles. “She sat me down and told me all about it, now it’s my turn with you. Come with me.”

“Okay,” Spencer follows him out the door and into the sunlight. Finding a courtyard with kids running around and people relaxing under trees. Picnics and swinging, pools, sprinklers, laughter, it’s all so happy.

“You obviously chose your form already, but you can always age forward again,” Gideon explains. “I thought I looked the best at 30, Sarah had other plans, clearly.”

“You do have perpetual grandfather vibes,” Spencer teases him lightly, coming around to it all.

“The recluse professor look suits you,” he compliments him back. “Hopefully Y/N likes it.”

“Who?”

“Look around,” he points, “what do you see?”

“People?” He doesn’t get it.

“You see couples,” he clarifies. “Everyone out there has someone, be it a friend or a lover, everyone has another half…”

“Are you trying to tell me I have a soulmate?” If his heart hadn’t already stopped, it just would have.

[stuffedfoxwiththewifipassword]

Tea And Toast

Stobotnik AU based off the song “Tea and Toast by Lucy Spraggan

Heres the song itself: https://youtu.be/VLvmUgDmuBs 

“I’ll wake you up in the morning with some...Tea and Toast.”

Ivo was born in 1942, with eyes of blue. He had almost died twice, but it was the doctors who saved him. His mother, who had died during delivery, had told the doctors beforehand the baby’s name. Ivory Laurence Robotnik. It was difficult, knowing that Ivo had brought his mother’s death. So, when Ivo was only 4, his father killed himself.

“Listen here, boy.” His father said the night before, “I’m gonna go to sleep, and I won’t be waking up...But I have some advice for you, ok? It’s something your mom used to say...” Ivo, who didn’t understand at the time, nodded, cuddling his teddy-bear closer. His father forced a smile, and kept the tears in.

“When the skies are looking bad, my dear, and your heart lost all its hope...After dawn there will be sunshine, and all the dust will go...The skies will clear my darling….You’ll wake up with the one you love the most.” He kissed Ivo’s forehead. “And in the morning I’ll make you up some tea and toast! Ok bud?”

“Ok pa…” Ivo whispered, then went to bed. He didn’t know he would wake up an orphan, or be taken to a foster home. He spent the next 18 years getting in trouble, graduating at the top of his class, then getting into more trouble. When he was 22, his friend invited him out to a bar. It was dead of winter, freezing cold outside.

The bar itself was not too bad. It was like an old tavern, with a nice porch and non greasy wood. Best of all, warm against the bitter cold.

“Hey, Ivo, I have someone I want ya to meet!” His friend, Tom, had said. He went to the door, and came back with a fairly handsome young man. The guy was dressed in a dark shirt and pants, and his smile was brighter than the sun.

“Hello there.” He said, smiling kindly at Ivo. Ivo grinned back, and his drinks took control of his brain.

“Would you like to dance??” He asked, smiling as the young man chuckled and accepted his invitation. The two held onto each other, dancing all around the floor.

“What’s your name?” Ivo asked mid twirl, smiling brighter than he had in a long time.

“My name Aban, what’s yours?” Aban laughed, blushing softly as Ivo swing danced him around.

“Ivo!” He said, having to raise his voice due to the music around them. They talked while dancing, not noticing how songs would end then start. And hour in, Aban had Ivo smiling brighter than he had in forever. The song was slowing, but he didn’t want to stop dancing with Aban. He really liked him, despite meeting him less than two hours ago. When Aban slipped his hand out of Ivo’s, the other panicked for a second.

“Don’t let go of my hand…” Ivo whispered, smiling shyly at Aban. The other in turn looked surprised, but slid his hand back into Ivo’s warm hand. They danced for an hour more, talking and laughing. Finally, Aban pulled away, smiling.

“I have to get home, I have work tomorrow and—”

“It’s only polite if I ask you tonight…” Ivo said, “Would it be alright if...I could walk you home?”

