#but people assuming that I shipped it without fucking ASKING pushed me further and further away

[hiccanna-tidbits]

First one was me with Old Fandom mer/iccup, second one is me with krist/anna :/

It’s not that I don’t LIKE the Fandom Popular Pairings, it’s that I find the assumption that everyone ships them and the general all-consuming nature of said pairings to be kinda exhausting,

[thetrashbagswasteland]

Ok for crack purposes if Avitus is getting a piece of red velvet, fuck it, Saren/Macen and then for further crack purposes let’s open the multiverse portal, swap Jaen and Trouble into each other’s respective ships

oh man I love how we're passing the collective braincell around with Saren/Macen here. Ok so: Saren's getting fucked and he's getting therapy, no those things aren't necessarily in order or separately as items on Maceys to-do list. It starts like this: Macen brings cookies to work whilst on guard duty. Saren, permanently hungry, is there to hand in a report in person and oh whoops what's this why is one of the guards offering him food whilst he waits? Since when did these people exist as more than shiny set dressing excuse me???? Is that allowed?? Only the cookies are good and, well, Macen's genuinely impressed concerned at how quickly the box gets inhaled and asks if he wants to come by for dinner some time because CLEARLY this man simply just doesn't eat enough and hey he hates cooking for one so that works out even better. Ah, except, Saren assumes that (now he's registered this guy exists) that hey he ain't bad looking and he's very polite and shiny in a nice way and he assumes that Macen's suggesting a one-night-stand but also, he's hot and he's close at hand and has the potential to be a nice occasional booty call and most crucially, sounds like he might be willing to bake him some more cookies. Wildly different expectations going into that evening but y'know what, around dissecting why Saren's primary assumption was that the interaction was purely transactional in intent and the fact that he gets guilted into helping with the washing up, it sure wasn't a bad experience. Saren swears for a long time that he's only in it for the food and the sex, Macen enjoys his company once he's gotten past the prickly exoskeleton (and the challenge of taking him apart a little more every time is too good to resist) and before the pair of them really know what they're doing, well shit he's become Saren's first port of call when he gets back to the Citadel with some time off and Macen might keep cookie dough ready to bake in the freezer in case he turns up unannounced at 3am covered in blood to demand snuggles. TL;DR: Get domesticated Saren you fucking edgelord wannabe you are not immune to a handsome man with who can cook and fuck. Now, for the shepiverse of madness: One thing I think we can ABSOLUTELY say for sure is that Garrus is getting pegged. At length. On both sides of the swap. I do think that trouble's Garrus is having one HELL of a time with Jane and he's gonna be real fucking lucky if he comes away without at least one new kink and aches in places he wasn't aware existed. Also he's getting gagged. That's almost obligatory bc oh man that boy does not know how to shut up to save his life. The only question which remains is how fast this shitty little twink realises that he likes pushing her buttons, even when it nearly gets his head blown off. Ride-or-die this boy is and oh whoops, she is SUCH a terrible influence you know he's head over heels in an instant. Very much the "I could make him worse" to Trouble Shep's "I'll make him better". 10/10 dynamic. On the other hand, I suspect dear little trouble is an awful lot softer than what helix garrus and zaeed are used to - a LOT less of a wild animal. Sure she's bossy but she's got this very gentle "make these people want to please me" sort of attitude that is unbelievably frustrating bc she straight-up refuses to get angry beyond telling people to quit-it when they piss her off. Ngl I think Zaeed would be a hard sell at first bc she has absolutely no interest in picking a fight but roping him in to hep fuck Garrus would definitely do it. Would it work out long term? Doubtful. But they're sure as hell gonna have fun along the way.

[smp-live]

The apocalypse happened a few years ago. And- it's vague, the apocalypse. It's not some big earth-shattering moment. It's confused tv reports and impulse decisions and little growing bits of tension until the pot boils over.

The details are fuzzy; it all happened so quickly that many civilians were left unaware of what exactly went down. One day, they were living, and the next, most weren't.

Nukes, EMPs, solar flares - the survivors find it doesn't matter. One way or another, the world ended, millions died, and everything’s different. Hostile. Harsh. Unforgiving. The sun is bright and searing, and radiation burns skin not covered head-to-toe.

People are cruel and will take advantage of anything they can. If you're not a part of an already-existing group, good luck.

Somehow, two men end up on a wooden pallet floating in the middle of the ocean. Maybe it was a plane crash, one of the few still running downed by a stray shot; maybe a boat capsized, embrittled by the radiation. Same as the apocalypse, it doesn't matter. What does is that now they’re surrounded by debris and a shark thirsting for blood and there’s one thing they both know: trust no-one.

So they don’t. Names hold power, as they’ve learnt over the past few years; names imply trust. When it becomes apparent they’re stuck together and the time comes to introduce themselves, the elder of the two stares out to sea and says, “Call me...” And that phrase brings back memories of a book he’d read long ago, in the Before Days, and so he finishes, “Ishmael.”

The younger panics and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind: “I’m Gunk.”

‘Ishmael’ raises a skeptical eyebrow, clearly amused. “Gunk,” he repeats. And ‘Gunk’ nods, crosses his arms.

“Yeah, bitch. It’s...” his mind blanks, “Russian.”

Ishmael’s brow climbs further, and he looks on the verge of laughing, lips twisting ever-so-slightly upward. “Last name?”

“Uh,” Gunk wracks his brain, and something from a history class, years ago, stands out. Nearly forgotten amongst all the useless information - what he calls anything that doesn’t directly contribute to survival, nowadays - and only clinging on through his brain classifying it as ‘important’ for God-knows-why. “Gorbachov.”

“Like... Michael Gorbachov?” There’s a hint of laughter in Ishmael’s tone now, the first in a while. He tries not to let that thought depress him.

Gunk nods, relieved at the reminder of the rest of the name, even if he still can’t place it. “Yeah. He was my father.”

“Michael Gorbachov, eighth and final leader of Soviet Russia, was your father,” Ishmael deadpans, and, frustrated at having been outplayed, Gunk scowls.

“What of it?” he challenges, which makes Ishmael laugh, throwing his head back to the blistering sun high above.

“Okay, Gunk,” he says, and yet it doesn’t feel patronizing.

They both know the other is lying, that much is obvious from the constant teasing and jokes about Gunk’s ‘father.’ But it doesn’t matter, because in the slow turning of the days, they grow close. After all, there’s not much to do on a makeshift raft in the middle of the ocean, other than chat.

Ishmael is handy, and the main reason for their survival. He knows how to purify water and fillet a fish, how to add on to their raft without nails and swim against the ocean current. Gunk wonders where he picked all that up, but never asks.

(A survivalist father and paranoid brother, whom Ishmael hasn’t seen in half a decade. The thought that they’re probably still alive brings him comfort.)

Gunk, on the other hand, does most of the grunt work. Fishing in debris that floats by, diving down for rocks when they briefly dock, and the ever-important duty of keeping the shark they named Clive from destroying their miserly raft. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter through it all, and Ishmael thinks that’s what makes the monumental effort to go on worth it. Then, he wonders when he let himself get attached.

(It was a week or so in, when Gunk had fashioned himself a shelf out of the bottom of a storage bin and some planks, and proclaimed it his ‘comfort shelf.’ Gunk felt the same when Ishmael didn’t tell him to dismantle it, only pushed it aside, even though they were supposed to use that wood to repair Clive’s last attack.)

They survive, they grow closer, they hesitantly trust, and yet, they don’t pry. They don’t share their real names. Not until one day.

Ishmael goes swimming out to a nearby island to scavenge for food and chop down a few trees, if he can manage. Gunk stays on the ship - an anchor is next on their to-do list, and so he’s responsible for keeping it from drifting off with his tiny paddle. Except it’s not well-crafted, and grey jaws reach up to snap at the wood he’s standing on so he uses it to stab Clive, and the tip breaks off. The raft starts drifting away.

“Ishmael!” he calls, then again, louder, “Ishmael! Fuck, man!” But he’s nowhere to be seen, and the current is dragging Gunk awfully far out from the island.

He keeps calling, shouting, screaming, increasingly panicked at leaving his friend, the man who’d helped him survive for months, now, behind. Until his voice grows hoarse the way it never did from rambling for hours on end, and a little speck appears on the beach of the island.

Ishmael waves widely at him, and he must be shouting but Gunk can’t hear it over the lapping of the waves. So he assumes what was said, hollers, “I can’t fuckin’ come back, arsehole!” and raises the remains of the paddle over his head to clarify.

The speck stills, then bursts into motion, tossing everything he’s holding aside and shucking his shoes. Gunk can practically hear him mutter about what an “ridiculous child” he is, because although they’ve never shared their ages Ishmael’s decided he’s the elder of the two, which obviously means Gunk is a child.

And then Ishmael dives into the water, and he’s closing the distance between himself and the raft with each stroke. He cuts a straight line through the waves, until he suddenly swerves to the left. Gunk is confused a moment, before he notices - a grey fin jutting out of the water next to him.

Clive goes in for another pass, then another, and Ishmael jukes him out both times. He’s maybe five meters away, now, but the shark is coming back so Gunk screams. But Ishmael’s head is underwater, and he doesn’t hear. Just keeps going, towards safety he won't make it to.

Clive barrels into him. Ishmael vanishes underwater.

He doesn’t come back up.

Gunk is diving in before he can properly think, pushing past the cold shock of the sea, as he uses his self-taught skills to bring him to where he guesses Ishmael last was. Then, he takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and goes under.

After a nervewracking few moments, his elbow bumps into something and he latches on, desperately dragging it upwards. They break the surface and he gasps for breath, Ishmael limp against him.

The trip back is agonizing. Ishmael is deadweight, their clothes are waterlogged, and Gunk has never been the best swimmer. But Clive is still lurking, and he refuses to drown after all this time, so he manages to drag them both back to the raft through pure willpower and spite.

Gunk collapses next to where he’d heaved Ishmael onto the planks, taking a second to compose himself. Shivering violently, he curls into a ball - he'll have to go for a spare change of clothes. His eyes drift shut. In a moment.

Then, panic seizes his heart as he becomes aware of how still Ishmael is. He jerks up, staring at him, searching for any sign of life, anything-

But a moment later he relaxes, when Ishmael rolls over and starts heaving out saltwater. Gunk reaches over and pats him on the back until it subsides, and he falls back onto the wood.

“You,” Ishmael says, letting his eyes flutter shut, “are so stupid.”

Gunk feels a burst of indignation. “Hey, what the fuck! I just saved your dumbass, Ish-ma-el.” He scowls at Ishmael’s placid little twist of the lips.

“Wilbur,” he murmurs, hands folded over his chest.

“What?”

“My name is Wilbur.”

Oh.

“I’m Tommy,” he says after a moment of silence where it sinks in, what he’d just been told, the trust laid on him, and then lays down next to Ishmael - Wilbur, now.

Wilbur just hums and wraps an arm under his shoulders, tugging him close - which is new; they’re really going all-in with this trust thing, huh? - then says, “So, so stupid.”

“Oi,” Tommy protests, but leans in closer.

Things aren’t really visibly different, after that. They still bicker, still do the same daily tasks, still slip up and call each other ‘Ishmael’ and ‘Gunk’ - though it becomes less and less common, other than with a teasing tone. They finally get their anchor, which means Tommy has the chance to go on land; though he quickly grows to dislike it after an incident with a particularly pissed-off boar.

To an outsider, everything remains the same. But to the inhabitants of the raft, it feels different. More homely. Warmer.

Once, after Wilbur chides Tommy over something or another, Tommy rolls his eyes and says, “You know, we really are like brothers.” He tries to keep his tone joking, and to not let himself hope for the words to be true.

Wilbur freezes. “Don’t say that; I’ll cry.” He blinks once to keep the tears at bay, and tries to push down the warmth in his chest.

(They both fail.)

About four months in, a light appears in the distance, at night. They angle their sail towards it and the dark shadow on the horizon. A few days later, it becomes apparent what it is: a lighthouse.

Inhabited land. Civilization.

They gather their meagre supplies once they dock, then ditch the raft in favour of climbing the lighthouse. And, from the top, off over a hill, Wilbur spots it first, points it out to his brother, who squints-

A Dome.

[wordsfromthesol]

The Set-Up

Author: @wordsfromthesol Taglist: @zphilophobiaz @anousiemay @malfoys-demigod @pricetagofficial Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader Summary: You are Dinah's younger sister. Word Count: 2,410 A/N: I know it’s been awhile so if anyone wants on/off a taglist just let me know!

"Alright, Roy, you got me here. What's so important?" You called out as you stumbled into what the Outlaws deemed a safehouse. Their standards were pretty low.

"We needed a fourth, okay! Go get Jason and I'll brief everyone." Roy hurried you out of the room that he and Kory were already set up in. You sauntered up to the closed door and knocked.

"Jason, you decent?" You shouted as your fist rapped against the wood.

"Well I'm not morally decent, but I'm wearing pants if that's what you're asking. Though I can be without pants if that's what you prefer --" Jason's voice trailed off as he swung open the door and was met with your face. Clearly, he figured the person on the other side would be Roy or Kory. His face slightly reddened as he reached back and grabbed a shirt.

"I mean…maybe not right now. Roy needs to go over the mission with us." You winked at his obvious embarrassment before trotting off in the direction you came from. Jason quickly caught up with you.

"I…uh…I didn't know Roy asked you for help."

"Yeah he didn't really tell me much. Just that you guys needed a fourth. Not sure why he thinks I'll make that much of a difference.

"Guess we should go find out." Jason raced past you, hoping to avoid further embarrassment, but stopped dead in his tracks as he entered the living room. Roy and Kory were both staring at him, trying to hold back fits of laughter. "What is this all-important mission Y/N was recruited on?" He asked in an attempt to redirect their attention. You walked in behind Jason just in time to get the answer.

"Not really all-important…" Roy's voice reeked of mischief, "just better to have four than three. Then we can do two teams."

"You do know that I have my own agenda. I'm not just sitting around waiting for your call."

"Oh Y/N/N! Don't think of it like that, I practically begged him to ask you. I seriously need some more girl time." Kory piped in to release some of the building tension.

"Uh-huh, sure. Roy, what are we doing?"

"Right. Human trafficking, finally got a hit on this group. Think it's their main smuggling port. There are two docks to check, so two teams. See, I do have a plan. Kinda…"

"Hm mm" you mumbled, still not fully believing him, but you let him continue anyways. You didn't fly out here for nothing.

**

Hours had passed and the four of you sat near the docks, waiting for the cover of nightfall. The smugglers, however, did not. You grabbed Jason's arm and began running towards the dock as soon as you saw a boat pulling into the harbor.

"What are you doing?" Jason mumbled as he ran to keep up with you.

"Are you blind? There's a container ship pulling into the docks. The dock that Roy told us to watch."

"The sun is still setting. There's no way they'd be that stupid." He tried to reason with you, but your pace didn't slow.

"Maybe they just paid the right people. Or killed them." You retorted though the timing was eerily suspicious. Both of you came to a halt when you only saw four guys. Sure, they had guns…but it definitely wasn't enough to warrant extra help. You glanced over at Jason in utter disbelief. "You want me to sit this one out or…"

"Let's just get it over with." Jason was clearly just as agitated as you were. The "battle" lasted only a few seconds and your trip back to the rendezvous spot was completed in utter silence.

