#but my brain keeps telling me doing that shit is pointless unless someone prompts it

[intheseautumnhands]

I want to wriiiiiiite, but every time I try to start my brain just starts beating me up telling me it’s going to be terrible and why bother and nobody’ going to want it. ...Then I start beating myself up more because why does that matter, do it for yourself.

It’s a vicious circle. :|

[cdroloisms]

idk why but i imagined vegas 2.0 as two soccer moms (the politics bois) trying to outdo each other while their sons are dragged into it (green bois) in a rlly fvcked way. e.g.

maybe big q reconsidering dream's usefulness by saying sam's enough as protection and has other things to offer to the team as well. wilbur steps in by suggesting a duel between sam and dream then, to prove it then. maybe while it happens, wilbur whispers to quackity a list of what is still physically broken abt dream post prison (so many unhealed bones, barely healed muscle, he can barely stomach food so he had like 1 steak in the past few days, etc.) and of course, he mentions dream's most powerful asset, the revive book :)

-🐇

LMAOO

this is hilarious and also accurate as hell ,, thank you anon because the image of c!wilbur and c!quackity as PTA moms is completely sending me. this prompt (as most vt2 related things are) was really fun !! it also kinda ran away from me, which is why this ended up being almost 6k words instead of my usual 1-2k for asks, but i hope you enjoy it regardless :]

tws: implied torture/abuse, death, violence, blood, injuries, conditioning, dehumanization, panic attacks, emotional distress, trauma, unhealthy relationships (so many unhealthy relationships), smoking, dark contents, dark themes, vt2 au is always really dark so definitely proceed with caution !! dark portrayals of c!quackity, c!sam, c!wilbur, and c!dream

It starts, as many things do nowadays, with a board meeting - which seems to be as much of a sign as any that everything is going to go to shit. Board meetings for Quackity, much like Wilbur’s stupid group therapy sessions, are just a thinly veiled attempt for the two to fight for control of pretty much everything - ranging from the casino schedules to the laws still being written for Las Nevadas to what food to stock in the vending machines. As Sam is still sitting on his false throne of moral superiority and therefore less inclined to indulge himself in the same blatant corruption that characterizes their discussions, and Dream - more than anything - knows his place (which hardly gives him any position to wrangle for power among the likes of Wilbur and Quackity), the fights for control more or less remain restricted between the two. More often than not, they devolve into proving their superiority over the other by using their control of Dream (which naturally never means anything remotely good for him as a consequence) so when Quackity strolls over, all tight-lipped smiles and a cigarette held between clenched fingers, Dream really doesn’t feel anything other than dread.

Still, orders by Quackity are still orders - Dream knows this fact better than he knows that he’s alive and breathing, better than the fact that he’s out of the prison, better than he knows his own goddamn name - and Dream is far too well-trained to ever consider trying to rebel. So when the time comes - 7:30 pm, sharp - Dream is in his chair, spine straight and head alert like a goddamn dog, and he waits.

It doesn’t take long for the others to arrive. Sam comes over first, leveling him with a heavy, distrustful stare as he sits down in the chair across from Dream, the expression nearly enough for Dream to roll his eyes if it weren’t for the fear that rockets through him, still, at the sight of the Warden so close to him. Sam has made it more than clear from the very beginning that he has no trust at all for Dream, that if he had his way then Dream would be locked up for the rest of eternity in a labyrinth of blackstone and obsidian, forever guarded by his ever-present supervision. Dream feels his ears burning with heat as he dips his eyes low to the surface of the table, wanting no more than to curl up and hide under the scrutiny of the Warden’s glare.

Quackity enters next, throwing open the door of the conference room loud enough to make Dream jump out of his seat, looking at him with an upturned corner of his lip when he comes back to himself enough to notice. Dream stifles a shudder at his visible good mood, all-too-aware of what that usually meant for him in the cell, stiffening further with a growing ringing to his ears as Sam and Quackity talk and Quackity sweeps past his side to get to his seat at the head of the table, carelessly brushing his fingers along the back of Dream’s neck in a way that makes him freeze, stock-still, in his chair - feeling his fingertips ease themselves over the ridge present there from a thick band of scar tissue, a deep, jagged thing that had been carved from the blunter back edge of Quackity’s axe when he had lost his temper and let the thing slam against the back of his neck, hard enough that it probably would’ve paralyzed him completely if it weren’t for Sam’s use of almost a full chest of regens. Quackity remains over him for a few more seconds, leaning over his chair to talk to Sam as he runs a light, possessive hand over the topmost bumps of Dream’s spine, before settling over into his chair, watching him with a small smirk as he keeps a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the table.

Dream hates the prickling shame and terror that keeps his muscles tense as he stares at the table’s surface, still feeling the ghost of fingers tracing over skin and bone along the back of his neck, keeps his burning eyes trained on the surface of solid wood as he tries to steady his breaths. It’s all he can do to press down his flinch when Quackity, with a frustrated yell, slams his fist against the table a few minutes later, rage simmering underneath his words as he speaks.

“Where the hell is Wilbur?” His glare slides across the room, landing on Dream, making him shrink back in his seat, heart thudding in his ears. Quackity doesn’t stop staring at him even as he pulls a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket, lighting it and bringing it to his lips and letting the silver-grey threads of smoke fill the room and press against the inside of Dream’s lungs. “It’s ten minutes til 8 - I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

Sam digs his fingers into his temples, already looking exhausted. “If you want, Q, we can always start without him and catch him up later. Depends on you.”

“No, then I’ll have to repeat myself and it’ll be pointless and ugh,” Quackity makes a vaguely frustrated noise as he finally turns his eyes over to Sam, making Dream’s shoulders shudder as he finally finds the air to take a breath, “We’ll just have to wait. Fucking idiot. I knew I shouldn’t have worked with any of these fuckers.”

In true Wilbur fashion, it isn’t until fifteen minutes later when the taller man finally makes an appearance, the entire time tense as hell as Quackity takes slow, steady drags of his cigarette and taps his fingers impatiently against the table’s surface. He offers one to Sam, who goes on to decline, making a short quip telling Quackity to watch his health for the future that promptly falls flat. Dream thinks he’s a fucking hypocrite, considering his whole deal with weednip or whatever Ant has on him, but doesn’t voice the thoughts as he sinks down in his chair, wishing more than anything to disappear. Against the fabric of his shirt, the right side of his chest itches, and he presses his palm against the place where he knows there is a small, irregular grid of pockmarked scars from when Quackity had taken smoke breaks in the middle of sessions.

“There you all are,” Wilbur smiles as he slides into the room, a covered metal tray held in his hands as he kicks the door closed and slides the tray onto the table with an awful screech. “I’m sorry for being late,” he continues, sounding not very sorry at all, “but I made some food to make up for it!”

He takes off the cover with a flourish; underneath, sunny yellow squares, nearly blindly bright, look up blankly under the conference room’s overly harsh lighting. They smell sugary and vaguely sour, stinging his nose slightly, and seem to be coated with a fine dusting of powdered sugar.

“Lemon bars!” Wilbur grins, just left of sincere, “they’re gluten-free!”

“God,” Quackity laughs, sounding slightly incredulous, shaking his head. Dream’s gut rolls at the sound, Wilbur’s smile growing wider, even more dangerous, at the tone. It’s familiar, the way the two of them challenge each other, and in a rare moment of solidarity Dream watches from the corner of his eyes as Sam’s shoulders hunch as well. The two of them always bring trouble, even normally, but when they’re in this mood? Actively challenging each other, toeing the line, trying to find the limits and push them just because they can? Dream shivers in his seat, grip tightening on his own arms; this, he knows, is when they are at their most dangerous - and he has the scars to prove it.