Aban’s face lit up, “Of course!” He chirped, taking Ivo’s hand again as they left the bar together. On the way there, snow started to fall, and Aban smiled up at Ivo.

“Do your parents like snow?” He asked, and Ivo frowned.

“I-I don’t have parents…”  Ivo said, rubbing the back of his neck in soft pain.

“Oh...I’m so sorry...If you don’t mind me asking-uh...Do you know what happened?” Ivo looked at this puppy dog of a man and sighed.

“Mum died giving birth to me...Pa killed himself when I was 4, leaving me to foster care most of my life.” He looked at the snowflakes as they approached Aban’s apartment complex. “Whenever I think about it and it hurts, I just remember a simple saying my mother used to say…”

“Can I hear it?” Aban asked, coming to a stop outside his door to hold Ivo’s hands in his. Ivo smiled, and cleared his throat.

“When the skies are bad my dear, and your heart’s lost all its hope. After dawn there will be sunshine, and all the dust will go...The skies will clear my darling, I’ll  wake up with the one I love the most.” Slowly, the two came forward and brushed lips. Aban’s hands brushed Ivo’s cheeks, and Ivo mirrored the action. When the two pulled away, Ivo looked into Aban’s eyes and softly said, “And I’ll wake you in the morning with some...Tea and toast.”

The two started to date, and within a year they got married. Their lives were perfect. They were content and very much in love. But then, one night, a few days after their 1st anniversary, they heard crying outside their small apartment. Aban got up first, groggily going to the door and peering outside. He looked down, and was horrified to see a small box in the middle of a snow storm.

“Ivo! Ivo, please come here!” He called, picking up what was in the box and holding it against his chest. Ivo had gotten up, grumpily going over to his husband to see what he had.

It was a small, shivering, crying baby girl.

Aban decided to convince Ivo to adopt her, and after some time they brought home Samantha Lee Stone-Robotnik. With Samantha there, Aban and Ivo took turns taking care of her. They both worked, and even though the pay wasn’t much they got by.

But during one particular bad month, Ivo came up to Aban after he had put Sam to bed. He sighed, and kissed Aban’s hand gently. “I love you, and this you know...But I only earn enough for our food and clothes...But I love you and this baby, until the day that I die…”

Aban pressed his hand against Ivo’s cheek, smiling. “We’ll take care of this little life, we’ll fall in love with her baby-blue eyes...And we’ll be alright, from some advice that I know.” He moved Ivo’s hair from his face, brushing his fingers along his jaw. “I never got to meet her, but if I did...I’m sure your mother would have said this; ‘When the skies are looking bad, my dear, and your hearts lost all its hope...After dawn there will be sunshine, and all the dust will go...The skies will clear, my darling.’ We’ll show this baby all the love we know…”

He rested his back against Ivo’s chest, smiling softly. He kissed Ivo’s chin, and gently patted his shoulder. “Go to bed, and in the morning I’ll make you up some Tea and toast!”

Ivo soon went to work, working harder than he had ever worked. In the night, late after he got home, and when his back would ache, he’d get greeted at the door by Sam and Aban. And after some family time, he’d put Sam to bed and cuddle up with Aban for the night. In the morning, Aban would pack his lunch, and make him tea and toast for breakfast.

When Sam was 7, they bought a small house, on the outside of town. They spent the rest of their lives in that house, growing up and getting older. They reminded each other they loved the other every day, and 40 years later, they are here now.

Aban was 81, his hair had turned grey and he had wrinkles in the crooks of his eyes. But other than that, he had aged perfectly. Ivo was 82, his hair had turned snow white, his mustache twinged with brown.

They’re walking down the street,when suddenly Aban’s hand loosens around Ivo’s. “I-Ivo…” And then he’s going down. Ivo put his arm around her side and gently went down with him. Aban’s breathing is rough, and tears prick at Ivo’s eyes. People have started to gather around them, some saying to call 9-1-1.