"So…Roy. Why the fuck was I needed here?" Holding nothing back, you cried out as soon as you saw his red costume appear in the distance.

"Woah, hold up there. Must've gotten some bad intel. It happens. Better safe than sorry."

"Yeah well next time be sure. I do have my own cases and crime rings to dismantle." You walked off in a huff, determined to find your own way back. You didn't know what exactly Roy was up to, but you knew you wouldn't like it.

**

Months passed since the pointless mission with the Outlaws. You had gotten back to Miami, your home for the time being as you investigated a new drug trade route coming up from South America. Finally, you had made some progress, only said progress led to you being pinned down behind some wooden barrels.

"These aren't going to last long," you mumbled as you dialed Kory on your phone. No answer. "Fuck." Roy was next.

"Y/N, can this wait --" You hear the wind get pushed out of him just as the sentence finished.

"Hm not really. Kinda been pissing off the wrong people and now I'm pinned down."

"Fuck." Roy mumbled as he threw a punch towards the jaw of the unsuspecting thug.

"I tried Kory, but -- shit…" You watched as the barrels splintered around you.

"Off-world. I'm patching in Jas --" Roy stopped a syllable short, you assumed dodging his own bullets. You didn't wait for him to finish.

"Yeah look. I'm in Miami." You heard Jason mumble your name but continued on. You didn't know how much longer you would have. "Pretty sure they'll take me alive. Heard through the grapevine the boss wants the honors himself." You sucked in a sharp breath as you felt a bullet pierce through your shoulder. You took a few steadying breaths before continuing. "I have a tracer in my mask. I'll try to keep it on as long as I can. If you can't track it for some reason, call my sister." You didn't hang up the call before slowly raising your hands above the splintered barrels. "Take me to your leader," you exclaimed in your best alien impression, all while trying not to laugh.

"Do you think this is a game?!" One of the thugs screamed at you as they inched closer. You just shrugged, waiting to either be killed or taken. "Well grab her, idiots!" Two men hesitantly walked towards you, guns still drawn.

"Should I tie myself up? Would that be easier?" At this point, your sarcasm was the only thing keeping you sane. Finally, they got within striking distance and everything went black.

"Y/N? What's happening?!" Jason frantically began calling out your name as he was met with silence. Roy eventually spoke up.

"Jason. I hope you're on your way. I'll meet up with you as soon as I can, but I need to get ahold of Dinah first." Roy had no idea what he was going to say to her.

"Even in the jet, it's going to take 2 hours to get there…" The reality of the situation set it. "But I'm taking off now." Jason tried to push the horrific thoughts from his mind.

**

You woke up tied to a wooden chair. Not surprising.

"So, where's the boss?" You forced the words out, willing yourself into consciousness.

"Don't worry girlie, he's on his way…though I suppose there's nothing wrong with having a little fun first." The goon smirked as he flipped a knife in his hands.

"Well, you wouldn't want to damage the merchandise." You could tell he wasn't sold, so you continued. "I mean I'm dead either way, right? Wouldn't want you to risk your life as well…" He just stared blankly at you while the gears turned in his mind. Finally, he let out an exasperated huff and turned his back to you. At least you were able to buy yourself a little more time. Though you had a feeling it still wouldn't be enough. As your head began spinning, you looked down at your shoulder. The blood was still pouring out of the wound. "Of course…" you mumbled as the dizziness intensified. You were going to have to think of something quickly.

"So, how'd you get stuck with this job? Or are you just some disposable errand boy who got lucky?" You began antagonizing him as you attempted to saw through the ropes with the small blade that discharged out of your gloves.  

"Lucky?" He turned towards you with a villainous look plastered across his face. He sauntered towards you and placed his hands on either side of the chair. "I've been following you. I know your patterns. When you strike. That ambush was calculated and planned. Boss sent me 'cuz he knew I'd get the job done." Before he could push himself up from the chair, you launched forward, ramming your head into his. As he crashed to the floor, another burly man rushed into the room. You managed to free one of your legs just in time. As he stumbled backward you bent down in an attempt to free your other leg. The man lunged at you again. Pulling the other leg free, you circle around and hurled the chair at him. You let out a huge sigh of relief and slid to the floor as he landed atop the first assailant.

**

Jason watched as men patrolled around the building. Just as he was about to move Roy's voice came over the comm, "Have you found her? What's the situation? I'm still an hour out."

"I found her. They have four guards patrolling. Heavily armed. I found an opening."

"Four patrolling…you can't get any intel about who's inside? I think you should wait for me to get there." Roy already knew there was no hope of that.

"We may not have a chance if I wait. I'm going in."

Jason heard his best friend sigh, before eventually relenting. "Keep me updated. I'll be there when I can." Jason saw his opening coming up again. He moved quickly and quietly, sliding into the open door. He took in his surroundings, trying to not alert anyone of his presence unless absolutely necessary. He didn't want to give any of them a reason to shoot you…that is, if you were still alive. As he rounded the corner, he came face to face with a brutish man. Jason launched himself forward, knocking them both to the ground as he muffled the goon's mouth with his hand and encapsulated his neck. It only took a few seconds before the guard was out cold and Jason continued lurching down the hallway. He stopped short of a closed door. Jason took a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever awaited him on the other side.

**

You were jolted awake a few moments later and looked around to find the two men still unconscious on the ground. Crawling over, you pulled at one of their jackets and cut off a long piece. It took the last bit of your energy to tie it around your still bleeding shoulder. As your eyes began to flutter closed once again, they shot open at the sound of the door opening. You forced your head upwards and let out a faint chuckle at the familiar Red Hood that looked down at you.

"Solis!" Jason's eyes went wide as he saw the amount of blood in the room. "Shit alright. I need you to stay awake, okay?" You nodded and forced your eyes open as Jason dove down beside you, properly retying the fabric around your shoulder. Jason stared at you for a few moments before pushing himself up and firing a single shot down the hallway. You watched intently as the goons came running in, Jason plowing through them in a matter of minutes. Jason scooped you up, not bothering to try and gather any further information from you.

**

You woke up in a bed in an unfamiliar room. Your brain began piecing together the events. Jason had come to get you, then put you in a car, brought you here, sewed up the wound…you wondered how long you'd been asleep. The door creaked open and you saw both Roy and Jason standing in its frame.

"You're awake! Thank fuck, D would've killed me!" Roy rushed over and embraced you.

"Yeah probably…" You were speaking to Roy, but you couldn't take your eyes off Jason. There was something there, unspoken, that you couldn't remember. What had happened? How long had you been asleep? As if reading your mind, Jason spoke up.

"It's only been 12 hours," he watched your eyes go wide. "Before you freak out, you lost a lot of blood and were barely hanging on to consciousness. 12 hours is not that many. You'll still be weak." Jason began to step towards you but hesitated. Roy immediately noticed the awkwardness his presence brought.

"Imma just…I'll go get us some food…or something." Roy pointed towards the door and rushed out.

"I feel like I'm missing something."

"No…I just. I was worried." You leered at him, knowing that was not what you were missing. You carefully sat up and swung your legs over the bed, determined to get to the bottom of whatever feeling this was. Once you attempted to stand, Jason was at your side in a fraction of a second. "I just said you would be weak…" he mumbled out.

"Well I have to go to the bathroom and you aren't giving me answers anyways." You tried to push him away. It unsurprisingly did not work.

"How long have I known you? For once, just stop being so damn stubborn!" He grabbed your shoulders, in an effort to steady both of you.

"I dunno like 8 years…" you grumbled out, unsure if the question was meant to be answered.

"Yeah well for 7 and a half of those I've loved you. And it just hit me that you could die…hell I could I die, and you wouldn't know." His hands traced down your arms and collapsed at his side. "I guess that just broke me, okay? Are you happy now?!" The anger in his voice rose.

"So how about those pants now?" You smirked, trailing your eyes over his body. Jason's eyes lit up as he began to laugh, recalling the situation from months prior.

"Maybe not right now…let's wait until you can stand on your own."

"JUST KISS HER ALREADY GOD DAMMIT!" Roy screamed from the doorway. Neither of you knew how long he'd been there, but that didn't deter Jason. His lips smashed into yours while his arms enveloped you.

"FUCKING FINALLY!" Roy screamed as he threw his hands up in the air.

[sondepoch]

Want | Scaramouche x Reader

Scaramouche + “You make me want things I can’t have.”

You don’t need Scaramouche at all—don’t need him, don’t need his men, don’t need any of his diplomatic connections to achieve the goal the Tsaritsa presented before you with. Still, you can’t help but want him.

MASTERLIST

Request a character or a ship and I’ll write a drabble for you ^^

The worst part is that Scaramouche actually respects you.

It’s something everyone in the Fatui knows by now: that you’re the only Harbinger he can tolerate, the only Harbinger he’s willing to work with, the only Harbinger he respects enough to invite to these little strategy missions.

It’s the highest honor one can receive from a man like Scaramouche, who’s known best for his averseness to all encounters that don’t directly benefit him. And yet, it’s nothing more than that: a distinction in his mind between the incompetent and the competent, useless and the useful.

You simply happen to fall into the latter category.

You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse.

“And I was also thinking that as soon as we’ve set up enough microfinancing loans, we could start to move into the city. Get the towns on the outskirts used to Fatui presence, and then hit the Inazuman capital with our people just as they’ve begun to hear of us. The only problem there is that we’d need to combine our forces if we want to effectively disperse our agents, which would leave us open to attack…”

You tune the man out, barely paying attention as he continues on about infiltration tactics. 

After all, it’s not the Fatui you care about.

It’s him.

“But I suppose getting a third Harbinger involved would only complicate the situation, since we’re the only diplomats who’ve ever been sent to Inazuma. Which would mean…”

“A third Harbinger wouldn’t need to be involved in our diplomatic operations,” you say, interrupting the man. “Assume that your and my forces completely focus on intelligence within the city. If we bring a third Harbinger in, we can keep them excluded from the operation and tell them to solely focus on keeping guard to protect us from attacks.”

Scaramouche hesitates when he hears your idea, and then his face breaks out into the rare, thankful smile that you joined the Fatui to see.

“Of course,” he says, bringing a glass of wine to his lips as he leans further back in the chair. “As expected of someone as strategically inclined as you.”

You can only smile, grateful that the man you adore is giving you a compliment. The fact that he only likes you for your brain is a thought you refuse to entertain.

“You’re too kind, Balladeer.”

“Only because you deserve it,” the man says, something flashing in his eyes that could be counted as less-than-innocent, though you know by now that it’s nothing you can pay attention to.

“Well, my efforts would be useless without your men,” you respond, bringing your own glass to your lips as you lean back in your armor, letting the thick metal clink against the chair when your back hits it. 

“Nonsense. Your mind is sharp enough that a loss in resources wouldn’t hinder you.”

“That’s…” true.

And that’s probably the worst part of all.

You don’t need Scaramouche at all—don’t need him, don’t need his men, don’t need any of his diplomatic connections to achieve the goal the Tsaritsa presented before you with. It’s a painfully obvious fact given your track record: near-perfect except for the single blemish that forced you to join the Fatui in the first place—but the Tsaritsa has always known that your blunder was intentional, that there was never any flaw in your plan, that you consciously outed yourself as Snezhnaya’s most wanted thief so you could get closer to the mysterious enigma that was the Sixth Harbinger.

Yet, as you sit in his room, drinking his wine at his table to concoct a battle plan to work around his men, you’re no closer to the man than when you first joined.

Or—perhaps that’s a lie. Perhaps you know more about him now than you did before.

After all, back when you didn’t know him, you believed him to be a pretty man with a penchant for draconian punishment. Both true, except that now, you know that he’s already been promised to another—and that Scaramouche, the Balladeer, Sixth of the Eleven Harbingers, is someone who would never stoop so low as to cheat.

Yet, he respects you.

Or rather—he respects your mind.

“Something wrong?” Scaramouche leans forward with a hint of vague concern in his eyes, and you hate how you know that it’s that: vague concern, distant and hazy because your relationship doesn’t warrant any actual care.

“Nothing, Balladeer. Just thinking about a plan I’m going to present to the Tsaritsa tomorrow.”

“Ah,” he hums, not bothering to ask because he knows it’s likely confidential. “Well, you should relax. I doubt that your plan has any flaws, and even if it does, the Tsaritsa will trust you enough to allow you to execute.”

“Right.” 

“No, I mean it.” Scaramouche offers you another rare smile, pushing the glass of wine closer. “People need to indulge every now and then. Even Harbingers. You’ll be better off if you give in to what you want.”

It’s out of character for him to look out for you like this, but you accept the glass regardless.

“There’s no point,” you mutter, gazing at your wavy reflection in the deep red liquid. “I want too much. Can’t have it all. There’s a reason I got caught for stealing.”

Not quite the reason he must be thinking, but yeah, the reason does exist.

“I’m sure you can steal whatever you want if you try hard enough.”

“Easy to think,” you mutter, taking a long sip. “But some things aren’t a matter of strategy.”

“Oh? Pray tell, who could be standing between you and what you want?”

Your expression turns bitter, turning into what has to be a sharp glare as you let out all the resentment that has been festering from years of being nothing more than a distant friend to Scaramouche.

“You. You make me want things I can’t have.”

Scaramouche’s smile doesn’t change at that, and your heart sinks when you see how he doesn’t even think to ask what you mean.

He knows, you realize, staring hopelessly into his violet, unchanging eyes. He’s known.

God, that’s embarrassing. That the man you’ve been obsessed with since you joined this wretched organization knows you like him, knows you think about him day and night, knows you’d do anything for him—and he never bothered to say anything.

How humiliating.

This is rejection, isn’t it? This is his way of telling you to crush your hopes and move on because this is as far as you go: being an aid to his strategy, nothing more than a tool to advance his success.

You stand abruptly, not even sure what you’ll say in your shame when you head out—but, then you remember what he said earlier—and things begin to feel different.

I’m sure you can steal whatever you want if you try hard enough.

Your devastation turns incredulous, and you suddenly think about how you first learned that Scaramouche was engaged through some table talk among the low-level recruits. You’d believed it at the time, but Scaramouche is the kind of ass to spread those rumors so suitors won’t approach him, right? He’s the kind of man to consciously put up a distant facade to keep everyone he doesn’t like away, right? And he’s been inviting you every other night to talk about bullshit strategy you couldn’t care less about, keeping you close, if anything, and—

Ah, fuck.

Your face changes as you continue to stare at Scaramouche, trying to dissect his expression for a hint of what he’s thinking. Alas, it’s useless: he wears the perfect poker face, lips curled as he waits for you to make the next move.

Hesitant, you take a seat.

He does nothing in response, though you swear his grin widens the slightest.

And so with no encouragement but the unbridled courage of adrenaline running through your veins, you open your mouth and say things you should have said long ago.

[omg-imagine]

All We Are

Pairing: Johnny Silverhand x female!V

Summary: V is jealous after Johnny’s date with Rogue, which leads to an honest discussion about where they both stand.