“Gluten-free, huh? Really leaning into the whole ‘PTA mom’ schtick today, aren’t you?” Quackity smirks. “Should I call you Linda from now on?”

“I don’t know, Quackity, I was just thinking that I would make a little healthier treat for all of us, you know?” Wilbur brushes off the remark easily, taking a seat and immediately kicking his feet up onto the table. “If you want it, of course. I would hardly want to get in the way of your professionalism, Mr. President- do you have one of those? Or are you going for a more authoritarian approach”

“Fighting words from someone who rigged an election as President,” Quackity drawls, “and couldn’t even win it, might I add. “

“Oh, Big Q! You fail to understand, I wasn’t criticizing you at all,��� Wilbur smiles, jagged, “we agree, I believe, on the failures of democracy. Unless you’ve forgotten our conversation, already?”

“Of course not,” Quackity snorts, and Dream doesn’t miss how his gaze shifts towards the side of the room, landing on Dream and making him curl further in his seat. “I’ll save you from me trying to pick your brain, this time, but don’t worry. You make yourself…rather hard to forget.”

Wilbur claps, seeming satisfied with this round of verbal sparring, and the sharp sound of his hands meeting together nearly has Dream jumping in his seat. “So! Lemon bars- does anyone want any?”

Dream is keenly aware of two pairs of eyes landing on him, Wilbur and Quackity watching for his reaction with bated breath and narrowed eyes. Panic crawls up his throat; he knows the purpose behind their stares, knows that he’s once again become the object of one of their power struggles. Quackity’s orders rattle in his brain, his thoughts a messy jumble of pins all knocked loose from his time in the prison, hopelessly unorganized and running on little more than instinct. Wilbur is expecting him to eat, to give into his sweet pastries and sweeter words; the lesson not to eat, move, think without permission, hammered into him between chunks of potato and battered ribs and blood gathered in the crevices of his skin, keeps his hands at his sides instead of reaching towards the pastries still set in the middle of the table. Even with Quackity at the opposite side of the room, Dream swears that he can still feel the pressure of a hand against the back of his neck, pressing just hard enough to make itself known from the feeling of fingers pressing into either side of his spine - he doesn’t even quite feel himself shaking his head, only really realizes what he’s done when he hears Wilbur sigh in frustration and meets Quackity’s satisfied gaze.

“I’ll take one,” Sam says, sounding exhausted, eyes flitting from Wilbur to Quackity to Dream with an increasingly long-suffering expression. His face twists around the first bite of the bright yellow pastry, nose scrunching as he puts it down, missing a half-moon bite along one corner, and drags his fingers over the table to ease off the remnants of powdered sugar. Wilbur watches him, seeming amused, and Quackity rolls his eyes as he pulls a binder out of his inventory.

“Now that everyone is finally here,” he starts, directing a particularly dead-eyed stare at Wilbur, “we can finally get on with the meeting. I was thinking we could go over the budget, today, if that’s alright with the rest of you.”

It sounds innocent enough - which is the first sign of many that this meeting, whatever it is, is going to be anything but pleasant. The grin that steadily grows on Quackity’s face does nothing to assuage Dream’s anxieties, only pushing them higher as the man flips open the binder and messes with it for a few seconds longer before seemingly finding what he’s looking for.

“I think we all know that until Sam finishes with the bank, funds around here are going to be a little bit tight,” Quackity begins, waiting for all of them to nod before continuing, “And we really need to save wherever we can. I recounted the budget yesterday, just to make sure that we’re all on track, and- well,”

Quackity points to a circled series of red numbers that Dream doesn’t understand but can assume mean little good for them. Sam makes a low, considering noise, sounding strangely concerned, and Wilbur actually seems to close his mouth and lean forward in curiosity.

“We have a deficit,” Quackity continues when they’ve all settled back into their seats, “and we’ll get it all back once Sam gets the bank up and running, but for now our funds are...limited. I don’t want to stop progress on Las Nevadas, of course, we really don’t have time to waste. So I thought we’d have a meeting today to discuss the budget and eliminate any expenses that we might find-” Quackity gestures with a smooth twirl of his wrist, “expendable.”

Sam hums. “Do you have anything in mind, Quackity?”

“A few,” Quackity flips to the next page, where he’s seemingly jotted a few notes - different things that they can put off for the moment, it seems, and the money that would be saved for forgoing them temporarily. Dream reads down the list quickly, stilling at the last item.

“Quackity,” Sam sounds twenty times more tired already when he speaks, tone flat and a little irritated. “Why is Dream on the list?”

Quackity shrugs. “Hear me out, now- most of our money right now is going into living expenses for the four of us. Having more people here, until everything becomes more sustainable, is a huge drain on our resources. I’m just listing all our options.”

“So what do you want to do?” Sam huffs. “Throw him back in Pandora?”

Quackity shakes his head.

“Wilbur does have the revive book knowledge, you know,” he says, and Dream’s blood runs cold. He can’t run, can’t move; he’s stuck in his seat, heart hammering faster in his chest as the other three hardly spare him a second glance. Sam purses his lips, a considering expression flashing over his face, as Quackity presses on. “Seriously- listen, Sam. There’s nothing that Dream is really offering, at the moment, that the rest of us can’t handle. Wilbur has the revive book, you can act as security to take out any threats - really, we shouldn’t be pissing anyone off until everything officially opens, and we can always retrieve him then when we need him. He’ll be out of the way, which means he won’t be able to start any fucking trouble,” Quackity laughs, short. “It’s a win-win.”

“I don’t know, Quackity,” Sam says, the words slow, but the tone is familiar enough for Dream to know that he’s already mostly given in. “It’s a risk, isn’t it? None of us but Dream have really used the revive book, before.”

Wilbur doesn’t even look at him when he chirps a reply. “That won’t be a problem, Sam. I’d be very happy to test it out, if you want.”

Quackity leans forward, and Dream nearly gags; he’s preening in his spot, eyes dancing as he smiles up at Sam. “Anything else you can think of?”

“I don’t know,” Sam trails off, and Dream looks down, only barely staving off the panic squeezing around his lungs and tears burning in his eyes. It’s nothing he hasn’t envisioned before, nothing he hasn’t expected, but this- he feels like such a fool, for hoping- “If we get ambushed, Q, I really don’t know if gear is going to be enough. You remember what Technoblade did last time.”

Quackity huffs, sounding annoyed, but nods to concede the point. “That is...fair. But then again, we don’t exactly know how good Dream is either, do we?” Quackity finally leans over to look at him, and Dream feels himself choke on his own breath at the dangerous gleam in Quackity’s eyes, all-too-familiar in their scrutiny, looking at him the same way they had pinned him to the floor of his obsidian-walled hell. “Anything to say, Dream?”

“I-” The words shake on Dream’s tongue, and he only barely manages a dry swallow as he struggles through the rest of his sentence, shrinking back from the heavy weight of three pairs of eyes fixed on his own, “I can be useful, s-” he only barely manages to bite down the word, a new wave of shame making him shrink back further past the fear. Quackity’s lip twitches upward.

Wilbur twirls a pencil in one hand, looking spectacularly bored; Dream’s chest shrieks with a harsh spike of envy at his composure. “How about you prove it?” His eyes are laughing when Dream gets a good look at them, amusement clear at the idea. “Put on a show?”

Quackity rolls his eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

“You want to know if Sam can serve as an adequate replacement for Dream’s combat prowess, no?” Wilbur leans back in his chair as he talks, still focused on spinning his pencil over and between his fingers, “Why doesn’t he prove it? Let them duel, one on one. If Sam kills Dream, then you’re right, we’re done, and we can all move on with our days. If Dream wins, then he’s proved his worth, and we can figure out the rest of the budget after. What do you think?”