“Don’t let go now…” Ivo cries, tears falling freely as he holds his husband. The sound of sirens fill his ears, and despite the paramedics telling him to, he doesn't let go of Aban’s hand as they drive them to the hospital. He went with Aban as he was wheeled into the hospital room, and sat by his bed.

“Dad…” Ivo looked at the door, and smiled sadly at Sam as she entered the room with her 8 year old son, 5 year old daughter and husband.

“Grandpa!” The kids cried, and ran over to give Ivo a hug.

“Grandpa, why is Papa in the hospital bed?” Their granddaughter, Maggie, asked.

“He’s sick, little one…” He told her, and frowned. “I think he would like it if you held his hand.” Immediately, the two ech gently took hold of Aban’s fingers. Ivo smiled, and then he felt Sam hugging his shoulders.

“Dad, I don’t know if he can hear you now...But there’s one thing pa would want you to know…”

“When the skies are looking bad, my dear, and your hearts lost all it’s hope...After dawn there will be sunshine, and all the dust will go...The skies will clear my darling…” She hugged him tightly, “Now it’s time for you to let go…”

Ivo held Aban’s hand as he flatlined. He gently pressed a kiss to his hair, and said in a breaking voice:

“In the morning I’ll wake you up with some...Tea and toast.”

[murdershegoat]

(based on this art from the incomparable @battenthecrosshatches)

(also on ao3)

Visiting the childrens hospital was a good idea, her people had said, because then the public could see how the Luthor brand did immense good alongside the terrible evils caused by her brother. At the time, she had trusted them.

But now? Now she’s surrounded by very small people whose eyes are too sad and fingers too sticky. Lena isn’t heartless, not by any means. It’s just she’s never really been good with children. She was always the youngest in the family and nobody she knows had babies. Hell, she didn’t talk to Ruby Arias until she was four years old, and even that was too soon. One time she said good morning to a teenager who lived in her building and the teenager had just laughed in her face, and another time some hooligans had egged her front door because she ran out of candy on halloween. Now she makes a considerable effort to avoid the young school groups who visit LCorp and she interacts with the high school interns sparingly and she dreads the day her future partner brings up having kids in any way, shape or form. It’s not that she’s scared of them, per se, it’s just that she’s completely terrified to interact with somebody under the age of eighteen in any way, shape or form.

‘As you can see, Ms. Luthor, your foundation has changed this hospital immeasurably,’ the administrator-slash-tour-guide tells her. ‘We’re able to care for about double the amount of patients than before, not to mention our technology has put us on the map as leaders in pre- and neonatal care, paedeatric cardiology, oncology, neurology and mental health care.’

‘That’s quite the accomplishment,’ Lena says, trying her best not to sound nervous or scared around the children who potter around the rec room. ‘And how’re the research facilities doing?’

‘Better than we ever could have hoped,’ they reply. ‘We’re changing the world here, Ms. Luthor.’

At that, Lena smiles genuinely. ‘That’s what I like to hear.’

She allows the administrator to lead her around the other parts of the hospital, always staying a step behind them, always using them as a shield between her and the children. When they tell her they’re about to reach the nursery, Lena almost cancels the rest of the tour. Babies?? Tiny, crying, helpless babies?????? No, thank you.

But as they near the nursery, Lena doesn’t hear crying babies. She hears a melodic, angelic voice and the soft strumming of a ukelele or something. She shoots the administrator a look, her brow furrowed.

‘You’ll see,’ they smile. As they round the corner, Lena’s eyes fall on the angel in question. A woman around her own age with blonde hair in a shaggy bob sat in the nursery, playing her ukelele to the variety of babies stationed around her in their plastic bassinets, and singing with such care and joy in her voice, Lena felt as though if she stared directly at this wonderful stranger’s face, her own face would melt off like an Indiana Jones nazi.

‘Good morning, Kara!’ says the administrator, and Kara turns and faces them, her smile blinding Lena from across the room.

‘Hi, Ollie!’ she replies happily, gently placing the ukelele on the floor, before standing to greet them. 