Words: 1.7k

Warning: spoilers for Blistering Love side job, a little angst

A/N: Requested by an anon. This may be a bit different than what you were expecting, but I was in the feels™. Hope you still enjoy :)

Also, can we please talk about how adorable he looks in the gif?? 

The long drive back to the apartment was silent; the utter stillness in the car weighs heavily on V’s mind. Hands gripping tight on the steering wheel, she tries to ignore this unsettling ache she has, not allowing even an ounce of thought to pass. Though she chalks it off as a side effect of the pseudoendotrizine, this strange, hollow feeling of hers continues to stir deep inside, burning, burning and burning.

And so, she switches on the radio and focuses ahead on the stretch of road winding down the North Oak hills, the approaching lights of Night City glowing brighter against the inky skies. A fresh breeze flows into the open windows, dulling the tension for a moment.

A moment of tranquility that ends far too soon, yet it was a moment V’s at least grateful to have.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Johnny points out, the gruff baritone of his voice piercing the air. “An enny for your thoughts?”

Kicking his feet up on the dashboard, his aviators glint in the silver moonlight, making him appear impossibly more obnoxious than he usually is. He acts as if he’s not aware of the recent thoughts plaguing V’s head, but perhaps that truly was the case. If it were, then she would be surprised— Johnny often invades her mind, poking and prodding at things he shouldn’t be. For a while, she assumes he knows.

“Just tired,” V replies monotonously. Her answer was far from a lie; she really was tired. Exhausted, even. All she wants is to collapse into bed, pass out, and hope that for a few short hours, she can forget about today, about everything.

“Huh,” he breathes out, and V spares him not a single glance. “Pretty sure somethin’ was up. You’ve been actin’ weird since we left the drive-in.”

A chuckle rumbles through her chest. V still finds it unusual for Johnny to act so… concerned. Almost caring, if she had to be honest. She’s noticed a change in him recently, which became apparent after their conversation in the oil fields. He’s a lot softer now, sometimes sweet, both in his own unique way, of course. As if his rough edges were slightly smoothed out with sandpaper, enough that they no longer cut and make her bleed.

V would often catch him staring when he thinks she’s not looking. She also doesn’t fail to miss the small smile that creeps across his face as she talks. And in those passing seconds that lasts an eternity when the relic malfunctions, Johnny was there to offer her comfort. He’d kneel down to the ground while she coils in agony, whispering promises that this will all be over soon. That one way or another, they would get rid of that goddamn chip slotted in V’s head and ultimately save her life.

Life. Life has a funny way of unraveling itself. Fuck, this all seems like a cruel joke the universe is playing on V. Fate is rarely kind to her, a sad fact she’s accepted over the years. Never would she have imagined that after experiencing the pain of heartbreak and loss, she’d find herself falling for someone at the worst possible time.

And that someone is the imprisoned digital ghost of a rockerboy-turned-terrorist studying her from the passenger seat.

But V’s adamant in denying it. Her life was too fucking complicated for this right now.

“Are you capable of shutting the fuck up for two seconds?” V bitterly snaps, the hands on the wheel clenching stiffly as her jaw. “You got what you wanted tonight. Finally got your dick wet after fifty years, so leave me the hell alone, would’ya?!”

She doesn’t mean to act on her muted anger, but it manages to get the best of her. V knows why, and because of it, she crumbles. She crumbles like the walls she’s built around herself. Like the facade she’s been hiding behind for the past couple of months. Because underneath the dirt and grime, V was just a poor, tragic soul, more worried about losing the man she couldn’t have than her awaiting death.

“Really think that’s what happened?” Johnny asks, pushing his shades up to his head as he shifts to sit up straight in his seat.

V grits her teeth, eyes remaining locked on the road. She had woken up an hour or two after Johnny took over, finding her lips still warm, still swollen. Her hair was tousled, and she had been stripped off of most of her clothes; the scent of Rogue’s perfume lingering on her skin. She didn’t need him to recount; it was all clear to her what had transpired. It was what she agreed on to make him happy, a date with the Afterlife fixer and whatever it could lead up to.

In the end, V regretted it, not because Johnny used her body to sleep with someone. But because even after the rollercoaster ride, the dog tags, the private concerts, and the heart-to-heart they had at his gravesite, she still wasn’t his. He was too hung up over Rogue, and she couldn’t blame him. Having shared a lengthy history, there was no doubt Johnny wouldn’t snatch up the opportunity to win her back.

But then where does that leave V?

“The fuck is wrong, V? Don’t make me figure it out by myself.”

Biting the edge of her lip, she ignores Johnny’s latest question and contemplates swallowing an omega blocker. She doesn’t even care that he’s threatening to search for the truth without her permission. Choosing not to do so, he keeps pressing on regardless, and V was getting pissed off. When he doesn’t stop, she loses her temper and slams on the brakes, the Porsche coming to a screeching halt on a dead street.

Huffing, V pulls over to the side, shutting the car’s engine as Johnny is left bewildered by her actions. Peace and quiet. She yearns for peace and quiet, and the pills would do the trick in an instant. Her hand reaches for the bottle in her jacket pocket, the pounding of her heart echoing in her ears. Popping the cap open, she turns her head to the side, unable to help herself. She sees the tenderness etched in his features, a wordless plea shining in his dark eyes.

“V… Tell me.”

V’s gaze slowly falters, her consciousness at war with itself. The storm of anger in her calms, yet she needs to know what her next move is. She’s always been terrible at this sort of thing, dealing with her feelings and shit. Growing up in the streets of Heywood, she’s learned how to shut people out and keep them out. Biggest rule she had imposed on herself was to never, ever fall for a choom, but this time was different. Despite him being a mere figment of her imagination, she feels safe around Johnny, appreciated and content. The two understand each other on a level nobody else has done. They’ve been through literal hell and would only sink further into it to find a way to survive.

A chrome palm comes to rest on V’s cheek, the sensation oddly warm, oddly familiar. Her attention flickers back to Johnny as he strokes her weary face. His touch was delicate, movements careful and controlled. He treats her as if she were porcelain, afraid that his metal hand would cause her to crack. V exhales deeply, relishing the feeling she’s longed from the moment she had broken that dumb rule of hers.

“Go ahead,” she mumbles, giving Johnny consent for him to read her mind. It only takes a second, maybe even less. V half expects his shit-eating grin to make its appearance. She couldn’t forget how cocky he was, and she thought this would certainly rub his ego.

It never comes. Instead, Johnny’s lips turn up into a genuine smile, one softer than the way his black hair falls to frame his face. V swears she was floating; this doesn’t feel all that real to her. It couldn’t be real. But as the first faint slivers of sunlight appear on the horizon, she starts to believe that she isn’t dreaming nor hallucinating. She was still very much wide awake.

“Didn’t know you were the jealous type,” Johnny quips as he leans closer. “You had no reason to be jealous, princess.”

“Why not?”

“Nothin’ happen between Rogue and me,” he clarifies, his fingers pushing back her locks. “Yeah, we made out a little, but I couldn’t go through with it. Wanna know why?”

V nods.

“’Cause I realized that ship sailed a long time ago. We’re too different people now; she’s got her own life, while I got mine sittin’ right here.”

“Johnny…” she murmurs his name as he brings up his other hand to cradle her face. “I wanted to have what you and Rogue had, minus the shitty things you did. But I could feel how much you loved her, how you basically worshipped the ground she walked on. Then I thought, can’t compete with her. She’s a livin’ legend, a badass. Meanwhile, I could be dead the next minute or two, either by this fuckin’ relic or a bullet.”

“Trust me, V, you wouldn’t want that,” Johnny returns, resting his forehead against hers. How could he feel so real? “What you and I have is special. Ain’t felt this way before, not even with Rogue or Alt. Like I said, you’re the fuckin’ closest to me. These feelings you’re afraid of? Shit, I have them too, and I’m fuckin’ terrified. But knowing that you’re here and we both share them, it makes things a lot less scary.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

Johnny laughs softly. “Gotta spell it out for ya, huh? Well then, here it goes; V, I love you. I don’t throw that word around randomly, but know that it’s what I feel whenever I think of you.”

V doesn’t waste a second longer. Her lips meet his for a kiss that is gentle and bruising, all at once. They hold one another close, their grasps taut so that the other wouldn’t slip away, not wanting to lose what they’ve gained. Time goes by, ticking in the background as they kiss again and again, but to them, it’s slow, nearly everlasting.

And when it was over, when they finally had to part, they were breathless, panting.

“Love you too, Johnny,” she murmurs into his skin, tone dripping with affection as he hums in response.

Night melds into day, and the city comes back to its fullest life. V kisses Johnny a final time before driving back to the place she calls home, even though she’s found her true one in his heart.

—

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Johnny Silverhand Tags: @silverse​ @overheardatthecontinental​ @meshlababy​ @ataraxydreams​ @ineedpeetalikehekneadsbread​​ @savsselfinserts​ @the-bottom-of-the-abyss​ @donakamark

*If you would like to be added to the taglist, feel free to send me an ask or DM!

[ms-demeanor]

Are you saying the fatwa on Salman Rushdie is part of cancel culture or did he do something?

It’s about the fatwa but I’m going to jump off of this ask to have a rant.

What this boils down to, at least to me, is a preoccupation with an assumed right to be adored, no matter what. It’s an attempt to allow public figures with bruised egos to intellectualise their way out of understanding a very simple idea: when you – particularly the famous – do things to perpetuate or legitimise ideas or actions that contribute to further harming others, you are not entitled to remain liked by some members of the public.

The added suggestion that individual consequences for specific misdeeds are a sign that things have gone too far is just as absurd. Like the “forces of illiberalism” discredited in this letter, many of those who’ve added their signatures in support of it simply wish to remain steadfast in their beliefs without having to engage in exactly the kind of discussions this letter suggests should happen. That’s the thing with glossing over the ugly or difficult issues to bolster your argument – shards of them inevitably push through the cracks.

Salman Rushdie signed the letter on justice and open debate that everyone has decided is about cancel culture because JK signed it.

We’ve got a baby/bathwater situation here. You’ve got a bunch of people who have faced death threats and political consequences and serious shit for what they’ve written (Atwood is on that list, Chomsky is on that list. Atwood’s books have been banned in a ton of places; Chomsky was monitored by the CIA for years because of his political philophy. Rushdie is on that list and people have tried to kill him for his writing) signing a letter saying “uhhhhhhhh fuck censorship” but because Jo also signed it the same week she decided to go mask off with the trans exclusion people are going “these things are the same” and “Uhhhh, it’s not cancel culture, your actions just have consequences” (that pullquote is from an article about this list; saying “it’s absurd to suggest that individual consequences for specific misdeeds are a sign that things have gone too far” is a HELL OF A THING to say about a list that includes people who have survived bombing attempts.

So yeah, I think it’s a bit of a stretch to simply call the letter a condemnation of cancel culture but it’s kind of a joke that people on tumblr are cancelled for having wrong opinions about Stephen Universe but then you see people who have actually lost their jobs because someone made a fake page calling them a possum fucker, or people who are getting called out as pedophiles for shipping two adults, well. Yeah. You know what, I think it’s probably a good idea to have a conversation about why cancel culture CAN be a thing and CAN be a bad thing and how to recognize it and avoid participating it.

Cancel culture *isn’t* just “your actions having consequences” and there IS a totally new mobbing culture that’s exploded in the last twenty years and it is misaimed CONSTANTLY and it does make people less likely to participate in discourse and an open exchange of ideas.

Like, fuck, a bunch of the tumblr “Abolish the police” crew is also the tumblr “kill all pedophiles” crew and trying to talk about intervention and science-based prevention tactics and compassionate treatment gets you labelled a pedophile sympathizer and there is a giant mob of people who don’t want to talk about any of that, they just want to tell you to kill yourself until you decide it’s not worth while to talk about anything controversial.

(My inbox, for example, is full of people who came by to tell me that they were glad I talked about atheism but the response that I got is exactly why they don’t talk about atheism here).

The every-other-week “Cancel Argumate” campaigns are another example of this. Argumate says something pretty clumsy about indigenous people, clarifies a position, makes a good faith argument, and is labelled a colonialist, cancel Argumate. Argumate makes a post about atheism, is challenged on that post by Jewish atheists, clarifies that the post wasn’t about that, continues to clarify that, is frustrated that people keep coming to make the same point in opposition to a point that was never in the post in the first place, is labelled as antisemitic, cancel argumate. Argumate makes a post criticizing US capitalism, is labelled a marxist, cancel Argumate. Argumate makes a post somewhat sympathetically discussing landlords, is labelled an anarchocapitalist, cancel Argumate. Argumate makes a post criticizing landlords for cutting corners and endangering tenants, is labelled an anarchist, cancel Argumate. Like. A bunch of Argumate’s individual posts are glib as fuck but all of the long conversations on that blog are really fucking nuanced and that’s coming from someone who got to know Argumate after initially going “Argumate’s an MRA, cancel Argumate” before then having a long, nuanced conversation about radical feminism.

It’s just frustrating that everything is presented as so black and white. “Oh, this letter is from JK, this must mean she’s whining about how we hate that she’s a terf” and way to go, buds, you just (oh god am I really going to do this) Spoke Over A Man Of Color Who Has Faced Institutional Violence As A Result Of His Writings.

Or, to put it another way: “I REALLY WISH THESE CONVERSATIONS COULD BE HAD WITH A DEGREE OF NUANCE BECAUSE PUTTING SOMEONE SURVEILLED BY THE CIA FOR DECADES FOR HIS ANTIWAR WRITING AND SOMEONE WHO SURVIVED A BOMBING ATTEMPT BECAUSE OF HIS FICTION IN THE SAME CATEGORY OF ‘BUTTHURT BECAUSE OF MEANIES ON TWITTER’ AS JK ROWLING IS LUDICROUS.”

[stardust-kenobi]

Necklace

Poe Dameron x Fem!Reader

Summary: Poe returns to base after a very risky and long battle against the First Order. In the time he’d been gone, and his life flashing before his eyes, he wants to show you how badly he missed you, and how much you mean to him.

Warnings: Filthy, descriptive, SMUT (fingering, m/f oral giving and receiving, daddy kink, choking, vaginal sex) starts with some adorable fluffiness from my fav little resistance pilot 🥺 mentions of death and blood...but yeah mostly smut.

A/n: I’m unapologetically horny for Poe. I’ve been dying to write content for this man, I love him so much. If anyone has any Poe/sequel specific blog recommendations, lmk!

Word count: 4k

Request from @princessxkenobi. You’re the best✨💕 hope you enjoy! Btw, I took your request and RAN with it lmao

gif is not mine

Your stomach tumbled aggressively in your abdomen. Every pilot that joined Poe on their dangerous mission, almost three weeks ago, was currently exiting their x-wings...except Poe. The Falcon lowered from the sky, landing roughly on the grass. Exiting the ship was Finn and Rey, but still no Poe. The love of your life, your soul mate, your other half...was he gone?

You swallowed hard, forcing back the sorrow lump in your throat that crept up with the realization of what could have happened. A sickness formed in your stomach when your eyes scan the field of landing ships, still not identifying his distinguishable transport.

“No..” you whispered your cry. A cold, stray tear fell over your cheek bone. Your vision went blurry and your mind became a looped, dizzy mess in the wake of your distress.-

Before you fell apart completely, something interrupted you.