Quackity’s lips press together, seeming displeased, but he doesn’t say anything in return. Sam, ever practical, drums his fingers against the table.

“That sounds...fair,” Sam purses his lips. “How would we judge this? Equal gear?”

Wilbur only smiles wider as he shakes his head. “I was thinking we would make it a little more accurate to reality, if Dream’s services were truly to be needed. Sam, you can keep your own gear, and Dream should use his own. I guess on your end we can fight until you yield, but for him…”

The words are left unsaid, but Dream flexes his hands underneath the table as he catches onto the implications. For him, it’s a fight to the death.

Sam shrugs. “That works for me. Dream?”

He doesn’t really have a choice, does he? “Okay.”

“Wonderful!” Wilbur claps, bringing his hands to his chest and looking thoroughly thrilled at the prospects of the potential duel. Quackity glares at Dream but doesn’t say a word, and Dream hunches into himself, nearly folding himself in half as he ducks as far as he can down his seat. Sam pulls out his sword, flipping it around and testing its weight, and Dream doesn’t quite manage to suppress his full-body shudder at the sight. “Let’s get started, then.”

They move out in a roughly single-file line out of the conference room, Wilbur making idle chatter as Sam continues to examine his armor and weapons as they walk. They settle into an open space in the still-unfinished casino that Wilbur looks around for a second and then deems appropriate for the duel. Sam sets down an enderchest to gather his necessary materials, and Dream settles in front of it himself afterwards, shifting the lid open with shaking hands as he tries to work through his inventory.

He’s started the process of building up his gear again in his spare time, but he’s not had the time to finish gathering netherite for both himself and Wilbur - Wilbur meets his eyes with a sly wink before equipping the set of netherite armor that Dream had crafted for him, and Dream stifles a desperate snarl. He doesn’t even have the other set (still a gleaming blue from unplated diamond) enchanted, outside of a Sharpness book that he had slapped onto a diamond axe. He gathers the rest of his supplies with careful hands, trying to press down the increasing trembling of his limbs from his growing panic, flexing his arm around the weight of a shield once again and pocketing steaks and golden apples from his hoard.

He has no potions, no good weapons, not even a properly enchanted crossbow to offer the slightest bit of an advantage. Dream lets his eyes flick up to where Sam is waiting at the opposite side of the room, standing up straight with enchanted netherite covering him head to toe and a familiar axe slung over his shoulder, and tries not to break down right then and there. It’s too familiar, too reminiscent of obsidian walls and netherite pressed against his ribs and demands that he behave, and despite the glittering white walls and high ceiling and cold night air he swears he could fall just from the memories alone. Drowning within them, he distantly remembers a duel long-past under a bright blue sky, Sam laughing under a swirl of potion particles on the grass surrounding the Community House lake, and wonders which of the memories hurt more.

“Dream,” Quackity snaps, and Dream stills in his place, slamming the lid of the enderchest shut as his heart hammers in his ears. Quackity watches him intently, expression twisted in disappointment, and some beaten, instinctual part of him whines uncomfortably at the sight. “Hurry up.”

Dream nods, because of course he does, and stands with the results of his mad scramble to gather anything that could be useful in the duel to come - a few gapples, steaks, a sword, a bow lacking any enchantments at all, and an axe and shield. It’s a rather pathetic ensemble, but it’ll be enough. It’ll have to be enough.

“Ready?” Wilbur takes place as referee, standing off to the side with a smile on his face as Dream stands across from Sam, holding his axe with a white-knuckled grip as the Warden - expression unreadable through the shadow of his helmet and the mask fixed over his face - squares his own stance in preparation for the fight. “Good luck.”

Wilbur’s arm cuts a line in the air as it drops, and the Warden explodes into action, lumbering forward as he raises his axe over his head to bring it down. Dream tumbles in the opposite direction, letting a long held back, battle-trained part of himself take over as he rights himself back on his feet, swinging up his shield to catch on the downward arc of Warden’s Hammer, frantically pressing back the dregs of fear and panic staining the corners of his vision black as he moves.

The Warden hits slow but hits hard, too big and bulky to really avoid any quick attacks but too well-armored to be easily defeated despite that. He’s a classic tank - Dream skitters out of the way of another hit as he reaches for memories of him that won’t leave him gasping, information on his opponent that didn’t come from within the prison and all its horrors.

He’d dueled Sam before, he knows; it wasn’t the same, as Sam was trying out a Turtle Master potion and intent on proving the superiority of Resistance IV against Dream’s own combat prowess. He’d failed, then; Dream forcefully steadies another breath as the sound of the Warden’s armor clanking against the ground almost sends him into another panic. He’ll have to fail now, too.

Fortunately, he’s been allowed food to heal - without it, this fight would probably be near impossible. As it is, even without the potion, the principles of this duel are the same. Dream swings up his axe, catching the blade hurling towards him in the crook where the head meets the handle just long enough to pull himself out of the way and let the Warden’s weapon fall uselessly to the ground. Dream raises his head in the second he has, tracing his gaze over the Warden’s armor in search for places to exploit. Even the best defenses aren’t perfect. All he needs to do is survive for long enough to chip through it.

A fumbled dodge leads to the Warden’s blade skimming past his skin, carving a thin red line in the skin of his upper arm. He hisses as he dives out of the way of the next blow, the twinges of pain from the area almost enough to make his vision unfocused, almost enough to send him tumbling head-first into the part of him screaming submit submit submit if you don’t fight back they won’t hurt you more. He grits his teeth as he swings forward, knocking away the axe coming towards him with his axe long enough to push forward with his shield and knock the Warden further away from him. He can’t afford to flinch, can’t afford to let fear take control of his movements as it has so many times before. The keening desperation running through his veins is familiar, but desperation can fall both ways, can make him fight or flee - and there’s only one real option that will end with him getting out of this alive.

Dream stands and forces himself to meet the next swing hurling towards him dead on, raising his shield to catch the blade and pushing forward past the shuddering shock in his left arm from the force of the blow. His own blade arcs downward in the next second, scraping against the Warden’s netherite armor with a metallic screech. He manages to get in two more blows before the Warden’s next attack has him backing away to dodge, shaking off his arm to get his shield ready for the next attack.

He has to stay on the offensive, keep pressing the Warden back and forcing the other to play defense. He’s still weak from the prison; in terms of brute strength, he’s no match from the Warden, not after months of starvation and torture stuck in a box with hardly enough room to stretch his legs. All he really has going for him is his speed and his experience, neither of which will do him any good if he teeters over the edge into the panic attack he’s been trying to hold off the entire time. Dream runs forward, not giving himself more than a second to breathe as he rushes the Warden once again, switching weapons mid-leap to a sword that will allow for quicker blows in the time that he has the Warden off-balance enough to attack freely. He scores a series of glancing hits on the Warden, none doing any major damage but altogether enough to make the Warden back off, wary, with a gasping note of pain, and Dream shakes his head to force himself to focus before running forward once more.

The Warden pulls out a shield of his own, and Dream switches back to the axe and swings it squarely into the shield, then twists himself around to the Warden’s unprotected back to catch him with another heavy blow that leaves him reeling in the second he takes to recover. He’s clearly untrained with a shield, his left arm clumsy as he tries to block Dream’s blows, and Dream uses the opportunity to score another few solid hits to the Warden’s sides and legs, getting a good blow with the blunt side of his axe into the back of one of his knees, leaving the warden limping when he pulls away.

Dream has hardly come off unscathed in the fight - he wheezes out a heavy breath through his teeth, chest aching from a hit that had broken one of his ribs. The exertion and anxiety still pressing at the back of his throat has left him light-headed, and he bites through a crisp, almost sickeningly-sweet bite of golden apple to close a wound bleeding sluggishly on his side. Neither of them can go on for much longer; the Warden’s grip tightens on his axe, and Dream swallows past the shudder that arises from the sight.