‘Kara, this is--’

‘Gosh, you’re Lena Luthor!’ Kara exclaims, and Lena steels herself, ready for the torrent of vitriol she’s used to receiving from strangers. ‘Your work with both biotechnology and quantam physics is unparalleled! I’ve admired your work for years!’

Lena thinks she’s in love. In love with this woman in a tight white t-shirt and skinny jeans, in love with her glasses. Obsessed, obsessed, obsessed.

Stop thinking about the L word, Lena thinks.

‘I’m Kara Danvers,’ the angel continues, holding out a hand, which Lena takes much pleasure in shaking. 

‘Kara is our expert cuddler,’ Ollie explains. ‘She volunteers and gives skin to skin contact to some of our abandoned newborns, as well as some extra TLC to some of our other babies.’

‘The singing is a new thing,’ Kara says. ‘It seemed to calm a whole bunch of them down at once and made things easier on the nurses.’

‘Well you know what they say about efficiency!’ Lena says.

‘No, what do they say?’

Lena goes completely blank.

‘I... uh.... they say something, I’m sure.’

She’s flatlining in front of this gorgeous woman (a person who volunteers! to hug babies!) who expects her brain to be brilliant. And instead all it can do is yell Kiss her, bitch!!!!!!!!!!! 

‘We should get a move on, Ms. Luthor,’ Ollie says, and Lena should use it as an out, to save herself from more embarrassment. But instead, like the absolute fool she is, Lena finds herself saying,

‘Actually, I was hoping Ms. Danvers could show me exactly what it is she does as a volunteer?’ Ollie looks surprised; this is the first time Lena’s actually seemed interested in the children.

‘Well, it’s quite simple,’ Kara says, leading her towards the babies. ‘You just... cuddle them. Some of their parents can’t be around as much as they’d like, and some don’t have any parents, and there’s loads of studies about the impact touch has on infants and young children.’ Kara reaches into one of the bassinets and fishes out one of the tiniest babies Lena has ever seen. The baby fusses for a second at the disturbance, before settling into Kara’s warm (totally ripped, Lena notices) arms.

‘This is Daisy,’ Kara says, her voice softer. ‘Her biological mom left her on the doorsteps of the fire station over on Fifth and Ninth, and she almost didn’t make it. She just got her cannula taken out yesterday, so the fact she’s breathing by herself is a big deal.’

Lena watches Kara as she holds Daisy, at the love written all over Kara’s perfect face. She thinks maybe she feels jealous. She wishes she could be this sort of kind, the type that lets you love and care for the small and the helpless. The type that radiates from deep within you and brightens everything you come in contact with.

And then Lena remembers why she had refrained from visiting the hospital for so long. A siren sounds from deep in the building, and she watches in confusion as every pager in the vicinity goes off at the same time. Suddenly, her bodyguard appears out of nowhere.

‘We need to go, Ms. Luthor,’ he mutters in her ear. ‘There’s been an attack on the building; they’re targeting you.’

Lena’s heart sinks. She wonders who could be this evil, who could hate her enough to endanger the lives of thousands of children just to bring her down?

She makes a mental note to Lillian off the Christmas card list.

‘We can’t just leave,’ Lena says, feeling some residual goodness from Kara. ‘We can’t leave these babies here!’ She turns to Kara. ‘What can I do?’

Kara, who is now donning a yellow vest with three large pockets on the front and back, hands a matching one to Lena. 

‘What do I do with this?’ Lena asks, panic starting to seep in.

‘You fill it with babies,’ Kara instructs, already lifting babies from their cribs and putting them in her own vest. Ollie puts them in Kara’s back pockets. Lena thinks she’s getting punk’d.

‘Hurry!’ one of the nurses says as a large ‘boom’ shakes the building.

Lena puts on the damn vest.

She feels weighed down by the wiggly, squirmy, crying babies, but all she can really focus on is Kara’s hand in her own (Kara’s other hand holds Daisy against her chest like a pro) as she leads Lena down the fire escape. They’ve descended several flights of stairs and Lena is feeling thoroughly Puffed Out but she can see the light of outside just ahead of her. 