“There’s my baby girl” A voice broke the empty air behind you. Your gasp was caught in your throat and you found it hard to breathe for the milliseconds between your pain and your relief. Your body swung around swiftly for your eyes to meet Poe’s loving gaze. His bag slid from his shoulder to meet the ground. He hustled toward you, arms spread open to welcome you into his embrace.

“Poe...” You mumbled softly. That was the only word that your trembling lips could develop in your moment of shock. You reminded yourself to breath. 30 seconds prior to this engagement, you assumed that you’d lost the love of your life to the relentless violence of the First Order. But he was here, he was holding you, he was alive.

“God, I'm so happy to see you, y/n” His head rested atop yours and his arms provided shelter around your body.

“I thought you were gone, Poe” you looked up at him, tears still pooled in your eyelids. Your voice broke as his name rolled off your tongue. That same lump in your throat returned, or maybe it never left.

“Shhh” He calmed you, his hand caressed your head to comfort your distress. “It’s okay”.

The active twinkling stars in the night sky illuminated his features for you to admire. You scan every inch of his face, taking it in as if you’d never see him again. As you scanned upward, you suddenly noticed the dark red liquid dried to his forehead. Your stomach sank.

“What happened?” You direct your attention to his injury. “Are you okay?”. You pulled a rag from his abandoned bag, and quickly tried to clean it from his skin.

“Oh...yeah, I’m okay, y/n. It doesn’t hurt. Just got blasted and hit my head on the side metal of my x-wing. It was a...a close call...but I got out of there in time.” His voice was like honey to your ears in the midst of your worries. Poe picked up your hands that had fallen from gripping his body. Gentle kisses graced your knuckles. “To come back to you, baby”

“I missed you so much, Poe. I didn’t see you land and immediately assumed the worst” you admitted to him, still holding back your tears that were slowly subsiding.

“I didn’t mean to worry you, I’m sorry” he assured.

“I’d be a mess if you hadn’t come back” You admitted.

“That’ll never happen, y/n” He assured you, with no real ability to promise this, but it was comforting to you in the moment.

He kissed your forehead and offered a warm smile, resulting in a grin forming at your lips as well. It quickly turned upside down at the sight of a tear trailing down Poe’s face came into view.

“Poe what’s wrong?” You asked so worrisome.

He instantly looked distressed from your inquiry like he was barely holding it together prior to your concern.

“It was really hard out there. Seeing you just-” his broken voice interrupted his thoughts “it made me remember how lucky I am to have you in my life. It could be over in an instant. But I have you” he pushed through his shakiness. Your thumb meets his cheek to wipe away his sorrow.

You pushed your body up against him, and planted a kiss onto his unexpecting lips. It was deep and passionate and definitely what he needed to feel. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down into your face.

There were others wandering around you, unloading gear, welcoming the pilots back home, rejoicing in the success, but you knew that the intimacy of your kiss would go unnoticed by anyone else. You felt alone with Poe, like no one else existed in the whole galaxy.

He encouraged the kiss further, rotating his lips around yours slowly. The moan that crept from his mouth indicated a desire for more. The relief of being reunited sparked a hunger in you as well. You wanted him.

You both gathered your composure after a few minutes of consoling each other, just thankful to be safe, and together.

“I need to be alone with you” he said, sounding as if he would go insane if he wasn’t able to have you soon.

“Let me show you how much I really missed you” he whispered into your ear. You shoot him an are you sure? look considering the abundance of company around you. Surely there’d be no privacy for a while, and you’d have to be very quiet in his small quarters. “I need you” he practically begged. You happily nodded in agreement.

“C’mon” he smirked and took your hand, leading you away from the commotion of the base and to the partial privacy of his room. There were people that he stopped and spoke with on the way there. You were so eager for alone time, it was torture every time your journey was interrupted.

You both finally arrived. He closed the door behind you. The familiarity of the harsh fluorescent lighting and the tight enclosure of the room was oddly comforting, but surely not romantic.

“Well that won’t set the mood, will it?” He chuckled, referring to the uneasy lighting above. He pulled a lighter from his pocket, and lit a small candle on the table next to the cot. The lights shut off, revealing a sudden romantic environment, softly lit by a single flame.

A small, black curl laid lonely on his forehead, which you slowly moved away from his face. You stood there together, in the middle of the room, absorbing each other’s presence. Your anticipation rose for what was about to happen. You missed his bare body against yours. You needed him now.

He subtly licked his lips while studying the curve of your bottom lip. Once you both understood that you were alone, he practically pounced onto you with a burning hunger in his gaze. Poe’s kisses were heavy and intimate. Every movement of his mouth was rhythmic. His hands gripped your face, as if to pull you even closer to him, which was completely impossible.

“Fuck I missed you baby” he breathed in between the bursts of fusion of your mouths.

“Me too” you managed to say before his lips were on yours again.

He walked backwards slowly and pulled you with him. He sat down onto the cot and guided your legs to straddle him at his waist. Poe maneuvered the cloth of your coat down your shoulders and slid it down to the floor, leaving you in a thin cropped tank top and your shorts. His calloused hands drew goosebumps where they touched when they travelled over your arms. His kisses transported to the skin on your neck, cascading down to the collarbone. You leaned into him, absorbing the delicacy of his admiration. 

You moaned quietly which grabbed his attention almost immediately. He looked up at you, the same starving look of desire in his eyes with a cocky smirk plastered onto his face. 

“What was that about you showing me how much you missed me?” you purred into his ear, teasing him, and placing your lips at his neck now. Your fingers worked to unbutton his shirt. The motions you made at his skin earned a small groan from his lips. This subtle sound alone formed a heat between your legs.

His grip, already around your waist, tightened as your question rang his ears. Poe knew that sex with you was always paradise, but taking it slow always resulted in a level of intimacy he’s only ever felt with you. He needed to take his time with you, but at this moment it was so hard for him to do so with how badly he missed you.

You removed his shirt, revealing the broadness of his chest, presented to you so closely. You cannot help but stare intently at his features. Your fingertips traced the outline of his chiseled abdomen. The necklace he always wore, that you’d never seen him without, remained around his neck. You loved the way it looked on him, and wouldn’t dare take it off.

Poe swiftly removed your top that clung so tightly to your body. He is met with the sight of your breasts that were unrestrained under your clothes.

“Oh baby girl I missed these” he cooed and cupped your exposed tits in his hands. His brows furrowed in a look is desperation before his lips wrapped around your stiffened nipples. You moan at the contact, you can feel yourself become even wetter by the second.

You rolled your hips forward, and when you did, you felt the bulge that was begging to be let free from his pants. He moaned instantly when you brushed your core against him.

Poe made a quick decision to stand up, lifting you by your ass, and turned to place you firmly on the cot. Your head was rested on his pillow while he positioned his body above yours. The curl that previously sat on his forehead now dangled above your face, which made you chuckle, but also, he looked so hot like that. The chain of his necklace hung down from his skin, too, something he knew was a huge turn on for you. You liked for him to fuck you while it swung in your face. When he noticed you stare at it, he giggled.

“I know you like that, don’t you?” He smirked. You nodded your head, offering no words, eager for him to proceed.

“Poe” you breath, simultaneously grasping at his belt.

“Be patient, baby” he commanded before attacking your lips again. His tongue forced its way between your lips and explored your mouth freely. Moaning into his mouth only made him kiss you harder. The feeling of his hips rested between your thighs through the layers of both your pants was agonizing. Your knees and thighs tried to push themselves together. He felt this around his hips and pulled his lips from you instantly.

Leaning back onto his knees, he unbuttoned your shorts and slowly slid them and your panties down your thighs. After throwing them onto the floor, he sat there and took a long, sensual look at your naked body, licking his lips at what he saw. At this angle you could clearly see how restricted his cock was for you to observe the long outline.

“Fuck. I missed this view so much princess” he groaned while lowering his body back onto the cot, his face moving in between your thighs. His face was inches from where you were aching for him. “Do your best to be quiet, baby” he lightly laughed through his nose and smiled at you sweetly.

“I don't know if I can but I’ll try” you joked.

And with that, his tongue curled onto your clit, taking you into his mouth. Your body twitched at the sudden sensation you’d been robbed of for weeks. The second he tasted you, a low, gruff moan leapt from his throat. His tongue swirled over your sensitive clit, rhythmically and consistently drawing figures with the tip.

“Fuck, you are so wet already” he took a break to look up at you. Not breaking eye contact, he leaned up to push two fingers into your mouth.

“Suck on them” he demanded. You obeyed and sucked on his coarse fingers. He watched with pleasure as you moistened them in your mouth. He then removed them and replaced his glistened fingers at your entrance. Without hesitation, he pushed them inside of your wet warmth.

“Oh fuck” you sharply moaned. His tongue returned to your clit while he pumped his fingers inside of you. He moaned too, turned on by your pleasurable sounds, sending vibrations across your sensitivity.

Your hands found their way to his head, your fingers locked in his waves of black strands. He curled his two fingers, adding to your pleasure. Already, you feel your climax approaching.

“Poe, I’m close” you announced. He instantly pulled his mouth and fingers from your pussy, causing agony for you. He suddenly crawled up to you, hovering over you. His fingers replaced themselves at your core, but it was his flattened fingers pressed against your clit this time. He began to rub firmly back and forth, responding to how you bucked your hips at his touch, picking back up where you left off.

“I want you to look at me when you cum, baby girl” he growled, face so close to yours, intently staring at your expression while you displayed how good he made you feel.

You felt the tightness bundle between your thighs while his hand set a constant pace that perfectly stimulated your clit. You could feel how intense it was going to be before you even reached your orgasm.

“S-shit” you stuttered, focused on your climax.

“That’s it, yeah” he encouraged you.

It washed over you like an ocean wave. Radiating from the center of your euphoria and spreading across your body. Your attempt to be quiet was weak, your moans and whimpering filled the air of his small room. Neither of you cared anymore who was on the other side. Poe’s eyes never left you while you threw your head back in pleasure. Your legs quivered in his touch as he did not let up once during your orgasm. You think he may have rubbed you faster once you hit your peak, causing a more intense high for you.

A very long ride came down slowly. You tried to catch your breath during the time that Poe slowed his motions and removed it from you.

“God, you look so fucking hot cumming for me, y/n” he cooed in your ear, still hovering above you. His tone grew kinkier by the second.

You giggled, unable to form coherent thoughts, let alone any words. Poe pushed himself back into his knees.

While staring deep into your eyes, looking at you with an primal expression that indicated how badly he was about to destroy you, he slowly unbuckled his belt, never breaking eye contact with you. You melted at how fucking hot he looks before his clothes are even completely removed.

His pants meet the ground, his underwear going with it. Seeing his fully erect cock pulled a whimper from your throat. He blushed and pushed a smile from his face.

“On your knees” he commanded, standing next to his cot. He usually wasn’t this demanding during sex, but something seemed a lot more dominant in him tonight. You loved it, so of course you obeyed.

“Yes, sir” you purred at him and got on your knees in front of him.

“Listen to me, baby girl” he started, grabbing the back of your head and tilting it up at him. “Suck daddy’s cock like a good little girl”.

The words leaving his mouth caught you off guard, sent shivers down your spine, and made your clit throb more than it was following your orgasm all at the same time. You’d never heard him talk like that before, nor had he ever mentioned a kink for this. You surely had no objection to going along with it.

You smirked at him, wrapping your fist around his shaft and placing the tip at your extended tongue. You teased him lightly.

“C’mon baby. No teasing” He smirked. You look up at him with baby doll eyes before proceeding.

Giving you no time to cease your teasing, he very suddenly forces his cock to the back of your throat. You gag initially, but adjust quickly to your mouth being completely filled by his length. 

“Mmmm” He groaned as he held your mouth steady wrapped around him.

Deep, hungry moans crawled out of his mouth when you began to bob your head back and forth onto his dick. You used your technique that you know drove him crazy, and tried a new motion with your tongue. 

“Oh, fuck. Yeah, good girl” He reacted instantly, meeting your innocent eyes again. You loved hearing him praise you and encourage you with his moaning.

You add your hands to the bottom section of his length while you continued to swirl your mouth around the top of him. 

“So fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth, baby”

You move faster now, paying close attention to the tip, knowing that was his most sensitive spot. His breath hitched, and you could tell he was eager to have himself buried somewhere else inside you. 

“But y’know...I think you’d look prettier with my cock in that tight little pussy...you think you can handle that?” He growled at a level of a whisper, his words made you melt. He abruptly removed himself from your mouth and lifted you from the ground and onto the cot. 

“Yes, daddy” you purred back at him. Poe’s eyes subtly lit up, he was so glad you were into this, too. He returned you to your position from earlier, comfortably flat on your back, knees up. He loved to start in missionary because he wanted to gaze into your eyes when he first fills you.

He hovered back on top of you, positioning his his hips between thighs, one arm was placed firm in the mattress beside your head, the other trailed up your thigh, soaking in the feeling of your soft skin. Wasting no additional time, the tip of his cock parts your slit and he pushes himself into you.

A sharp, prolonged gasp escaped you as he buried himself completely inside of you, his hips as close to your body as possible.

“God damn, baby girl” his voice turned soft when he truly felt how wet you were for him. He brought motion to his hips and looked down into your eyes. His necklace hung directly above you, swinging with every thrust he took. You watched it, loving the way it looked around his skin. His expression held a look of lust and angst simultaneously, which made your heart beat faster. He dared not to break eye contact with you. Watching your eyes roll back from the pleasure of being fucked by him drove him crazy. And despite the roughness of the passion you were sharing as a result of your time apart, you were still his baby girl and wanted to be as intimate as possible.

“Yes, Poe” you whimpered. A scowl appeared on his face.

“Who? You know my name” he growled at you, pounding your pussy harder with aggression.

“Daddy” you moan, louder.

“Good girl” his voice was so gruff. Suddenly, his hand was wrapped around your throat, applying pressure. You struggle to breath in the most erotic way. Your gasping transformed to whines. Poe loved to watch you wear his fist as a necklace while he fucked you. 

“How am I supposed to last, when you look so fucking gorgeous being filled with my cock?” He whispered, lips brushed against your ear, chills erupted down your body. His grip on your neck was released.

“I love you” you mumbled, allowing a grin to develop on your face. You said it out of no where, but you needed him to hear it. Poe’s seductive stare instantly transformed to a smile, as if he was breaking character from the rough exterior he presented.

“I love you, too, y/n” he breathed before kissing you so delicately and slowing his hips. “Now, turn around” he returned to commanding your actions. You get on your hands and knees, backing yourself up to him, craving to be fucked from behind. 

No warning was given before he slammed his dick into you again. You cried out, not expecting how good it would feel. At this angle, he reached your sweetest spot with every thrust. You found it impossible to muffle your sounds. He watched as your ass jiggled against him every time your skin touched. His calloused hand motioned circles against your ass cheek, prepping it for what he would do next. He pulled back and brought the flattened palm to meet your skin, slapping it firmly. When you moaned out in response, he did it several more times, and enjoyed every strike against your ass. 

“Forget being quiet, I want everyone to hear you getting fucked, got it?” Poe growled. You didn’t hesitate, and released all your expression of ecstasy into the small room, knowing your voice was escaping the walls. His voice joined yours as well, which was music your ears.