Once again, he raises his axe and runs into the fight, parrying the coming strike and twisting out of the way to strike at a joint of the Warden’s armor with the flat of his blade. The Warden’s arm raises, and Dream bites off a yelp of alarm as the handle of his axe is levied against his unarmored side, knocking him off-balance and falling back onto the ground, too disoriented to catch himself. He lands on his left arm, and his vision goes white as it gives out with a sharp crack.

Through half-lidded eyes, he can make out the Warden stalking closer, axe raised and ready to end the fight - end him. His chest shakes in a pathetic wheeze for breath, arm completely useless from where it’s screaming in pain underneath him. He needs to move, now, if he wants to survive this - fear swells forward, unhindered as his focus is broken by the vice grip the pain has on his skull - he’s shaking, now, the terror so familiar he can taste it - salt and iron and sticky-sweet health potions against the backs of his teeth-

The Warden raises his axe.

No.

Dream raises his sword just in time to catch the blade hurtling towards his neck, uses his foot to kick against the Warden’s grip on the handle. The axe clatters out of his grip, falls forward - Dream rolls away, breathing harshly around the pain threatening to make him black out. Unarmed, the Warden takes a second to grab a sword from his inventory while Dream forces himself back to his feet and kicks the axe as far away as he can.

He’s so flooded with panic he’s choking on it, broken arm hanging limply by his side as he charges forward, sword in hand. He won’t die, not after all this time, not after all this effort - he throws himself at the Warden, batters him with jabs and thrusts that force the other man to back away and parry, snarling wordlessly as he brings his sword to slash forward again and again.

His attacks are messy, uncoordinated, but the Warden is tired and disoriented from the loss of his weapon - he flinches back as Dream hits him in the jaw with the hilt of his sword, only barely matching his blows as he continues to push forward. Any hits that he scores on Dream are brushed off with a growl of pain and his sword moving even faster in his fury, and it’s not very long at all before he’s knocked flat on his back with a sweep of Dream’s legs, gasping for air as Dream pins him to the ground with a blade pressed against his neck.

Dream meets his wide eyes with his own, lips curled back in the same desperate rage that had moved him forwards despite the black creeping into the corners of his eyes and the lancing pain tying its strings around his neck and leaving him gasping for air. The sword in his hand bears threads of blood along its edge, pressing deeper into the Warden’s neck and drawing crimson up to the surface - a thousand fearful, angry thoughts swell up to the front of his skull in a singular, white-hot point. It is the Warden underneath his feet, at the end of his blade, cowering beneath him as he had cowered before - the Warden, the cause of his pain, the reason behind the ache in his gut and the stinging pains in his limbs and the piercing agony from his arm and chest. It would be so easy to push just a little harder, to press the sweet blue blade down and down and down until the Warden is gone and the Warden is dead and the Warden can’t hurt him anymore-

“Down, Dream,” Quackity snaps, and Dream backs off immediately, losing his grip on his sword as the command has him dragged back by the neck like an invisible leash and collar pulling him away. Sam settles back in a sitting position, still wide-eyed, wincing as he moves and bringing a golden apple from his inventory to heal the worst of his injuries.

“Eat,” Quackity commands again, and Dream only barely manages a stiff nod through the nausea and dread curling around his chest as the adrenaline begins to fade away, fumbling with the golden apple he finds in his inventory and nibbling at it to tide off the worst of the pain.

“Bravo, bravo,” Wilbur grins from the side, clapping slowly as he walks back into the middle of their makeshift arena - he’s taken his armor off again, but it doesn’t make the sight of him any less intimidating. “What a show! We should do that more often, what do you think?”

No, Dream almost screams, I can’t- but Quackity beats him to it, glaring at Wilbur with an incredulous expression.

“We don’t have the time to waste on your fucking ‘shows,’” he snaps, crossing his arms as he swings his gaze over to Dream. “Fine. You’ve proved yourself. Now hurry up - we have to clean up all of this shit and then figure out the rest of this fucking budget.”

Dream pulls himself to his feet, watching from the side as the Warden does the same.

“Make yourself useful and clean off all your fucking blood from the floor,” Quackity meets his eyes with a vicious glare, waiting until he stammers his way through an agreement before turning to the other two in the room. “Sam, Wilbur - with me. I want to get this money issue figured out tonight.”

Dream watches them go as he shuffles to the cleaning closet, feeling a shudder crawl up his spine once they’re out of sight. Make yourself useful, Quackity’s voice rings in his head, and Dream bites his lip, only stopping when he accidentally breaks through skin and the taste of blood floods his tongue.

He has a feeling that those words are going to haunt him for a long, long time.

[herooffire101]

This one is the longest fic so far for Tuggerlurina Week, and the one I'm most worried about being taken in a negative way. These thoughts always plague me every time I post a fic, especially in a community I am new to.

As to why I give a time period for them, let's just say that I have a specific reason why. The next one will show exactly why, and it is one of my favorites. I had tomorrow's prompt idea in my head when I saw the prompt, and as with the demestrap fic I posted several months ago, it wouldn't leave me alone.

Love Confessions are hard, aren’t they?

Early March, 2002…

‘Okay, I can do this.’ Bomba thought, her nerves really making her wound up. ‘I have to tell him.’ She stood in front of Tugger’s bedroom door, trying to prepare herself to admit to him that she’s in love with him. The memories of how she found out popped up in her mind, much to her embarrassment.

“You can’t commit to this because you’re emotionally in love with Tugger.” Alonzo said.

“Some people can fall in love with anyone. Some people can fall in love with the opposite gender, others the same, others both. Some people can only fall in love with someone they’re emotionally close to. Some people can love indiscriminately, while others can only love emotionally. Everyone is different, Cariad. I’m personally attracted to both genders, but I only feel sexual feelings towards people I’m close to emotionally. Jessica can love everyone regardless of gender or sexuality. Cariad, while me and your mother worry about you, I think that you’re more like me than you realize.” Her dad Asparagus Jr said.

‘Hey Tugger, turns out I’m not as bisexual as I thought. I can only have sex with someone who I’m close to emotionally. Surprise, I’m in love with you and the only guy I can have sex with and being fulfilled sexually.’ She sarcastically scripted out her reveal in her head, and promptly scrapped it. ‘Oh, who am I kidding? I struggle with understanding my own emotions and putting the words together is a disaster waiting to happen.’ Unconsciously, she knocked on his door, so seeing his handsome face greet her threw her planned script she was writing in her head out of the window.

“Hey Bomba!” He greeted her, enthusiastically, “Didn’t know you were coming over. Want to help me with my geometry homework.”

“Still struggling with proofs?” She quipped right back. ‘Shit! How am I going to say what I need to say?!?’ She screamed in her mind.

“Exactly!” Tugger agreed, not indicating that he read her face, “I don’t know why we need this for running Heaviside. It all seems pointless.”

“Same. I am getting them, but even I’m struggling to understand the purpose of making these proofs to prove the angle is this that and the other thing.” Bomba said, walking into his eternally messy room because he can’t even keep clean because his brain went all over the place. Even as 14 years olds, he still needed Bomba’s help to clean his room at least once a year. Both of them ended up sitting on his bed, Bomba trying her best to teach him how to do proofs that even she hated doing. “Tugger, at this point, I suggest figuring out the formula of writing proofs and just guessing at it.” She finally said, throwing her hands up in defeat.

His face, tired and defeated at the attempts and struggles of geometry showing, and he pushed his face into his blankets. “We’re not going to get A’s in geometry, are we?”

“Nope.” Popping the P. “I’m better at actual numbers, not theoretical. Numbers make sense, not letters.”