‘Luthor!’ she hears a booming voice say. She turns, finding a very nondescript bad guy standing with a wicked smile on his face, and some fancy weapon in his arms. ‘I have regards for you, from--’

‘From my mother, I know.’

His smile grows even more sinister than before.

‘She asked me to give you a little gift--’ he stops short, his smile slipping. ‘Are you wearing babies?’

She stands up a little straighter. ‘And what about it?’

‘I can’t- I can’t, like, shoot babies,’ he says, clearly uncomfortable.

‘Well then I suggest you leave here before somebody makes you leave,’ Kara growls, depositing Daisy into Lena’s arms, and stepping in between them and the mercenary. Lena ignores how turned on Kara’s voice makes her, more concerned at the baby she now holds in her arms. 

Before the mercenary can say anything else, he’s being punched in the side of the head by Lena’s bodyguard, who is also wearing a baby vest.

‘Right,’ Kara says matter-of-factly as she takes little Daisy back from a grateful, aroused Lena. She does a sort of weird, light bounce and jiggle, clearly trying to keep the babies in her vest calm. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

///

Hours later, after being questioned by the police, getting the babies back upstairs, and making sure everything was running properly again, Lena’s ready to go home and wash the smell of hospital off her. But she has one last thing to do.

She finds Kara where they first met, with Daisy in her arms.

‘You’re quite remarkable, you know?’ Lena says, and Kara’s head whips up as she hears her voice, a huge grin on her face.

‘Back atcha,’ Kara says, her gaze returning to Daisy.

‘What’s going to happen to her?’ Lena asks, approaching them both. She stands just behind Kara, peering down over her arms at the now-sleeping baby.

‘She’ll find a family who loves her very much and hopefully grow up to be a smart, independent, funny little girl.’

‘And what’s going to happen to you?’ Lena asks, looking up at Kara.

‘I’ll find another baby that needs a cuddle,’ she says. And she hesitates before adding, ‘And hopefully I’ll get to see you again. Maybe something a little less chaotic for our second date.’

Lena laughs loudly, and Daisy stirs momentarily, and Kara rocks her. 

For just a moment, Lena can see this for herself: Kara looking at her with sunshine smile, with her love and kindness. Kara holding very small things that inherit Lena’s brains and Kara’s bright blue eyes. For just a moment, her future seems incredibly, overwhelmingly clear.

She slips her card into Kara’s back pocket, and she kisses her on the cheek. Her hand hovers just above Daisy’s crown, her tiny tufts of hair brushing Lena’s palm.

‘I better be hearing from you,’ she tells Kara with a raised eyebrow. 

‘Promise,’ Kara says, breathless. 

As Lena leaves, she can feel Kara’s eyes on her.

Damn right.

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

i started a ko-fi account a few months ago when somebody wanted to commission a story, and i feel really weird about posting it here but i guess if you want to help me with my coffee addiction you can lob me a couple bucks on ko-fi?

[winchesters-favorite-girl]

Flatline-Part Seven

A/N: Jensen and his sixteen year old daughter get into an argument before she goes out for a night with some friends. A few hours later, Jensen gets a call that is going to change his family’s life forever.

Word Count: 1,703

Warnings: Car accident, angst

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Hours passed before a surgeon came out to speak to your family and give them an update on how you were doing. Danneel broke into tears when the doctor told them that you had survived, that you were stable and that the surgery was considered successful. 

“She’s not out of the woods yet, the next forty eight hours are crucial but if she survives them then we’ll start to focus on her plan of care for the long term.” The surgeon informed your family, “She’s a strong kid, I’m hopeful for her recovery.”

Jensen held tightly onto the doctor’s words, he constantly repeated them to himself as he sat next to your bed holding onto your hand. It had been nine days since the surgery and the doctors were extremely happy with your progress. The swelling on your brain had decreased and they had completed another surgery to repair your spinal injuries as well as your hip. Soon they would be placing a metal rod in your leg and screws in the other ankle. 