He curled his hips into you harder and faster now, his fingertips scratched down the length of your back. When you leaned your head back into it, Poe grabbed the bulk of your hair, using it as a handle while pulling your head back with it. 

“Oh, god” you cried as the pleasure became unbearable.

“You like being daddy’s good little slut? Huh?” he grew louder. You melted yet again at him speaking to you like this.

“I do, I love it” 

“You wanna cum again, baby girl?”

“p-please” you begged.

“Uh-uh, please, what?” 

“Please, daddy, make me cum” 

“Well, since you asked so politely” he cooed, bringing his hand around you to rub your clit while he continued to fuck you. Being filled and having your most sensitive area stimulated simultaneously was overwhelming. You could already feel your second orgasm forming in the pit of your belly.

“Fuck, Poe, I’m so close” you desperately whined.

“I’ll let that one slide for now” he scolded for addressing him incorrectly.

You felt your orgasm unravel, spilling over your body and spreading inside you. Your body trembled, unable to handle the overstimulation you experienced. It was longer than before, keeping you in a state of euphoria for what felt like hours.

“Yessss, princess, cum on my cock” he praised. 

Riding out the end of your glorious high, you became suddenly aware of how loud you were, but you still didn’t care.

“I’m gonna cum too” his breath grew shaky. “When I pull out, I want you to turn around” Poe instructed. You turned to shake your head in agreement.

And with that, he removed himself, his moans growing choppy. You turned over onto your back as requested and positioned your mouth under his length and extended your tongue. 

“Oh fuck” Poe stroked himself over you, crying out deeply in euphoria as he hit his climax. He released his hot cum all over your face, some making it onto your mouth. What was left on your cheeks, you gathered with your thumb, bringing it to your mouth and swallowing it while Poe watched.

He collapsed next to you on the small cot that was barely big enough to fit both of you. 

“That was...” you began, struggling to properly describe your satisfaction.

“Incredible” he completed your sentence. 

“Yeah” you agreed, a giggle trailing your words. “So that’s how much you missed me, huh?” you teased. Poe pulled you into his arms, your head rested on his chest as it rose and fall with his breathing.

As you tried to catch your breath, you were both jolted by an alarming banging at the door.

Shit. 

“Can you guys, uh, maybe keep it down in there?” Finn’s voice travelled through the wall. You looked at Poe, absolutely mortified. 

“Yeah, bud, we’ll do our best. Hope you enjoyed the show” Poe yelled, dying of laughter at the situation. But you? Not so much. You’d never look Finn in the eyes again.

[unlikely-course]

The tl;drs of this very long post, which is about Gideon’s arc and her relationship to Harrow:

-Gideon’s arc in gtn is a corruption arc because tlt is not just goth but Gothic

-Gideon “forgives” Harrow because of Trauma and that’s definitely not the endpoint of how she feels about Harrow or their past

-The narrative knows what it’s doing

When Gideon says “For the Ninth!” as she dies, and thinks “this is the loyalty they always said I lacked, this is me making good” that’s not growth, that’s part of the tragedy of the moment. Like, the Ninth does not deserve her allegiance! It is, as Gideon was the first to remind us, rotten to the core. When she dies, it’s for Harrow, and her saying it’s for the Ninth does represent on some level that she’s come to new understanding about who Harrow is and how Harrow views herself *as* the Ninth, but like this is, I mean. Bad. Harrow herself does not deserve Gideon’s loyalty! Gideon gives it to her because it is a relief. Gideon is very good, yes, but the forgiveness is a response to trauma. The second Harrow shows even the slightest vulnerability or regard for Gideon, Gideon is eager to make amends because she has been starved for any positive association to others for her entire life, and Harrow was literally the only peer she ever had to associate with. She correctly identified that resistance to Ninth society was vital to her survival and selfhood, but also that shit is exhausting. That resistance is also partially formed by that society conveying to her: we have no place for you, we have no use for you as you are, and that makes you hateful to us.

Her response to Harrow and the cavalier role then is pretty classic! It is a relief to have a place, to be able to stop fighting, to give herself over to a structure sold to her as one in which she can support and be supported, to resolve the central conflict and most complicated relationship of her life. I maintain that you the reader are also supposed to feel initially relieved and even cheered by Gideon and Harrow growing closer and then gradually unsettled when Gideon embraces cavalierhood and the increasingly invasive demands of the trials, and has her mindset adjusted in increments toward sacrifice. To feel her thoughts turn in this direction is alarming! This is purposeful, and it is purposefully mixed in with good feelings, the same good feelings that Gideon is getting, to distract from and inoculate you against what is happening just as Gideon is inoculated against it.

In addition, Canaan House is a very particular crucible. This is not only the first time that Gideon has ever been bombarded with new people and experiences, but also the first time she’s faced these unknown external threats, which pushes her to unite with the familiar (Harrow) against them. Her past and present environments have made it so that the compassion she comes to feel for Harrow gets bound up in the idea of being loyal to her house, the ‘contract’ of her new role, and the positive interaction it gives her until the idea of her offering her life to Harrow is not simply necessary in the moment but good and right. Redeeming, even, when we as readers know she has nothing she needs redemption for. 

Gideon is so very angry when she comes to in htn, and it is not merely anger at those who have wronged Harrow or anger at Harrow for endangering herself. On the First, she made a simple deal: her life for relief from the emotional state she had to live it in. Forgiveness for some kind of peace. And when she wakes up that exchange is refuted. Gideon frames Harrow’s actions as a rejection of herself out of low self-esteem but also in an attempt to deal with unresolved anger she has towards Harrow, anger that cannot fit into the cavalier role she wants to embody, anger that she attempted to trade away but in actuality can’t. Because the role she was sold, the type of relationship the cavalier and necro is supposed to be, is ultimately false. It encompasses very real and deep relationships, as we have seen, but the framework uses these real elements to its own ends, the Empire’s ends, and despite its proclamations of mutual care the relationship is always at the cavalier’s expense.

This is what it means to say Gideon’s arc in gtn is a corruption arc. It’s not that she becomes “bad,” it’s that the corrupting forces of the narrative have reached out and altered her, worn her down, seduced her even. This is Gideon’s first contact with the wider Empire, in the seat and seed of its wretched power, and it has used her goodness, her capacity for connection (and yes for forgiveness as well!) against her to further ensnare her, to draw her in line with itself. And then she dies for it, as it demands! Wow. And the we have the other side of that, which is when Gideon says “For the Ninth!” she’s signaling to Harrow that she has come to value what Harrow values, just as Harrow herself, watching in horror, has come to realize her values are very fucked up.

And Harrow has indeed realized that by that time! Harrow really does travel such a distance in gtn, but this is largely obscured from us just the same as plot details are in the book, by the limits of Gideon’s perception. And let me be clear: this is a feature, not a bug. It is not a weakness. It is vital! Integral! To the above, and all it entails for Gideon as a character and the overall themes of the series, that Gideon forgive Harrow without Harrow having “earned” it or made real amends. The fact that she does conveys to us everything I’ve just been talking about!

Furthermore, this story is in conversation with a rather particular type of Christianity, but Gideon’s Jesus parallels are even more widely applicable. Forgiveness is kind of a whole theme with that guy, and the book is also plenty interested in what it costs for a human to forgive as divinely as scripture demands (to forgive as the bond demands, as the empire demands). In some ways there are good things that may come of it, sure, but it is not a purely redemptive force for the giver or receiver. It does not necessarily resolve.

I myself can’t say that I ship Gideon and Harrow in the way people traditionally think of shipping, nor as I have traditionally shipped other characters. Still, I reject the notion that that way of relating to each other is not a central part of the questions the book is asking. Like before, when I was talking about Gideon finding something to believe in in the way the adept/cavalier bond is sold to her—although we see that bond encompass many different types of relationships it is in Gideon and Harrow’s case speaking to how romantic love (much like that forgiveness!) is not immediately and entirely redemptive. I mean, Muir does say the series is about how love can be redemptive, but I think can be is the operative phrase here, in that it’s also first demonstrating the ways it’s not, or at least not always the way we think it will be--the limits and then the power. Trying to set that aspect of the relationship aside (like a “sisters” route or something similar) is a weak and queasy side-stepping of the issue.

Remember that interview where Muir says something along the lines of like, she didn’t write it as necessarily romantic but definitely homoerotic? Yeah. 

Despite all that I do want to make it clear that I hope Gideon and Harrow work it out in the end. Just don’t assume the narrative does not understand what working it out might entail. And who knows? I might have the read all wrong. Maybe Muir doesn’t understand what she’s doing. But I feel pretty compelled by the textual evidence.

[klbwriting]

Pirate’s Heart - Chapter 3

I’m An Albatroaz

Fandom: Six of Crows

Pairing: Kaz/female!Reader

Summary: Kaz plans a heist that goes disastraously wrong

Taglist: @sixofshadowandbone @thedelusionreaderbitch @itsemy01 @angelicdanvers @marinettepotterandplagg @screen-to-stage @aysegust @sagewrites111 @lilyoflower @hey-peeps @starjane312 @spawn0fsatan @myalupinblack @ameliathackray @moondustmarauder​

Let me tell you all a story about a mouse named Lorry Yeah, Lorry was a mouse in a big brown house She called herself the hoe, with the money money flow But fuck that little mouse 'cause I'm an albatraoz

It was early in the morning, the sun was just starting to rise and Kaz hadn't slept all night.  It was hard to sleep when a person named Lady Heartless was sharing a room with you and she hadn't been sleeping either.  They had seemed to be staring at each other the whole night, studying the other.  It was when the light of the sun was just peaking into the window that one of them finally spoke.

"I know a secret about you Kaz Brekker," she said softly.  He tried to keep his face blank but she saw some curiosity in his eyes.  "I know something happened to you, something bad."

"I'm a pirate, we don't exactly because pirates because good things happen," he said, mocking that she thought she knew him so well.  He was trying to keep himself calm, the look on her face was pity and he had a feeling that she did know what had happened to him.

"I know what happened to you on this ship...what the others did before you killed the captain and took over," she said.  Kaz could feel his face get paler but he tried to ignore it, swallowing hard and scowling.  

"How the fuck do you know any of that?" he asked, gripping the dagger that was hidden under his mattress.  He didn't want to kill her but if she planned on trying to use this secret against his crew he would gut her without a thought. 

  "I don't have a heart, so I learned how to read other people's hearts.  In their words, their mannerisms, their eyes.  A few years ago when we were stuck in that hallway together, hiding because my job had gone back and you made it worse, I touched your arm, just for a moment but the look on your face I have only ever seen in the faces of the girls I release from the pleasure vessels.  That kind of horror is unique," she explained.  Kaz felt his breath hitch in his throat.  He could see now in her eyes the pity but something else, admiration.

   "Why tell me this now?" he asked.  

"Because this is a job we're working together on, and its only fair, you have a secret hanging over my head and I have one over yours, we're even," she said.  She sat up, the night shirt she wore slipping down her shoulder.  Kaz had never seen a woman in his shirt before and he couldn't lie, he didn't hate it.  He noticed that her skin looked soft and smooth until it got to the target like scar on her chest.

  "Is that where it happened?" he asked even though he knew the answer.  She looked down and pushed the shirt up to cover the scars, nodding.  "What did it feel like?"  She barked out a dark laugh.

"It felt like someone was ripping a vital organ from my body and before I could recover someone put a knife through it," she said.  "Your uncle is a fucking prick."  Kaz laughed himself at this, showing a rare smile.  Y/N caught it and smiled a little herself.  His smile was nice, bigger than she thought it would be. "I can't argue with that," Kaz said, getting up himself.  He stood, stretching his limbs, shirtless and Y/N watched, the light hitting him just so that she thought for a moment that he was shining.  It was possibly the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.  She quickly moved to stand, grabbing her pants to hide her blush before he could see it.  Lord, she had laid with men before, and women, why was this one boy making her feel like a virginal maid.  She slid the pants on and stripped off his shirt, pulling on her own.  Kaz had slid his on also and watched her finish dressing, sliding on her boots and putting her long hair up in a bun on her head.  He liked it better down but he wasn't going to tell her that.   "So we should probably wake the others and tell them the plan," Y/N said, moving towards the door.  Kaz nodded and followed her out.  He requested that only his first mates and her mates join them in the lounge.  

"Now Rollins' home is a fortress, heavily guarded at every entrance except for the waterway.  It has wide bars that they assume no one could fit through," Kaz explained, showing them a drawn up blueprint of the fortress.   Y/N glanced to Inej.

"Think you could fit?" she asked.  Kaz looked at her surprised.  He would have just commanded Inej to go through the bars or miss out on the money but she asked.  He was going to ask her about that later.  Inej nodded.  "Alright, after Inej gets in what's next?"

"There is a pulley system inside to raise the bars for releasing the bodies of the executed that can pile up there, she will need to use a device that Wylan is creating to blow the levy and raise it for us," he explained.  "Once we're in we split into two groups, one group goes to the treasury on the second flor and creates a diversion, that group will be Inej, Jesper, Nina, and Matthias.  You and I will go directly to the sea witch being kept in main cell here in the basement.  The diversion should have them low staffed and we should be able to handle anyone who's still there.  Exactly half an hour after we enter we should be meeting Wylan at the entrance of the waterway to head back to the Crow."   Y/N looked at the plans again and squinted some.

"How will the group at the treasury escape if they are creating the diversion?" she asked.  Kaz smirked.  

"Another feat for your Inej, she will have to be a phantom in the room.  When the others are caught the guards will be heading back to their stations and should only leave one or two guards to handle transporting the rest of the group.  She will sneak behind them, give Matthias the lockpicks I will provide and take out the guard in the rear.  Matthias will free himself and handle the other guard.   Y/N nodded and had to admit it was a smart plan.

"You know a lot about this place," she said.  "How it functions."

"I grew up there, I should know it," he said.  Only those in that room knew of his origins and he looked at the women.  "That information doesn't leave this room."  They looked to Y/N and she nodded.

"We can keep secrets just like you," she said, eyeing him close.  He stared back at her.  "But Brekker, remember, you better not just be ruining my life again."

"O I only want to fuck up your night," he said.  Jesper rolled his eyes.  

"Lord you two have a catch phrase," he muttered.

"Excuse me?" Y/N asked, glaring at the man.  His dark eyes danced with laughter.

"Please, every time we meet you two say that.  'Kaz you better not ruin my life' 'O Y/N I just want to fuck up your night' you guys just scream power couple..."

"Enough of that talk," Kaz snapped, cane coming down on Jesper's hand and making him yelp.  "Rest up we leave at 9 tonight."

Inej studied the bars in the waterway, swimming in front of them pushing to find any weak spots, testing the width with her head.  Just when Kaz thought the girl was going to shrug and give up she slipped through the bars and climbed on the narrow walkway just beyond.  She held her hand out and Wylan handed her the small bomb from the rowboat they were in.  She light the device and put it on the levy mechanism before hopping into the water.  The bomb blew but the bang wasn't startling, it sounded like someone had shot a gun for target practice.  They hoped no one would really notice as the bars rose and they rowed in.  Wylan stayed with the boat as the others made their way through the waterway and up the stairs.  This led to a morgue and the smell hit them all hard.  Jesper and Nina gagged, nearly losing their dinners.  Kaz took a deep breath through his mouth before pressing on and out the door.