“Unless it’s to find what X is.”

“Exactly, though finding Y as well as X is also annoying.”

“They’re mad at us, so they are punishing us with geometry.” Tugger sighed, “Why couldn’t they put us in Algebra 2 Trig and spare us the torture?”

“Because they put us a year ahead and put both of us in 10th grade instead of 9th.” Bomba pointed out, “And we were in Algebra 1 last year, along with English 9, Earth Science, US History 1, AND Freshman Business.”

Tugger groaned, “And you hate English.”

“I just want to be done with school. At least the school is giving us our accommodations and extra classes to let us have an easy senior year.”

“It’s still an utter pain.”

“Too right.” And with that, a silence between them, almost awkward. It made Bomba twitch, knowing that she came here tonight to talk to him. “Tugger…”

“Huh?” He uttered, sitting up to face her. His focus on her made her squirm, her emotions for him ran rampant in her. “What’s wrong? Bomba, are you okay?”

‘God his face is so handsome!’ “Yes! I’m fine!” She said, her voice going high-pitched and face going red. ‘How am I going to tell him?!?’

Tugger cocked his head, watching her intensely, his face unreadable. “You suck at lying.”

“I know that!” She shrieked, turning her face away. She started rocking, back and forth on his bed, anxiety starting to show on her face. She started to interlace and uninterlace her knuckles, stimming as her nerves started to act up.

Tugger, knowing her signs, moved so that he was next to her, gently moving her into his lap and chest, rubbing circles on her back, moving with her rocking, all doing so to calm her from a possible meltdown. “Hey. I got you.” He murmured into her ear, knowing how to calm her when she got like this. They sat like this for several minutes while Bomba’s anxiety settled to a lower level. “Bomba, can you tell me what I did to cause you to freak out?” He asked her quietly into her ear.

The embarrassing memories ran through her head, causing her to blush. In a tiny voice so unlike her, “I-I…” she stuttered, “figured something out.”

That made Tugger curious, and you can never hide something from Tugger when he got curious. “Hm? You did? Are you willing to tell me?” He said, smirking in curiosity.

“Remember that we agreed to be friends with benefits?” Bomba started out, trying to dampen her blush and the urge to kiss the living daylights out of him.

“Mhmm.” He agreed, urging her to continue.

“Welllll.” ‘Here it goes.’ “ItriedsleepingwithotherpeopleandIfoundoutthatIcantsleepwithotherguys!” It all spilled out in a jumbled mess because her embarrassment took over.

Tugger gave her a look. “Mind saying that slower? You know that I need smaller words sometime.”

Bomba took a deep breath and repeated slowly. “I tried sleeping with other people and I found out that I can’t sleep with other guys.”

“Y-what?” Confusion shown on his face. A common expression of his, anyway.

“Okay, so I had sex with other girls, that’s fine, though nothing satisfying. I tried guys, but I could never make it past kissing most of them. I managed to give a few blow jobs, but I couldn't make it past that limit. I almost managed to actually have sex with Alonzo when he told me something that knocked me off kilter.” Bomba explained, Tugger listening intensely. “I came home, and dad noticed my expression, and somehow, he got it out of me. It was very embarrassing.”

“Somehow, I can really relate to having dad catching me in the middle of sex, even though it hasn’t actually happened yet.”

“Maybe because Munk is like the dad friend of our group.”

“You know, you’re right. Now, continue with Junior figuring out that you were having weirded out sexual experiences.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Shut up. So, how dad got it out of me is him telling me how he fell in love with mom, with extra details I didn’t want to know at the time.”

“Now I want to know about this.”

“Travis Johnathan Jellicle, shut up or I’ll make you shut up!”

“Make me, Beatrice Rosemarie Ford.”

She grabbed him where the sun doesn’t shine, making him red and she felt him twitch. “Save it, or you won’t get some. Got it?”

“Got it.” He squeaked.

She huffed. “Anyway, how he explained it was that some people can love both genders, but not be sexually attracted to them. He also explained that while they can love both males and females, sometimes they don’t experience arousal to them unless they have an emotional connection with them.” Emphasizing the last part.

She watched at he first made a confused expression, then slowly morphed into an expression that she only recognized because of their ‘with benefits’ agreement. “So, you’re saying that you can only have sex with me?”

Bomba rolled her eyes at her best friend in the entire world, this idiot. “Yes, you incorrigible beast. You’re the only one I want to have sex with.” Then came the hardest part in her mind. She would look back on this, and wonder, why was it so hard to say it? Oh, that’s right, wording emotions is hard for me. “Tugger, I’m Demisexual. Biromantic Demisexual. It’s why I find both boys and girls hot.”

“Oh.” Looking smug

Her temper flared up. “Tugger, don’t you dare continue that thought!” Squeezing him where the sun doesn’t shine, making him twitch more under her. “It’s a lot more complicated than just that, you utter moron. I’m using simple words because you need smaller words sometimes.” Biting back his words from earlier. He squeaked again, nodding. Recentering herself, she knew that she had to get it out. “Tugger, what I’m trying to say is that…I love you.” His eyes got wide, surprised. “When I tried to sleep with Alonzo, he told me that we couldn’t go forward with sex because I’m emotionally in love with you. I tried, you idiot, but after what Alonzo said and Dad explaining it to me, I managed to figure out that somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you, my best friend. Now, if you don’t feel that way, I’ll-”

Tugger cut her off with a kiss, surprising her. Quickly, she reciprocated, leaning into him. Once they broke for air, she looked at him, startled that he kissed her. It wasn’t like their other kisses. “You know that I suck at feelings.” He started out, making Bomba scoff.

“You are the most obtrusive and inconsequent person I know.”

“Exactly.” He bopped her on the nose. “I’m the Rum Tum Tugger, I only like what I find for myself.” Bomba rolled her eyes. “And you know me, always on the wrong side of every door. Dad talked to me, explained it in a way I would understand. I may be the most flirtatious of the Tribe, but no matter what, I have a solid base, a rock. Someone who knows every bit of me, grounds me. Who cares for me in ways I didn’t understand.” Bomba wanted to interject, but he shushed her with a finger on her mouth. “I tried sleeping with other girls and guys as well, but no matter who they were, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” At that, her eyes widen at the declaration. “I didn’t understand why, until Dad talked to me about how so much similar to him and how similar you are to mom.”

“Don’t compare me with her.” She growled, the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“I know that Bomba, but some parts, you are like Grizabella. No, you’re definitely not the same to her, but you do carry her essence. You are more, I don’t know, solid than she ever is.” He explained, trying to also put his words together so that Bomba could understand as well. “Yes, you’re wilder and a spitfire, but you listen to me. You’re the only person who understands truly me. Our agreement, Beatrice, managed to help me realize that.”

“Spit it out, you terrible bore.”

“We’re having Alonzo and Munk say that in my song for the exhibition.” He pointed out jokingly, but continued, “I’m your terrible bore. I’m your curious beast. Bomba, I feel the same about you. I fell in love with my bestest friend in the entire world.” With that, he gave her his most loving smile.