Jensen should have calmed down by now, you were out of the woods, you would survive, but a pit had been growing in his stomach as he thought about something else the doctors had said, “She has extensive injuries, there is no denying that. She has a lot of surgeries and months of physical therapy ahead of her; she might never walk again but at least she’ll be alive.”

Running his hand over his head your father thought about what life was going to be like for his family, it was going to be full of changes and adapting but you were going to be there which was all he cared about.

“Hey there Mr. Jensen.” Your nurse Jenny greeted your father as she walked into the room. Jenny was a sweet Texan woman in her late fifties who your family practically adopted. She’d been your nurse the past two weeks whenever she was working, she had even come in a few times on her days off to check in on how you and your family were doing.

“Hi Jenny, what’s the word?” Jensen asked, looking up at the nurse as he continued to hold onto your hand. 

“Good news, Y/N’s pentobarbital levels are down enough so the respiratory therapist is gonna come in here soon so extubate her. She’ll be free to breathe on her own and you’ll see all her reflexes coming back soon now that the pentobarb is leaving her system. No sedation means our little miss should be waking up any time now.” Jenny told Jensen the good news.

“That’s, that’s great.” Jensen said, his voice thick with emotions.

“It is, another milestone down. Before you know it she’s gonna be walking outta this unit ready to go home.” Jenny replied as she hung another IV and checked to make sure she had everything for when they removed your breathing tube.

Jensen gave her a smile, “I can’t wait until you actually get to meet her, you’re gonna love her.”

“I’m sure I will Mr. Jensen,” Jenny responded, “All I’ve heard the past week is how amazing she is. Can’t wait to see those pretty eyes in real life. All the pictures your family’s been showing me, she’s got the prettiest eyes.”

“Yes she does.” Jensen replied, giving your hand a squeeze, “She’s not gonna be able to feel any pain when she wakes up, right?”

“No sir,” Jenny told him firmly, “She’s still getting a little bit of fentanyl for all those surgeries, plus that broken leg. We don’t want baby girl feeling any pain, she might feel a bit of slight discomfort but nothing painful.”

Nodding his head Jensen spoke, “Got it, just wanted to make sure.”

“I understand Mr. Jensen, no worries. You’re just being a good daddy.” Jenny reassured him.

Jensen let out a small laugh at the name, “It’s been a long time since she called me daddy. With my other two girls that’s my name but it’s been years since she last called me that.”

“I bet you twenty bucks that she calls you that when she wake up.” Jenny stated, shooting Jensen a knowing look but Jensen only shook his head.

“We haven’t quite been on the same page the past few months, I’d be surprised if she even wants to see me when she wakes up.”

Shaking her head Jenny shot Jensen a disapproving face, “She’s gonna be scared outta her mind when she wakes up, she’s gonna be asking for her daddy and I know you’re gonna be sitting right here cause your stubborn butt refuses to go home.”

Jensen smiled widely, “Guilty. You can’t-” His sentence was cut off by you rolling your head, your eyelids fluttering, “Sweetheart?” He said, examining your face as he stood next to you, “Can you hear me?”

Jenny stood on the other side of you, looking at your monitors then back at you. Your eyelids fluttered for another moment before they stopped.

“Is she okay?” Jensen asked, worried about your well being. 

“She’s fine,” Jenny reassured him, moving your eyelid up with her fingers before flashing her small flashlight in front of your eye to test your pupillary response which was normal. “Told you her reflexes were coming back. She’s gonna be waking up real soon.”

“That was weird, I’m used to her body twitching, not her whole body moving.” Jensen stated.

“That would be cause of the pentobarb, it’s a super strong sedative, it basically put her into a coma and paralyzed her so that she couldn’t move, now that the pentobarb is finally leaving her system she’s gonna be moving all over the place. It’s a good thing.” Jenny explained.

“Knock knock.” A voice spoke from the doorway before a woman wearing green scrubs knocked on the door.