"Jesper, up the stairs down there, will take you to the treasury.  Half an hour don't be late or we're leaving without you," he said.  Jesper gave him a look that said he didn't believe him before disappearing with the others.  Kaz looked at Y/N who was waiting by the door towards the cells.  

"How did you find out about this?" she asked as they snuck down the halls, looking for the sea witch.  Kaz rolled his eyes.  He didn't like talking during a job, but he remembered that Y/N was a chatterbox during a heist.  

"I was in Port Hilib and it was a rumor, I bribed a guard here and they confirmed it," he said.  Well that was clearly not what she wanted to hear.

"This seems foolish, are you sure that he wasn't lying?" she asked.  Kaz growled.  He had thought of that just now.  He knew he had a need for revenge against his uncle but he didn't realize it had given him tunnel vision.  She was right, this could be a trap and he had just brought not only his crew but her.  O fuck, his uncle thought she was dead.  He would know immediately who she was now and she would be in more danger.  Kaz didn't often care about his competition but he liked Y/N and didn't want her dead.

"Guess we'll find out," he said with as much bravado as he could muster.  He could see that she didn't believe him but she was still following.  

"Guess we will," Y/N said, knowing that they were probably running into a trap.  She could only hope that the others got out and that her and Kaz's brains combined could get them out of this one.  They turned the corner of the final row of cells to find all of them empty.  Now Y/N knew they were in trouble.  The only people in the cells were Pekka Rollins and his second in command Barcham.  

"Hello nephew...O I see you've brought a guest..." Rollins froze then as Y/N came further into the light and he realized who she was.  " Y/N, how...you're supposed to be dead!"   Y/N actually just laughed.  Pekka looked so old.  

"Ok, how long have I been dead?  You look terrible Pekka!" she said, still cackling.  Kaz looked at her worried.  He had been on the receiving end of a beating from Pekka and though it had been years he still felt a twinge of fear in his chest at the look in his uncle's eyes.  

"How long have you been around?" he asked, snarling.  

"About 5 years now, the Menagerie?  Lady Heartless?  Ring any bells ya prick?" she said.  Now Kaz was panicking a bit internally.  He wanted to survive this encounter and she wasn't making that an easy task.  

"So you were dead 15 years and suddenly you came back? How?" he demanded.  She rolled her eyes while Kaz tried to back out of the hallway.  Barcham slid in behind him and held up his pistol.  Kaz froze and glared.   "Pekka, I traded my heart for legs...then you stabbed me in an empty chest cavity.  I literally have no heart, that was not a figure of speech the sea witch was using," she explained as if she were talking to one of her younger girls.  Pekka looked positively livid, she could have sworn steam was coming out of his ears but this was just too much fun.  

"Um, Y/N, I would really like you to shut the fuck up now," she heard Kaz say from behind her.  She turned to see him with a pistol aimed at his head.  She nodded and held up her hands, dropping her own pistol.  Pekka moved over and grabbed her arm roughly.  She felt herself getting sick but held it down.  Kaz looked just as sickened when Barcham took his arm and started leading them out of the cells.

"So the sea witch story?" Kaz asked.

"Just a trap to get you here.  Your little friends will all be on a prison ship to the Outer Isle in the morning, and you Kaz will hopefully learn your place in this life.   Y/N, I might just make sure you're dead this time," Pekka said.   Y/N looked at Kaz and he stared at her as they were led away into captivity.

[starlightinhumanform]

24/7: Chapter One

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Ship: Romantic Loceit, Platonic Demus, Platonic Logicality 

Summary: James (aka Janus) works the graveyard shift at a open-all-night convenience store. Logan is a college student who stays up way too late, way too often. While pulling all-nighters, he often visits the store James works at. As time goes on, James begins to care about Logan as more than just a customer. 

Warnings: Moderate Language, Some suggestive jokes, Mentions of ignorant/negative sentiments regarding vitiligo, Mentions of intoxication— some implied to be underage (please tell me if anything needs to be added)

Genre: College AU, Coffeeshop AU but weird (that’s literally the best way i can think of describing it), Mutual Feelings, Fluff 

A/N: — Janus’ name in this AU is James (mostly because when I began planning this, his name hadn’t been revealed). I may still include his name by writing in a name-change but we’ll see lmao — I do not have vitiligo and do not personally know anyone with vitiligo; Janus’ experience with the condition is based entirely on my research. That being said, I did my best to give an accurate representation but I do not claim that it is flawless in anyway. If there are any improvements you think I can make in this area, please please let me know 🖤🖤🖤 Love you all 🖤✨

Ao3   Fic Masterpost    Fic Request Info

James’ first shift started normally. That is, as normally as he could assume 24 hour convenience store shifts could be. It’s not like he had much experience with it.

Being his first day, he had assumed that the manager would’ve at least stuck around for a while. Instead, the woman had pointed out the bathroom plunger— advising him to not let anyone steal it— told him how to use the slushie machine, and said that if someone tried to rob the store, let them take the money; she even showed him the quickest way to open the cash register. Then she left within the first hour of James’ shift.

James didn’t mind being alone but he couldn’t fight down the frustration at his manager for abandoning him without actually telling him anything useful. He kept worrying that someone would ask a question that he couldn’t answer. What if the customer got angry and then he got reported and lost his job on the first night? Not to mention every time someone walked in, he was ready to bargain for his life with the $225.67 and a random condom in the cash register.

The adrenaline was getting to his head, stirring up usually dormant worries. He couldn’t stop glancing down at his hands. They were warm tan, patterned at random with lighter splotches. He had a condition known as vitiligo which made areas of his skin lose their pigmentation. For the majority of the time, it wasn’t a big deal; the worst part was the weird looks people gave him and even then, he could usually brush them off. Still, there was always the occasional idiot who felt the need to say something rude or inform him that he showed signs of demon possession. He hoped beyond everything that one of those incidents didn’t occur while he was alone in the store.

Thankfully, the only customers for the next few hours were a couple groups of teenagers at varying levels of intoxication and a traveling family made up of two parents suffering from highway-hypnosis and a small child who tried to climb into one of the drink refrigerators.

By one in the morning, the flow of incoming patrons had completely stopped. By that point James had already thrown back an entire 5-hour Energy drink and reorganized the chip rack— twice .

When the entry bell finally rang again at around two, James’ head was buzzing so badly he wasn’t sure if he had imagined the sound or not. A young man walked in— college aged with messy hair and glasses. He disappeared into the rows of brightly coloured plastic bags without a word and so quickly it made James once again question whether or not he was hallucinating.

It wasn’t until the man had made his way back to the counter, setting down a bag of chips and a couple energy drinks, that James was sure he existed. The man’s hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed in two days and his dark circles were so deep they could be seen from beneath his squared glasses. Yup, definitely a college student.  

Despite the obvious signs of exhaustion, the man was undeniably pretty. Counter to his tired scowl, his eyes were bright and alert, framing a sharp nose. The way he kept his strong chin tilted slightly upwards and walked with purpose gave him the appearance of someone who actually knew what he was doing with his life— so basically, the opposite of James.

James was hardly ever self conscious about his appearance but this man— this stupidly pretty, oddly perfect man— made James squirm just a little bit, made him wonder if he was living on one side of some scale while the customer lounged on the other side. James tried to shrugged it off, focusing on the items in front of him instead.

The man spent the entire interaction at the counter muttering to himself and never once making eye contact. It was a little strange, but he was cute and James was bored so he decided to just appreciate the entertainment while it lasted.

It wasn’t until James went to hand the man his receipt that he seemed to even become aware of James’ existence. James held out the thin slip of paper, apparently causing the man to flinch backwards. His reaction was strong enough to make James wonder if he was one of those people— the type that thought vitiligo was some sort of deadly, contagious disease.

His eyes darted up quickly, his gaze sharp as it scanned over James’ face, “You’re not the normal cashier.”

He was taken aback by the accusing tone in the man’s voice, “No, I guess I’m not? I just got hired; the other guy got let off… something about trying to steal the plunger.”

“Oh,” His face transformed into a noncommittal scowl that James simply could not read, “Expect me regularly.”

The man turned on his heels and walked briskly to the door as James stood frozen and mystified behind the counter, “Oh, uh… see you soon then.”

——————

James woke up to the smell of something burning. He didn’t even remember dragging himself home and collapsing in his bed but based on the smell bothering him he evidently had made it back. No one could burn food quite like his roommate.

“Remus what the fuck are you doing?” James shuffled out to the kitchen where his roommate was poking at something on the stove.

“Making lunch.”

Based on his bed head and near-complete lack of clothes (Remus always slept in booty shorts and nothing else) James could guess that he had woken up only a few minutes earlier himself, “Dude that does not smell like anything humans should eat.”

Remus gave him a wicked grin and James decided not to push the subject. He walked out of the room with a sigh and hoped that the smell would clear up soon.

He made his way into the living room, sitting down and flipping open his laptop. James groaned at the lack of new email notifications. No new emails meant no new job acceptions.

“Guess I’m working the night shift again.”

James was grateful he got the job at the convenience store— no question. Getting a job as a college dropout was both necessary and nearly impossible at the same time. He was lucky to get a job at all and being a graveyard shift, he got paid nearly double the normal wage for his position. For now, his sleep schedule would just have to suffer.

——————

The weeks drifted by and James fell into a dull, but easy rhythm. He would go to work every night, spend the hours rearranging chip bags, guarding the plunger, and— if he was lucky— the pretty college boy would come in for a few minutes to grab salty food and a caffeinated drink.

James wasn’t sure when it became “lucky” for the man to come into the store. Maybe it was lucky because he was entertaining, always preoccupied and wandering around the store like his mind was a hundred miles away. He had this odd sort of duality— somehow both spaced out and intensely focused at the same time. It was like he was concentrating on the dimension beyond the one James was living in. He floated through this world, always preoccupied with world in his head. It was endearing and intriguing and James found himself looking forward to seeing the man. James wanted to see the world inside his head, to know what was so captivating that he had no use or interest for what was outside of it.  

The student was quickly becoming his favourite customer— something James never thought he would have— and he genuinely enjoyed having a chance to talk to the other guy. He was handsome, obviously intelligent, and, if given the chance, James definitely would’ve asked him out for a drink.

As it was though, James looked awful in his uniform so he would never have the confidence to make a move the only times he ever saw him.

James started to watch for him. The man came at least once a week, always between midnight and four in the morning. He must have lived nearby because he always walked over instead of taking a car like most of the other patrons. Either that, or he lived further away and walked all the way just for a bag of chips and an energy drink.

It was a Thursday like any other when he walked into the store and James’ curiosity got the better of him.

“So,” James leaned across the counter as the man sat his items down, “you come around here often?”

He tilted his head quizzically, “Yes? I do come here often? You’ve seen me.”

“No I— it was a joke,” James resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. This was… not going the way James would have hoped, “What’s your name? We might as well get on first name basis since we see each other all the time.”

“I’m Logan,” Logan seemed surprised by the question.

“I’m James.”

Logan gave a curt nod, “I know.”

“But— how? I—“

“It’s on your name tag,” And with that, Logan turned and marched out of the store.

——————

Logan laid on his back, arms and legs spread over the entirety of his bed. The only leftover space of the bed was occupied by Patton, one of his housemates.

“So how did the all-nighter go?”

Logan groaned, “Well… it sure as hell did go all night. I’m so fucking tired.”

“This is what you get for viewing the entire American university system as a challenge.”

He squinted up at Patton. With his blond hair and round, smiling face he looked like the direct inversion of whatever pale little zombie Logan currently felt like, “I gotta stop staying up so late.”

“I don’t know, you kind of seem to like it,” His housemate patted his leg and stood up to walk out of Logan’s room, “By the way, where do you keep going? I hear you leaving the house, like, super early all the time.”

Sunlight was streaming through his partially open blinds. It was probably quite pretty but to Logan it just looked like a headache-inducing glare. He threw a pillow over his face, muffling his voice as he answered, “Booty call.”

Patton laughed as he stopped walking, “Yeah right. The day you answer a booty call is the day I will shave my head.”

Logan shifted the pillow slightly to look at Patton again. The man’s hair was his prize possession, like a curly fluffy cloud that he kept as a pet on top of his head. Logan didn’t know how Patton could afford the time and money he put into his hair. What he did know, however, was that Patton would never risk its safety. Logan frowned in (mostly) fake insult, “You really think there’s not a single person who would send me a horny text at three in the morning?”

“Nah I think there are quite a few people who would do that. I just doubt there’s anyone you’d actually find worth answering.”

Was there anyone he would actually answer? Logan stared up at the dark fabric above him. The pillowcase was a deep navy blue and if he really squinted, he could see the weave of the thread, a thousand random threads coming together to make a greater whole. The way the individual pieces created something far larger than themselves was fascinating to Logan. He had never given it much before, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever find a random individual worth making something together.

In the darkness covering his eyes, a vision of the convenience store cashier flashed across his mind. The face he saw was light brown and across that warm canvas, lighter portions sprawled. For the first time, Logan began really thinking about that face. He had sharp features, tired eyes, and when he smiled with lips sloped upwards at a lopsided angle. His skin reminded Logan of the glossy photos of nebulae in his astronomy textbooks— bright splashes breaking up the sameness of the night sky. How had he never noticed that before? What was his name? James.

He heard the creak of their old floors beneath Patton as he walked out of Logan’s room. He probably thought Logan had fallen asleep as he lay there in silence. He was far from asleep, though. His mind was racing, trying to find the missed connections and continually finding new ones in the process. His eyes flickered as previously unrecognized thoughts began surfacing. And they didn’t stop. How had he never noticed?

“I’ve been going to that convenience store down the street,” Logan called as Patton walked away.

James.

Maybe there was someone for him.

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[bthump]

Any hcs on how would the relationship between Griffith and Guts evolve if they grew old together ? Like, in an no eclipse au, how could you imagine their personalities change as they age/mature and how do you think it could impact their dynamic ? (Also, I’m sure they would both look really good if we could see them grow older, like obv Griffith would always look beautiful and ethereal at any age of his life but guts would also wear the « badass war veteran » look better than anybody else)

Yk when it comes to Guts looking like a badass war veteran, I like the idea of him losing his arm some other way in a no-eclipse AU and getting a metal prosthetic (maybe without a cannon in this version lol). But yeah I think they'd both age pretty well, because it's all headcanon and I say so.

When it comes to personality, assuming everything went perfectly and Griff got his kingdom and Guts stayed as a general or whatever and they're lowkey fucking and everything worked out, I think Griff would definitely mellow out a lot.

I talk a lot about him being torn between his dream and Guts, being unable to acknowledge that he's in love with Guts because he can't admit his dream isn't everything to him/Guts poses a risk to it, needing to pursue his dream to assuage feelings of guilt, yk all that fun dramatic stuff that leads to conflict, but I think even with that interpretation of Griffith, in a chill AU he could probably just subconsciously sort all that shit out with himself while ruling a kingdom and being in a relationship with Guts. If everything works out then there's no real conflict to deal with and he'd get used to having his cake and eating it too.