It did her in. Later, Demeter would be making fun of her for essentially blowing this entire thing out of proportion, but that was for later. “Tugger, just shut up and kiss me.” He obliged, and several hours later Munk would walk into them with certainly less clothes on than when Bomba came over earlier.

~~~~

I would like to point out that this is so far (as I’m writing all these before-hand because I don’t know what my schedule would be like during the actual week) one of the most difficult writings I’ve written as fanfic goes. I am not an expert, nor will I be one. I’m sorry if this is extremely cringy but I’m doing my best with it. I am willing to listen to constructive criticism but those that are intentionally harmful will be blocked. So, please be kind as I write these. Also, I thank you, the reader, for making this far in the little snippets of my Cats Human AU. I can willingly explain about it in more detail. I literally have a note on my phone AND what is currently a 21-page document on my kindle, on the two main different versions of my human au. I can even explain the original one that spiraled into this one.

I want to talk about it, if you haven't guessed. Now, I'm going to go bake cookies today. I like baking. It's fun.

[readingwritingcrying]

I am finally here with Good Omens prompts!! Okay, so let me know if you don't like this and I can try again, but I D E S I R E more crowley sickfic content :) maybe he has a fever and doesn't even realize because mortal stuff is so foreign to him that he can't figure out why his head hurts and he's dizzy until Aziraphale points it out? :)

HELL YEAH I CAN!! I need more Crowley sickfic in this fandom so hear is this fic! I had an idea in mind for this prompt and somehow, my keyboard decided to take a different one and run with it but I hope you like it!

When Crowley showed up late, it was fashionable, if a bit unusual for a lunch date with his – with the angel. A lunch appointment. A casual meet-up, maybe.

They had made reservations at the Ritz for 8:00 sharp, and according to Crowley’s mobile, it was 8:20 when he came sauntering in to sit across from Aziraphale.

The angel had ordered an appetizer and was picking at it nervously before his eyes settled on Crowley, and in an instant, the tension left him. “Oh, there you are, dear, I was about to get worried!”Crowley rolls his eyes, which was utterly pointless with his dark shades covering the demonic things, but Crowley knew the message got across just the same. Aziraphale seems to understand him some way or another these days.“Mn, yeah, no reason to be worried,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Lost track of a bit of a nap, that’s all.” Which was not necessarily true, but also was not a lie.Crowley, of course, being a demon could lie. In fact, he might say he could do it rather well considering that he had kept hell off his tail for, oh, ‘round six thousand years until the Armageddon’t became a thing. But while he could lie well enough to the uninterested party-and he’ll certainly did not care about him on any deeply personal level-he couldn’t bring himself to lie to the angel.So yes, he had indeed overslept a bit in what could be considered a nap. The only bit that was anything of note was that he didn’t actually mean to take a nap in the first place. He had been stalking through his flat, inspecting his plants when he had felt a bone-deep tired start to set in.He sat only for a second on a bench more concrete than comfort, and suddenly he had slept a little over a day. Crowley just wanted to sleep at least a thousand more, he felt so exhausted.

But leaving that out wasn’t really lying after all.

Aziraphale sighed. “I never did understand the appeal but, well,” he gestured to the food in front of him, “I suppose to each their own, my dear. I’m just glad you decided to wake up this century!”

Crowley could tell the angel was trying to settle any weird feelings with the jest, but somehow his mind was just a little… drifty. But he was pretty certain a smirk would do the trick, as it usually did when he wasn’t sure how to respond anyway.

Thank someone for sunglasses.

It did indeed do the trick, and Aziraphale smiled, easily settling down easily into the pattern they had managed for so long. He began with some small talk about his shop and the customers he had scared off, and even explained the newest novel he had found himself immersed in.

On the other hand, Crowley felt completely lost in what he was supposed to be doing. It was all he could take to try and make the right noises, or look like he was paying attention to the angel (which was a skill he had mastered, letting him talk about books for ages that Crowley couldn’t care less about if it weren’t important to Aziraphale).

He didn’t even notice the waiter ready to take their order until Aziraphale cleared his throat pointedly, murmuring a soft, “Crowley, dear?”

“Oh, just some wine, really. Whatever you’d recommend,” Crowley grumbles, waving off the waiter. He was hoping that since he usually didn’t eat much anyways, it didn’t seem off, but the truth was the thought of even trying anything made his stomach turn. It was confusing to say the least.

Something was wrong, Crowley thought, and the worried looks Aziraphale was constantly giving him when the angel thought he wasn’t looking only confirmed as much. The dinner seemed to pass by in somewhat of a fog. He felt absolutely miserable, but not in any way he was used to. He wasn’t upset but he still felt like absolute shit. It was all he could do to keep himself awake and mostly alert, giving the occasional one word answer whenever Aziraphale trailed off in a way he was clearly meant to respond to.

It was when a dull ache set in behind his eyes that things truly got out of hand. Even his own voice started to feel like it was drilling into his head, and the shining lights of the restaurant made him wish to by somewhere, anywhere else. Like his bed, or Aziraphale’s couch.

It was a relief when Aziraphale was finished. He was delighted with the meal as always, but there was something of a worried tone in his voice as he praised the food. Even then, he didn’t say anything about it. For all of Crowley’s going too fast, Aziraphale knew by now that something a little too caring or personal before the demon was ready, and he would be scared off.

Sometimes he was annoyed at the angel’s caution around him, like he were a not-quite-tamed animal. Other times, Crowley was grateful for it. Right now, Crowley couldn’t decide, because his brain felt like it was being baked and pounded into mush at the same time.

“Shall we go then?” Aziraphale asks, straightening out his jacket.

“I was gonna pay the bill, angel,” Crowley grumbles. Even if he was being rather awful company - not that he was the best anyways, Aziraphale really deserved better for h- well, for somewhere’s sake – he could at least give him that much.

Aziraphale shook his head, eyes crinkling in the way they did when he found something particularly peculiar, or even perhaps silly. “Oh, really Crowley,” he huffed. It was much more endearing than exasperated. “I believe I’ll manage this one time. But maybe you could, well, give me a lift?”

If it wouldn’t hurt his head so much, Crowley would have laughed. Instead, he smiled, just a little bit. Because the angel was still so shy, and never mind how he felt, he wasn’t about to say no when Aziraphale so rarely outright asked him something like that. “’Course I will,” Crowley said, willing away the strange urge to shiver.

He was rewarded with the sight of Aziraphale smiling brightly at him as he stood up. Crowley stood to join him.

And oh, fuck.

The restaurant was suddenly spinning. Crowley shook, feeling chilled and far, far weaker than he should. His vision was being encroached by darkness, and he stumbled weakly back, catching himself on the table with a clamber.

Nosey eyes were quickly miracled away and Aziraphale was by his side. “Crowley? Crowley, what is it, are you hurt?”

“Angel, I don’t know what’s happening, I feel awful, I’m scared,” Crowley says. Except he didn’t, and instead, all that came out was “Nnghh.”

Another wave of vertigo overcame him and when he blinked away his spotty vision, they were in the bookshop, Aziraphale immediately beginning to pace with nervousness that practically rolled off him.

Crowley sits himself down on the couch – if one could call nearly falling onto it without any sense of gracefulness sitting – and puts his hand to his head. It was hot. His body, however, felt freezing, and he curled up back into the fabric, trying to conserve his warmth as he shivers.

Aziraphale approaches him, still fidgeting anxiously. “Please tell me what’s wrong, dear. You’re frightening me,” he asks softly.

“Angel, I-“ Crowley doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what’s happening, and what if he’s going to discorporate? Or worse? It would be more than inconvenient, what with hell wanting his blood and all, there was no way he’d make a quick return topside. That is, if he ever managed it. He didn’t want to leave his angel. Not when they finally had a real chance.

Before he realized he was even doing it, Aziraphale had taken off his glasses, setting them down gently, and had begun to wipe away his tears. Crowley’s eyes were blown completely yellow, without a white bit to be seen; a sure sign of his distress. Crowley leaned into his hand, a somewhat strangled whimper escaping his throat. Aziraphale shushed him softly, and Crowley managed to find his voice.