“Hey Cindy.” Jenny greeted the woman as she started to prep you for extubation, “Mr. Jensen, this is Cindy the RT, she’s gonna take the breathing tube out. We’re gonna get Miss. Y/N ready but I think when we take the tube out you should step outside.”

“I’d rather stay if I can.” Jensen replied, his grip on your hand tightening. 

“I know you would but it’s not gonna be fun to watch,” Jenny explained as Cindy walked over and started getting her items ready to take the tube out. “She’s gonna make some gagging noises and I don’t think you wanna hear that.”

Jensen was quiet for a moment before shaking his head, “I’m gonna stay, just in case she wakes up and if not, this sounds unpleasant and I don’t want her to be alone.”

“Whatever you wanna do.” Jenny said before she returned her attention to helping Cindy.

After they pulled your breathing tube things seemed to settle down. It was around eight that night when Jensen got his usual FaceTime call from Danneel as she was putting the other kids down for bed.

“Hey kiddos.” He spoke to his three youngest who were all squishing together so that they could be in the camera.

“Hi Daddy.” JJ called to him as she gave him a toothy grin.

“Dah!” Zepplin attempted to say dad.

“How’re my babies doing?” Jensen asked.

“I’m not a baby Daddy, Zeppy and Ro are one now, do they still count as babies?” She questioned aloud before looking at her mom, “Mama are they babies still?” Danneel let out a small laugh before nodding her head.

“You guys will always be my babies!” Jensen spoke, grabbing JJ’s attention again.

“Even Y/N?” JJ said.

“Even Y/N.” Jensen confirmed before asking JJ how her day went.

“Sorry to interrupt,” The night nurse Kristen stated as she walked into the room, “I gotta do Y/N’s nightly labs and I was gonna give her a bath too since I saw it’s been a few days, you mind stepping out for a bit?” 

Jensen chewed on his lip for a moment before agreeing, “You’ll let me know if she wakes up?” He requested as he stood at the door. 

“Of course.” Kristen told him before he walked out and shut the door.

“Alright Miss. Y/N, we’re gonna get you cleaned up so when you wake up you’ll feel as good as you can.

Kristen had finished cleaning you up and was drawing her labs when you started to turn your head and then started to groan.

“Y/N? Sweetheart can you hear me?” She asked before grabbing your hand and giving it a squeeze. You responded by letting out another groan and tightening your hold on her hand. Soon your eyes were starting to blink open, causing Kristen to lean over and dim the lights.

“Y/N?” She said again.

“Ouch.” You mumbled aloud before keeping your eyes open and looking around, you were disorientated for a moment before panic started to kick in. “Where am I?” You asked, grabbing onto your neck since your throat was killing you with every word you spoke, tears started to fill your eyes, “Where’s my dad?” You asked in a raspy voice as your breathing began to pick up, “I want my dad, where is he?”

“It’s okay sweetie, you were in an accident, you’re at the hospital. I’ll go grab your dad right now, okay?” Kristen told you, giving your hand another squeeze before quickly leaving the room in search of your dad.

Your breathing continued to pick up which resulted in your heart rate spiking, causing one of the monitors that was connected to you to start beeping. Another nurse walked into the room to check what was happening.

“Oh Y/N, you’re awake.” The nurse spoke, “My name is Ashley.”

“My-my-my dad, where’s my dad?” You asked, your eyes focusing behind the nurse in search of your dad, “Th-the other nurse went to go get him.”

“Kristen is probably searching for him right now, he hasn’t gone far at all while you’ve been here.” The nurse assured you, “He’ll be here any second, okay? I promise.”

“I want my daddy.” You spoke in a small, defeated voice, “I need him.”

“Y/N?” Your dad’s voice sounded from the doorway.

You returned your glance to the door, “Dad?”

“Thank god.” Jensen sighed out as he strode over to you and quickly wrapped you in his arms, “I thought I lost you.”

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(Text divider by @writeyourmindaway)