He'd open up to Guts more about his feelings and presumably in this AU Guts doesn't see him as a godly figure but just as a fellow human and would therefore engage with him instead of deflecting. Guts' love and admiration and reassurance would start to help him deal with his self-loathing, and with Guts at his side he could maybe find a good balance w/ ruling a kingdom but not needing to continue to pursue further and further goals just to have something to strive towards to feel like he's justifying himself.

Like okay in an AU where Griff got the kingdom but lost Guts, I assume he'd end up caught in a cycle of needing to keep expanding his goals further because he can't just stop pursuing a goal once he's achieved it, because stopping would be implicitly saying that he has now justified his mountain of corpses, yk? So he'd start building an empire, or he'd dive into trying to change Midland into his utopian dream by whatever means possible, never feeling like he's done enough. (I also assume this is lowkey NGriff's MO tbh)

But with Guts at his side starting to replace the dream as his reassurance that he's not a monster, he'd be much chiller. More able to handle political set-backs while trying to get his medieval socialist agenda going or whatever, more able to sit back and say ok I've done enough for now, less likely to push too far too quick and end up assassinated, etc.

Guts, for his part, would hang up his damn sword. That's what I want for him in a happy griffguts AU. He wouldn't have to immediately, and he wouldn't, a good decade or 15 years of swinging his sword in service to his friends and Griffith (as opposed to as an outlet for his negative feelings) works fine for him, but like, his proof that he's grown into a mature and well-rounded adult would be retiring and settling down without misgivings.

imo Guts at his most emotionally healthy sees his sword as a tool rather than an extension of himself, and a positive relationship with Griffith would lead to him seeing his sword and his job of killing people in a much healthier light - swinging his sword to protect his comrades and earn a living rather than because there's nothing else for him and it helps him stop thinking. And I think Guts contentedly retiring early and spending the rest of his days learning to paint or something would be his best possible ending. Maybe he gets a career ending injury, like Gambino did, but being in a much more emotionally healthy place, he's able to roll with it and be happy with Griff and his friends and do something else with his time.

As for their dynamic, lol honestly I think they'd be pretty chill in a happy AU. griffguts is a ship with a lot of potential for interesting conflicts and power dynamics and dysfunction, but like, not in the happily ever after timeline imo. The thing that really defines griffguts for me is that the story p much shows and tells us how genuinely perfect they are for each other, and then rips that potential away because all their issues ruined it. But if their issues didn't fuck it all up and they navigated the rocks and made it through, they'd be so perfect for each other that it would be boring lol.

But to be fair they could still have some good conflict on the way to their happily ever after. Like it's easy for me to see Charlotte being an issue for Guts that needs to be resolved somehow (Griffith proving he only cares about Guts, maybe doing something that risks his marriage for him?), they both potentially have major issues with sex that need to be navigated, Griffith is conscious of his position as a leader and possibly needs to resolve that with his relationship with Guts, the whole secret relationship thing, etc.

But once they're old, they'd be boring. I can imagine them just being content in each others' presence, pretty emotionally open and honest with each other, interested in what each other has to say, occasional fond married couple bickering, boring verse vanilla sex (I don't actually think either of them are particularly kinky by default, other than mb them getting a little thrill out of Guts fucking Griff hard enough that he feels it during his next meeting with nobles or tea party with Charlotte), little glances and smiles in public and lots of physical affection in private, etc etc.

Anyway yeah, that's what I got on the subject. Thanks for asking! And lmk your thoughts too if you want.

[princesssarcastia]

first hp and now MCU *sigh*

sighs. anyway the reason the jane foster au thing is taking literally seven years is that I’m physically incapable of writing for the MCU without fixing everything I thought was dumb about it.  can’t just do a canon re-write because I Refuse To Condone XYZ.  The things I thought were dumb are many and myriad, but here’s one of them:

In Infinity War, they won’t destroy the mind stone while it’s still attached to Vision because they “don’t trade lives,” even though Steve made the same damn sacrifice, whatever.  But the thing is the avengers then immediately travel to Wakanda and start trading Wakandan lives for Vision’s.  They trade so many lives for Vision’s, and in the end it doesn’t even matter because they have to kill him themselves anyway.  SO all those Wakandans died for nothing.  They died for the aesthetic of the avengers having an army.  They died because no one thought through “yeah, T’Challa is totally down to sacrifice his people’s lives for one android he isn’t close with.”  They died because, let’s be honest, the lives of those random Wakandan soldiers meant less to not only the white main characters, but also the white movie creators. hmm. what could possibly be the impetus there.  mostly stupidity, but probably also some racism, lbr.

anyway.  all this to say what follows is a snippet where a) the battle to save vision isn’t taking place in Wakanda proper because the avengers don’t trade lives...other than their own.  In fact, it’s taking place in the arctic circle, where Wakanda has a shielded research station with no civilians that Shuri can appropriate to fix Vision without having her citizens die needlessly.  b) it’s just the avengers there, because they’re willing to put their own lives on the line for their friend and their principles. c) they’re using the mind stone as a lure to keep Thanos’ giant monster army focused on them, in this unpopulated place, rather than a city or a country.

you didn’t really need to know that, actually, because this fic snippet is about bruce banner.  explicit tw in the tags you may want to check for if you don’t mind a spoiler.  anyway, oh well, long walk for a short drink of water:

The walls shake with something other than the wind, and Bruce grits his teeth against whatever extrasensory response the other guy is having.  If he doesn’t want to come out to play, then he doesn’t get to raise the hairs on the back of Bruce’s neck.

The other guy.   After two years being trapped while he gets to play, maybe Bruce is the other guy now.  Maybe the Hulk—

“Doctor Banner,” Shuri says without looking away from her interface.  “If you’re going to help, then help.  Otherwise stop distracting me and get out.”

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four...”You’re right.  Sorry.”  He turns back to his equations and keeps calculating what kind of energy source they can create here to replace the mind stone.  Vision may be able to survive without it, but it’s ridiculous to ignore that it serves a purpose in keeping him not just alive, but functional.  There’s a difference between surviving and living and the Avengers aren’t risking their lives just so he can—

Boom.

Dammit.

Shuri’s guard, the one T’Challa left with them—Ayo? Was that her name?—steps further away from them and speaks into her bracelet—kimoyo beads.  Bruce strains to ignore it because he doesn’t need to know what he’s missing outside, doesn’t need to know how poorly the battle is going for his friends, his—his shield brothers, Brun would call it, without him.  There’s no doubt in his mind Shuri could save Vision without him and there’s no doubt in her mind, either; he’s here as a courtesy and because it’ll go faster, at least.  Because he’d be useless otherwise, sitting there with his thumb up his ass while his friends fight and die without him, without them, dammit Hulk—

“Princess,” Ayo calls. 

“Not yet.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know how long, I’ve never done a neural reprogramming for an android before.”  Shuri purses her lips.  “Longer than this, certainly, to revolutionize a field that doesn’t even exist yet.”  She reprograms another synapse.  It looks like maybe thirty percent of them are done.  Thirty percent, after four hours.

Bruce glances at Ayo from the corner of his eye because he’s a masochist and he can’t help himself.  Her face is troubled, and so is Okoye’s on the projection hovering over her wrist.

“Ayo, tell her she needs to hurry up!”  The projection twists like the general has taken her hand from her face.  There’s a flash of silver, a war cry, and a brief, incomprehensible glimpse of something black and twisted and horrible.  It cuts out in the middle of the creature’s answers screech.

Ayo slowly lowers her hand back to her side, and Bruce tries to focus back in on his work.  Tries to focus on the math, on the energy readings, on Vision’s life in here instead of all the death out there, because if he doesn’t—

“I really am going as fast as I can,” Shuri says in a small voice.  Twenty.  She’s just twenty years old, what was Bruce doing at twenty?

Don’t go there.  Don’t go there, Bruce.  Shouldn’t have come back to the Arctic, that was just asking for trouble.

Focus.

What would happen if he lost it, and the Hulk refused to come out?

Focus.  Focus on Vision, on saving his life.  Save lives.  Save his life.

“So you're saying that the Hulk... the other guy... saved my life?”

Another explosion rocks the room, rocks the station, rocks the damn arctic ice pack they’re standing on.  It’s the biggest one yet.    “Evacuate the southeast quadrant.  All personnel in the southeast quadrant, evacuate to the next defense point.”  The intercom doesn’t even crackle as it activates over their heads and Bruce is struck by how odd that is; it’s almost more unnerving that the idea of the situation escalating to the point of evacuation.  Ayo pulls up a map of the station on her kimoyo beads and manipulates it, pulling up what he assumes is the southeast quadrant.

“That's nice. It's a nice sentiment. Saved it for what?”  

“How bad is it?” Bruce asks.

Ayo’s eyes dart to Shuri, who is nothing but relentless; he hasn’t seen her stop once this whole time.  “Bad.  They have breached the facility’s outer defenses.  Princess, perhaps we should—”

“No!”  Shuri all but shouts.  “I will not evacuate, I will not abandon this mission, we’re not finished yet.  Tell someone to come fill the gap.”

“Princess, if they have not already done so, then they may not have the manpower to do it.”

“Then call reinforcements!”

There are no reinforcements because this is a hail-Mary, vigilante mission and all the Avengers on-world are already here.  T’Challa isn’t bringing any more of his people into this, and Steve and Natasha and Tony would never ask him to.   When they fail, that’s it, it’s done.  And so is Vision, and this will all have been for nothing. 

“I guess we'll find out.”

Bruce pushes his glasses off his nose and pinches his brow.  He can’t even think about this; he’s thinking about it without thinking it, a glaring absence that lets you see the shape of it regardless.

“This wasn’t just a Wakandan station, right?  I mean, you guys opened it up to other countries for the science and information exchange?”

A pause.  “Yes.”

“Any military?”

A longer pause.  “...Yes.  Dr. Banner, what are you...”

She trails off as Bruce looks up.  There must be something in his face.

“Did they leave anything behind when they airlifted out earlier?  Weapons?” He adds, because there’s no use beating around the bush.  No time. 

“Probably, but you will find nothing there of any use.  Wakandan technology—”

“Is much more advanced, I know.  But you don’t really have any projectile weapons.

Ayo’s nose crinkles up in disgust, but is already turning back to her charge.  “Of course not.  So primitive.  Princess, we will need time to evacuate to the ship, please.”

Shuri cuts a glance at him, seemingly ignoring Ayo.  “What do you need a projectile weapon for, Dr. Banner?”

“Something desperate.”  He pulls his glasses off and sets them on the table.  “Stay here, Shuri, finish your work.  Save him.”

Bruce has never asked anyone else to risk their life when his own would do. He’s not fucking starting now, when the whole universe is at stake. 

Between him and Shuri, Ayo reluctantly lets the issue go, but he can tell if Thanos’ army gets a single step closer to her Princess, Ayo will throw her over her shoulder and sprint for the quinjet, mission be damned.  He marches out of the room and follows Ayo’s directions to the nearest storage area; the American one, as luck would have it.  Because of course the American team brought guns to the Arctic Circle on a science and information exchange program.  Of course.  A few M11s just lying around, lost in the hasty shuffle to abandon this place.  Bruce picks it up and just holds it.  Feels the weight in his hand.  Ayo was right, they are primitive; primitive and ugly and violent and only good for one thing. Another impact.  The station shakes again, and the lights flicker above his head. Now.  It has to be now. He doesn’t have a radio, but he knows where the southeast corner of the building is, so he keeps the gun in a tight grip and heads that way. Three corridors away and he starts to hear noises.  Yelling.  Screaming.  Gunfire.  Energy bursts.  The ring of Steve’s shield, the whine of Tony’s repulsors.  And above it all that same horrible screeching noise from those creatures invading their planet at the behest of a genocidal maniac trying to kill Bruce’s friends. Kill the Hulk’s friends. Louder, and louder, and louder, until he can’t even hear himself think which is good because he doesn’t want to think about this he never wanted to think about this again even though he did, a lot, like after Lagos and Sokovia and Sakaar. The team has driven them back from the breach in the facility, that’s good.  Wind and snow come howling in through the massive hole and Bruce shivers and tells himself its from the cold. Outside is...pandemonium.  His friends are like brief sparks of light in a sea of writhing, angry, violent darkness trying to tear them apart.  There are so many of them he can barely see the horizon and they show no sign of stopping. In the distance, he makes out Steve, locked in fierce battle with something that looks less like a bargain bin eldritch horror and more like one of those Black Order people. He’s losing.  Even Bruce can tell that. “Now would be a really good time for you to get angry” He’s always angry.  But the anger isn’t enough anymore. “Bruce, what are you doing out here?”  Tony screams at him, flying towards him with his hands still targeting energy blasts at the enemy.  “I thought you said the Hulk can’t come out, you can’t be here!  Go help Shuri!” Ten, nine, eight, seven—oh, fuck it. “Won’t, not can’t, Tony.” One breath.  Two breaths.  He squeezes the grip so hard it starts denting his palm. “Those are functionally the same, big guy, so get the hell out of here.  We got this!” “No you don’t, we’re losing!”  Bruce takes a short inhale through his nose.  “They’re not functionally the same when I can force his—our hand.” That finally makes Tony look at him, and Bruce doesn’t know if he catches it on his own or FRIDAY points it out to him, but he finally sees the gun.  He dissolves his faceplate and looks at Bruce with wide, exhausted eyes.  “No, no, Bruce, don’t you dare, Bruce!” He lunges, but he doesn’t make it before the gun goes off, the bullet tears through Bruce’s mouth and then—and then nothing. The Hulk roars.   Anger isn’t enough anymore.  Self-preservation will have to do.

[ka-writes]

——————

Notes: haha I did a semi short chapter... sorry... also this is chapter 4 of my space AU..

ALSO READ THE DAMN WARNINGS. Thank you ☺️

——————

Incase you missed:

Chapter 1:

Chapter 2:

Chapter 3:

——————

Inspired by:

Humans are Space Velociraptors

By:FreshRoses_InMyGarden_NeedTheRain

Some kids come from storks, others come from crashed spaceships

By: mmmajora

Home Again, Home Again

By: teeth_eater

All works can be found on Ao3

——————

Warning: Mentions of abuse (physical verbal and sexual) there aren’t any graphic recalls it is simply mentions. Mentions of being beaten up. Mentions of knives and blood. Threatening characters, and character pain. Again characters being trapped and not going home. Cussing. Characters passing out. Characters being distressed characters being malnourished. Yea I kinda was in an angsty mode sooo.... here you go..

——————

Ao3 link:

——————

“Humans are [Add text here]”

Chapter 4: I guess it qualifies as an introduction?

Phil wasn’t expecting to wake up at 4 in the morning to the sound of laughter.

It wouldn’t be the first time, definitely not the last.

Curiously the avian poked his head into his kids’ room. The laughter wasn’t coming from the gardener, guard, or scientist. The laughter was coming from the assistant who wasn’t in their room. Phil turned his attention down the hall. Sure enough the laughter was louder. Quietly he made his way to the holding cell. Phil sat in a smaller hallway and decided to listen into the conversation… What can he say? He always eavesdropped..

“What even is a you-tube?” The assistant asked through small giggles. To that the human gasped as if he was hurt by the statement.

“You don’t have YouTube?! Or like an alien version of it?!” The human replied, not even trying to hide his shock.