“I don’t know why, Aziraphale.” The tearful tremble was still thick in his speech, although later he would never admit to being so emotional.

The angel looks troubled by this. “Can you tell me what you’re feeling then?” Crowley nods slowly.

“I’m… tired. Everything hurts, angel, can’t think straight… my head hurts. And it’s bloody freezing in here,” he complained, his body shuddering to prove his point.

Aziraphale’s face pinched further. “It’s warm here, my dear… you’re, well, rather feverish, it seems.” Crowley stares at him blankly. It was most certainly not warm although his forehead was delightfully cooled by the angel’s hands still resting on his face. When it was clear that he wasn’t getting the point, Aziraphale spoke again. “Crowley, I believe you might be sick,” he states carefully.  

He blinks. “Demons don’t get sick, angel,” Crowley says.

Maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale was onto something. He certainly felt ill, after all. But it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, getting sick was something… human. And Crowley could tell, even now, weak and pitiful as he felt, he was still very much a demon.

“Perhaps, but we’ve spent all this time around them, well… it could be possible, couldn’t it?” Aziraphale ponders. “Unless you have a better idea?” His eyebrow is raised in a way that looks innocent, but holds a challenge to it, almost daring Crowley to disagree.

He just shrugs. “Guess so.” He hadn’t been around anything holy enough to worry and if this was what being sick was like then… well, that was that. Crowley couldn’t bring himself to do any more than just accept it.

Pushing himself up with his arms off of the couch, he takes a clumsy step forward, feeling horribly dizzy again. He stumbles, but instead of falling, he’s steadied by a soft pair of hands. “Dear, what are you doing?” Aziraphale asks. “You’re in no state to be walking around like that.”

“Gotta get home, ‘Zzzira,” Crowley explains. He’s leaning on Aziraphale quite heavily, letting his eyes close to stop the room from spinning. His stomach had started to spin with it. “Just need a bit of ressst,” he hisses, forgetting to stop the odd way he speaks, although he hardly notices it.

“Oh, Crowley,” murmurs Aziraphale, his voice unbearably tender. “I can just make you a bed here. I would be far too worried to let you go off alone when you can hardly walk.”

Crowley tries to argue his case, but all that comes out is stammers, and so when the angel sweeps him off his feet (literally, figuratively he had managed that 6,000 or so years before) he doesn’t struggle. Instead, he moans at the disorienting feeling, pressing his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder. He holds Crowley tighter.

Crowley was too light, too easy for the angel to carry.

Aziraphale sets him down on the bed – sheets, predictably in a familiar tartan pattern. Immediately, Crowley pulls the blankets around him, grateful to the warmth they provide. His shivering subsides from full body shudders to just a slight bit of shakiness. Aziraphale leaves but is back just as quickly with a cool glass of water and a few white pills.

“Take these,” he instructs, guiding Crowley into a sitting position. When did it get so hard to do that? His confusion must have shown on his face. “Your fever is rising quite a bit dear, you might not be feeling better any time soon, but this should help,” explains Aziraphale.

Crowley considers this and takes the pills with the water before laying back. His eyes feel heavy.

Someone is tucking him in, and it must be Aziraphale, and his hair is being stroked. Crowley mummers softly, “Please stay,” as he begins to drift off.

He thinks he hears a response of “Of course, my love,” from his angel, but maybe that’s just the fever talking

[pietroxreader]

Meant To Be (3)

Pairing: Pietro Maximoff x Reader

Summary: The reader finds herself stuck between leaving a life she knows, for a life with the capacity to be everything she once lost.

Part 3 of my story Meant to Be. Part 1/Part 2

Pietro hated all this pointless arguing. Clint was the only person who agreed with him on how they should handle this. Every second you were gone they had a worse chance of finding you. 

Pietro was in hell listening to the rest of the team go on about a plan of action when what they should have been doing was going after you.

When he saw that gun to your head he almost lost it. He could of easily disarmed Mark, in fact he’d had a few close calls like that before, but as he looked at the fear in your eyes, it paralyzed him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breath. 

“...If he wanted her dead he would of killed her when he first saw her.” Tony intervened.

“I told you, that was impossible. Y/n killed him herself..I don't think--” Clint could hardly keep a straight head. “He wouldn’t hurt her.”

“...Maybe he would.” Pietro said. “It seems to me he already did.”

Your head was pounding. With hands tied behind your back you tried to figure out where you were. You barely remember anything after he hit you over the head...he. Mark?

You couldn’t let yourself think about that right now. He could--anyone could be on their way to kill you right now and you needed to have a plan for if they did.

The room you were in was small, no lights, but as your eyes began to adjust you began to make out a few pieces of furniture around.

There was a twin size bed in the corner to your right. A bedside table to your right, and not much else than that. The little light you did have was coming from underneath the door. Your head had been pounding so hard you had forgotten to listen for anything until now. 

You quietly walked towards the door and rest your ear against it. You could hear faint conversation a little ways off. It had to of been between two guard, or lower level staff. You could barely make out what they were saying but it didn’t sound important.

While they were busy out there, you needed to be busy in here. When he took you, Mark tied your hands with rope, very stupid on his part. But the metal frame of the bed could be useful for wearing the rope down enough to break it.

You faced away from the bed and felt the edges of the frame for any sharp spots. Your finger pricked metal on the corner of the frame so you put your wrists to the edge and started wearing away at your constraints.

You tried to be as quiet as possible but every movement sounded like an earthquake to you.

Outside, the guards tone of conversation changed. They were a little louder, a little more stern. Someone in charge must have arrived, which meant you had to do this quick.

Noise couldn’t be an issue for you anymore so you dragged your wrists down hard against the frame, feeling the rope give a little. 

They were close enough now for you to hear footsteps. 

You bit your tongue as you caught the skin of your wrist on the rough metal, blood trickled down your arm but you kept at it.

“Open the door.” You could hear him just outside, it was his voice at least.

As light began to seep into the room, you tore at the ties on your wrists and felt them give way. 

You took a running start at the first person to come through. It was the guard. He barely saw you coming at him before you threw a fast elbow to his face and disarmed him of the gun he’d just drawn. You fired quickly at the other guard who barely reached for his gun before falling.

And now you stood with the gun trained straight at Mark’s head.

He didn’t look afraid or even worried. He looked like he was observing you like a rat in a cage, just staring at you.

“Get out of my way.” Your words were stern as you spoke.

“It’s good to see you again, Y/n--”

“No! Don’t--say my name. I don’t know what you are. Get the fuck out of my way.”

Mark lifted his hands in a sort of surrender and stepped aside.

“Back up.” You said, pushing the gun at him until he stepped back out of the room.

“I don’t want to hurt you Y/n.” 

As he said your name you flinched and glared harder. Realizing he’d said it again, he lowered his head a little and started again.

“I know you’re confused. But if you’ll just listen, I’ll explain everything.”

It seemed way to easy to figure out you location than they thought it would. After Mark had walked out the door with you, he put you in the back of a van. A van Tony was able to follow by traffic cam’s. 

But when Tony saw where that van ended up, it became a lot more clear why it was so simple to follow him.

“A state of the art government facility. No entry in or out unless you have a clearance level higher than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“What the fuck does Mark have to do with this?” Clint asked.

“I had the exact same question. So I looked into the incident with Mark and Y/n a few years ago right. And the people that so-called kidnapped them were a front group for the people who work inside this building.” Tony pulled up a picture of the place where Mark was holding you as he continued.

“At first I thought that this group of elites targeted both Mark and Y/n, hoping to turn them into some fine tuned assassins to do their dirty work, but then I was able to trace a few phone calls made from a hotel at which Mark and Y/n were staying at the time.”

Pietro was on edge already, and he was almost 100% sure that he didn't give a shit about anything other than getting you out of there.

“They had already reached out to Mark, who I’m guessing agreed to join them. He kept all of this from Y/n. Sent them in on a mission he knew would fail, staged his own torture, all so when there was no other option, the elites would come in and save the day, followed by Y/n agreeing to work with them.”

All around the room the story began to fall into place for everyone.

“But we know that didn’t happen.” Clint stated. “The Elites must have changed their mind about Y/n, which is why she ended up shot, they probably didn’t count on her escaping and almost killing Mark.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Steve said. “She’s been under the impression that one day she would avenge Mark’s death, while Mark has been hunting her down, trying to clear things up.”

“...She’s been betrayed, shot, and forced to live a life on the run because of Mark. So what happens when she refuses to join them? Anyone?” Pietro said, raising his voice. “We know what happens, and we don't have very much time to stop it.”

You needed away out, but with no clue where you were, you were forced to have Mark lead you out. And he had agreed to, sort of. He said he would let you leave if you would just listen to him. You let Mark keep talking for as long as it took for you to think of an escape plan. What he was saying was impossible and to be honest you weren't even sure if this was the Mark you knew. And ignoring him had worked, until now.

“I used to kiss you, everyday, before every mission.” He stopped in his tracks, still ahead of you but now facing you.

You kept the gun on him but for the first time since he began talking you stopped and looked at him.

“I would kiss you, tell you that you were right, because you always were. And then we would do what we had to do.”

You didn’t say anything for a long time, which prompted him to try something else, the truth.

“I messed up Y/n. I agreed to something I shouldn’t have, put you in danger. And all for selfish reasons, yes. But we’re both here! We both lived and--”

“Lived?” You said, addressing him for the first time. “I didn’t live Mark. I ran, I hid, I survived, but fuck you for thinking the life I had after you was living.”

He couldn’t hide the pain in his eyes any longer.

“I thought I killed you.” You said, lowering the gun now. “My whole life I thought that you were dead, because of me.”

“It’s all on me Y/n. All of it.” Your voices echoed through the empty hall way. The lights were mostly off except a few here and there. And it wasn’t until now that you realized there was no one around. The only reason for that had to be that these people had far more control over this situation than you ever had this entire time. 

“What do you want from me, Mark?” You tossed the gun at his feet. “Do you want to go back because we can’t go back. I don’t know you anymore.”

“But Y/n. You can. I’m here and we can--”

“There is no ‘we’ anymore. The Mark I loved died on that day all those years, even if you didn’t. So if the people watching us right now are waiting for you to ask the question then just fucking ask already.”

He looked defeated, scared. 

“Stay here with us Y/n. Stay with me. Forgive me.” He said quietly.

In the distance you heard an alarm sound. You watched Mark as he picked up the gun and grabbed your arm. 

“We need to get somewhere safe. Now.”

You didn’t want to but you couldn't bring yourself to fight him so you didn’t. He lead you towards the end of the hallway where there was a door to the outside. He pushed it open, but only to see that the building was under attack.

When you looked towards the entrance you saw Pietro and Steve fighting their way into the building and your heart shattered.

Regardless of everything with Mark, the one thing you couldn’t bare was to drag in more innocent people that you’d grown to care about. With everything left in you, you screamed at the top of your lungs.

The moment he heard you Pietro whipped his head in your direction and ran as fast as he could towards you. 

Mark was all but yanking you towards a chopper just a few feet off but you knew the team wouldn't stop until they got you back.

Pietro got closer with every second, Mark looked back and saw him running for you.

You watched him raise his gun straight at Pietro, but as he fired you stepped in front of it.

Pietro felt like he was in a dream, he couldn’t make himself run any faster.  Mark watched in horror as the bullet ripped through your chest, seconds after he had fired though, an arrow flew past you and lodged itself deep in his brain.

Pietro had made it to you right as you collapsed. He caught you in his arm as you fell back. 

“Y/n come on--come on. Please no come on! Please!” Pietro screamed through tears.

Behind him, Clint came sprinting up and collapsed at your side. He held his hands over your bloody chest, he swore he’d never been this scared in his life.

“Ah, fuck Y/n. Come--We have to get her out of here now--Pietro now lets go.”

Clint pushed Pietro back out of the way and lifted your body in his arms. He laid you down in the helicopter and brought it up in the air. Pietro held tight onto you as Clint flew them back to the tower as quickly as he could.

As he hovered above the landing pad, the medical team rushed out with a gurney. The moment he hit ground they had you on the way to the med bay.

Outside Pietro was hunched over with his bloody hands on his knees, a delayed sob racking his entire body.

Clint passed beside him running his hands through his hair, eyes filling with tears, before he jogged inside towards the med bay.

Pietro was close behind him when they were met outside by a doctor.

“is she--”

“They’ve started surgery but she is in critical condition, as soon as we know anything you’ll be the first to know.”

“Fuck.” Pietro held his head in his hands as she slouched down onto the ground.

“I have to--the team is--I have to go.” Clint was far away, the only things he understood right now was that his team was in trouble and that if he stopped moving for even a second he might never be able to start again.

Just as he had started towards the Helicopter, Tony, Steve and Natasha rushed out of the elevator.

Natasha saw Clint and rushed towards him after seeing the blood.

“Are you hurt?” She asked, checking him over. “Where’s Y/n?”

“--she uh. Mark, he shot her before I could...what happened out there?” He abruptly asked, walking over towards Tony.

Tony could see the glaze in his eyes as he approached. “We left. As soon as they knew Mark and Y/n were gone they retreated. They have bigger interests I guess.”

“So she’s safe. Its--everything is okay?” He mumbled.

“Clint...I think you’re in shock. Why don’t you take a seat, just breath.” Natasha said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

She looked over his shoulder and saw Wanda holding her brother who was sobbing on the floor.

“Is Y/n...”

Natasha started crying before she could even finish the sentence. Clint pulled her in to a tight hug then and let his own tears fall.

It was hours before the doctor came out of the room again, but everyone had been waiting for her.

“She’s past the worst of it, but a lot could happen in the next few days. We’re keeping her under close observation, but for now, you can go in and see her.”

Deep breaths that no one even knew they were holding were all of a sudden released across the room.

Clint and Natasha were the first one’s to see you. He rested his hand on your arm and leaned down to kiss your forehead.

“You aren’t done yet Y/n. Don’t give up on me yet.”

The rest of the night no one could sleep. Especially not Pietro. He was the only one who hadn’t gone to see you yet. And he was terrified. 

At around 3 in the morning he quietly snuck down to your room. He forced himself to walk as slow as he could the whole way. But when he saw you lying there, he never wanted to leave your side again.

He pulled a chair to your bedside and took your hand in his.

He didn’t know that you’d been feeling like you were fading away up until you felt the touch that had been his.

You forced your eyes open as much s you could. You were too weak to squeeze his hand but he noticed right away that you were awake.

“Y/n. Hey, what do you need?” He whispered.

Everything was still foggy, but right now the only thing in your mind was him.

He moved in closer as you tried to speak. “Is everyone okay?” You mumbled.

The fact that that was the first thing you asked brought a smile to Pietro’s face. “Everyone is fine Y/n. Well.. everyone except you.”

He worried that this wasn’t the time to joke but he would of done anything to see the grin that formed on your face when he said that.

“I’m working on it.” You said.

“You saved my life Y/n. Again.”

“I know, it’s kind of a habit now.” Your eyes were starting to get heavy again.

“Why did you do it?” He regretted asking the moment he did, regardless of how undeserving he felt.

When the question registered, you opened your eyes a little wider and looked into his. “God knows why Pietro, but I don’t want to lose you. So please, for me, don't fuck that up.”

Pietro couldn't help how warm the smile on your face made him, or how completely determined he was to make sure he spent the rest of his life not fucking it up.

He placed his hand on your cheek and rested his forehead against yours.

“I promise you frumoasa. You will never lose me.” 

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