“Erm no?”

“Well it’s like this thing that humans use to make really cool videos and stuff.”

“What’s a video?” Ranboo interrupted.

“They’re kinda like moving photos that usually work as a sort of entertainment or info dump. I could probably tell you thousands of the times my stupid teacher made me watch ‘educational’ videos..”

“So they’re kinda like illusions?”

“Yea but you don’t see 'em in 3D. As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted..” The enderian let out a small squeak of embarrassment at that, “YouTube is like a thing people use to post videos on. I am totally making an alien version of YouTube when I get out.” The air stiffened at that.

“Tommy.. you probably won’t get out for a while…” Ranboo said, Phil heard one of them shift and the entire atmosphere lost it’s warmth, “It’s not like you won’t get out! It’s just hard… especially when no one really trusts you yet.” Ranboo swallowed, as he usually does when he is uncomfortable, “Even when we let you out of the holding cell.. you probably won’t be allowed off the ship. It’s too dangerous for all of us..” the two fell into a deafening silence. Phil shivered at the tension, making sure to be silent while doing so.

“I assumed as much…” the human started, being the first to break the silence, “I-I… I guess I won’t be going home either… since the ISF absolutely hates us.. plus like you said, only already crazy humans are sent back..” the human sighed sadly.. For the first time Phil felt sympathetic towards a human. With that he decided it was time to start on breakfast.

——————

Three things happened after Tubbo woke up.

One, Ranboo passed out at the table. Phil simply shook his head and picked up the enderian with some unknown strength to the rest of the crew.

Two, a scream was heard from the other side of the ship, causing Wilbur to frantically run to the holding cell.

Three, Techno put his milk in before he poured his tea… I mean who does that?

Ignoring the last strange thing, Tubbo went to check on Ranboo. He was fine, so Phil said. “He only needs rest. Leave them be.” Was what Tubbo got as he peered into the enderian’s room. Shrugging off the weird behavior Tubbo made his way to the garden.

Before he made his way to the garden he noticed the human wasn’t in the holding cell. That meant he was probably in the lab… Which meant Tubbo would have to meet him.. Oh prime no. That’s not gonna happen.

He started sprinting to the garden. It was just passed the lab if only he took another step-

“Tubbo, I need your help.” Wilbur said from behind him. The droneling turned around reluctantly. Holding his breath he made his way into the medical part of the lab.

[gore and distressed characters, skim if you need to]

There, laying on the bed, was a human. He held back a scream which came out as a labored gasp. Sweat was bubbling on his forehead. With that he turned to Wilbur who examined the human from a distance.

“Go get some bandages and the stitching kit.” Wilbur commanded. Without hesitation Tubbo ran to grab the items. Wilbur took both objects and disinfected a bad cut on the human’s arm. He hadn’t even realized there was a cut until Wilbur cleared off the strange red blood. Wilbur then proceeds to stitch the wound and bandage the irritated wound.

That’s when Tubbo noticed the amount of blood the human lost. Most species wouldn’t be able to handle that much blood loss, but here was the beast of the galaxy, completely fine in a matter of minutes after losing quite a bit of blood.

[End]

When Wilbur was satisfied, he picked the human up and carried him back to the holding cell. Tubbo was unable to stop himself from following. Before thinking the droneling sat at the table and watched as Wilbur finished cleaning the human.

“Er.. do you want me to grab Techno so you can stay in here?” Wilbur asked, noticing Tubbo sitting in the corner.

Without saying a word Tubbo gave a small nod. Wil didn’t push like he usually did and left to get Techno.

Tubbo got up and approached the sleeping human. He was skinnier than what Tubbo thought humans should be. There were odd dark circles under his eyes and his hair clearly hadn’t had a good wash for what looked like months. He had injuries over his body and was practically shaking in his sleep.

Since Tubbo was preoccupied, he barely noticed Techno enter, or the door closing. Let alone the clangs and thuds from other crew mates.

He was preoccupied by the strange human who was sleeping in front of him.

The human stirred and the droneling stumbled away.

After a few seconds the human sat up and looked at the now fallen droneling.

“What the fuck?”

——————

Tommy didn’t expect another alien to push their luck in his space. But here he was.

The alien was smaller than Tommy by a lot. Further proving Tommy was the biggest man. Unlike the other aliens this one wasn’t threatening upon first glance.

The one from last night had been way more intimidating at first. Being way taller than Tommy and having weird lanky limbs and magical purple glowing orbs surrounding them. They had horns and a half and half complexion. One half of the alien being white with grey and purple freckles along with a red eye. The other half being a purplish black with grey and green freckles along with a green eye. They wore a suit with a red tie and dress shoes. He also had two tails of the same colors as his complexion. All of this being forgotten after they stammered through their introduction. It was honestly hilarious.

This alien was very different from the others. They had brown messy hair, encasing black antennas and small black bumps that resembled horns. Their skin was a honey peach color and practically glistened. There were strange hexagon patterns over their face along with three black stripes on either side of their face. They had bee wings, which was the only thing Tommy could relate to the alien too. There was also a black fuzzy tail, similar to a stinger, poking out of their pants. Their hands were lanky and pointed, completely black. There was also soft yellow fuzz poking out of their sleeves and holes in their pants. They wore ripped jeans along with a long sleeved green button down shirt. Their eyes were another thing entirely, being a honey brown in certain light but could also shift to a greenish blue in other light. They had fly-like pupils.

After a minute of them sitting in an awkward stance the alien got up. Using their wings to properly position them in a standing position. They brushed themselves off and approached Tommy.

“You lay a finger on anyone here and I will kill you. Understand?” The alien said, any intimidation that was lost from the alien falling was regained in an instant. The alien poked him in the chest with one of the lanky fingers, which started burning like acid after a minute.

Since Tommy was too, sacred, poggers to move he simply nodded, which is absolutely the best response to the situation. Sadly the alien didn’t get the gesture and dug their nail into his chest even more. Seriously, it was starting to really burn.

“Y-yes.” Was all Tommy could muster. The alien was satisfied with the answer and let go of Tommy. They walked out of the now open door. Shortly after Techno followed the door closing behind him. Tommy never realized the other alien was in the room.

[Mentions of abuse]

For a split second the interaction reminded him of his dad.

The way his dad did the same thing to his mom when she didn’t listen.

Or when his sister didn’t follow his dad’s friend.

Or when Tommy made a mistake.

Except instead of a nail, it was glass, or a punch, or sometimes a knife…

[End]

He shook off the thoughts and reminded himself that the aliens weren’t his father, nor were they going to do that to him.

They wouldn’t do that right?.. Right?

Tommy slapped his face, only to find there were silent tears flowing down his cheeks. He quickly wiped his cheeks and continued his train of thought.

Tommy trusted too easily. That in the end is how at nine he ended up getting beat up in his first foster home. He condemned himself for trusting the aliens. They were strangers. He knew nothing of them and they knew more about him. This was the moment in which Tommy shut himself off. Where he regained the ability to leave his blind trusting instincts.

——————

Chapter 4- End

Words: 1633

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Notes: I didn’t know what to add next so I decided to leave you here. Your welcome! <3

Again hope you enjoyed! Now go eat food, drink water, take a shower if you haven’t, and go to sleep. Stay safe, love ya! <3

——————

Tubbo: *falls out of fear

Tommy: ._. This dude ain’t intimidating

Tubbo: *threatens Tommy

Tommy: ,:^ never mind then...

——————

Reminder likes are appreciated but reblogs are better!!

——————

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 8,205

Chapter Warnings: swearing, referenced past suic.ide

Chapter Summary: In which Wilbur tries very hard to hold a productive meeting, and does not quite succeed.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Seventeen: ‘til the work is done

In retrospect, it’s not his best idea. He seems to be full of those, lately. Not-great ideas. This one is foolish simply for the fact that he is already tired, and gifting energy to Schlatt is a strain on his already depleted reserves. It takes about twenty minutes for him to get dizzy, and another two after that before spots start drifting across his vision, and at that point, he has to admit defeat, cutting himself off mid-sentence and breaking their connection. Schlatt swears as he loses his tangibility.

“Fuck, that felt weird,” he says. “What the fuck was that, why’d you stop?”

He wets his lips. It takes longer than it should for the words to formulate.

“I told you, we’re essentially sharing a lifeforce, Schlatt,” he says. “There’s only so much I can give you.”

Schlatt starts hovering in the air again, regarding him with a dark stare. And then, his expression clears.

“Oh, I see, so you’re being a dumbass,” he says, and Wilbur wants to protest, but he can’t get a word in edgewise. “Why the fuck are you giving me shit you can’t afford to lose, then? Jesus Christ, Wilbur, would you sit down?”

“There isn’t time for that,” he replies. “I’ve spent too long up here already. I need to go and meet with the others.”

Schlatt stares at him for a long moment. He’s not sure why. And when he speaks, his voice is—strange.

“I was right about you,” he says. “You really don’t change. Not when it comes to yourself. You’re just as stupid and self-destructive as you always have been. And now that coating of paint you try to put on over it? That’s flaking off. The only question is how many people you’re going to bring down with you this time.” He shakes his head, and his eyes narrow, expression hovering somewhere between a dark satisfaction and something else, something difficult to interpret. “You’re wearing yourself thin. I see it, everyone else can probably see it. But you can’t. Or you do, but you can’t accept it.”

(you put on a smile for the masses an upbeat tone for your friends but you’re a sinking ship and you know it, and you think it might be easier to let yourself drown even though you know you won’t, because you cannot allow yourself to fail because you are leader you are president and this is everything you fought for so it is a fault in you if you cannot handle it so you push through you make yourself and you scream into your pillow and cry yourself to sleep because at the end of the day your self-loathing clings to you like cobwebs and secondhand smoke)

He inhales.

“I don’t see how me needing to have a meeting with everyone else has led you to that conclusion,” he says, tone frosty, “but you can think what you want. And besides, you can hardly talk. We’ve had a conversation like this already.”

He turns on his heel, letting his coat flare out behind him; though, it’s still damp, so the motion isn’t nearly as satisfying as it usually is. But Schlatt follows along with him, and he grits his teeth, letting each of his footfalls resound with purpose, with confidence that he is struggling to truly find.

This was definitely a bad idea. Engaging with Schlatt always is. He should know this by now, should know that a welcome distraction can turn unwelcome at the drop of a hat.

“I never said that I was any better,” Schlatt says, “but that’s the difference between you and me, Wilbur. I know exactly what I am. You don’t know who the fuck you are, so you hide behind labels because that makes it easier for you to think about.”

(general president exile villain and round and round it goes and there is truth to his words because he scrambles for stability scrambles to fit the old roles but the fact of the matter is that he is something new and he is floundering because for all that he wants to be better he has never known how so it’s casting a coin in a wishing well and hoping)

“I know exactly who I am for the moment,” he says, “and that’s someone who’s going to get rid of the fucking Egg and pummel Dream’s face into the ground. For now, that’s more than good enough.”

He gets to the stairs again, and takes them two at a time on his way down.

“Fine, then, just don’t come crying to me later,” Schlatt says. “So, what’s the deal with Dream anyway? How the fuck did he get out of prison?”

That actually gives him pause for a second.

“I’m not actually sure,” he says. “A question for the warden.” One that he does intend to ask, if only to know how, exactly, Dream made what was supposed to be a secure prison seem like child’s play to escape. Was he waiting for the right moment all along? He’s not sure he likes the implications of that,

(especially since he deemed the right moment to be after Wilbur’s return, during the implementation of a plan that he helped to form, and it sickens him that he might have played any role in Dream’s decision making, that he might have led everyone into these circumstances, eyes wide open but blind all the same)

but it would make sense, considering everything that he’s learned, considering what he now knows of the rot that’s woven  itself into Dream’s very being. The corruption that lends him power.

“How much have you even been here for?” he continues, glancing at the ghost out of the corner of his eye. “Do you have any idea what’s been going on, or have you just been fucking around since the last time I saw you?” When you ran away from Tubbo, he does not say, and he wonders if Schlatt catches it anyway.

There is a beat, and then, “I—know that Dream’s out,” Schlatt says, the words reluctant, and he suppresses a bark of laughter.

“So, you know jack shit,” he says.

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You know jack shit,” he repeats. “That’s fine. Stick around, I’m sure you’ll get caught up to speed.”

“Oh, great, yeah, that’s exactly what I want, hanging around you chumps some more,” Schlatt mutters. “What a good time. God, I need a drink. Or you know what, I’d settle for a fucking protein shake. You got any of those around?”

He doesn’t respond. It takes some effort, but anything he could say would only rile him up further, and any indication of actually, you do not need a drink, and I am going to make sure that you don’t get one literally ever is sure to set him off, which is exactly what he doesn’t need right now. So he lets Schlatt complain as he backtracks to the entrance hall, and then to the throne room where he assumes everyone else is.

His assumptions are proved correct the moment he draws close enough to hear everyone’s voices. Talking over each other, tones fluctuating. It sounds anything but peaceful.

Eret has moved their throne aside, he notes as he stops in the doorway. Most of the room is now taken up by a large wooden table, clearly meant to be a place for meeting. He appreciates the gesture, or would, if anyone seemed to be using it. His eyes find Techno and Phil first, next to a cluster of torches; Techno is still wringing water from his hair, looking very put out, but his posture is tense, on guard, and Phil looks about the same, even as he helps Ranboo get the last of his armor off without flicking himself with water.

(it is easy to forget that his family is among enemies there, that at least a few of these people would like to see them dead)

He finds Fundy next. He’s standing by himself, ears flat against his skull, and every now and then he twitches toward Eret. But the main spectacle in the room is the ongoing argument, and he narrows his eyes, trying to pick out the participants and their stances. There’s Quackity—and that’s an interesting scar on his face, though with what he knows of the man’s combat ability, or lack thereof, he was bound to gain an injury like that sooner or later, with the server being what it is—shouting at Sam, who looks like hell, frankly, and Puffy next to Sam trying to defend him, maybe, and Sapnap by Quackity’s side trying to calm him, and then there’s Eret, who appears to be trying to mediate with little success.

“—don’t fucking care,” Quackity is saying, and he sounds near-hysterical, words spat out at a record pace, even for him, “I do not fucking care what the rules were, I do not fucking care, just, fuck, Puffy, stop trying to defend him, if he’d kept Dream locked up like he was supposed to, like his job was, like we all trusted him to, we wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, just, I don’t fucking understand how you could’ve let that happen, Sam, I don’t—”

He keeps going, and at the same time, Eret’s voice overlaps—“We’ve been through this already, Quackity, and I don’t see how this is helping.”—with Puffy’s—“You’re the one who needs to fucking stop, it wasn’t his fault, so stop yelling at him!”—and Sapnap’s—“C’mon, Q, please, I know, but you think tearing into each other is gonna help right now?”—and Sam himself is just standing there, taking it, eyes dull.

On the other side of the room, Tommy and Tubbo appear in the opposing set of doors and draw up short, Tubbo placing his hand on Tommy’s shoulder to pull him back, face settling into what might be resignation. This isn’t the first time, then.

Schlatt whistles. “Damn,” he says. “Something about this is familiar.”

“I do not want to know that,” he replies, eyeing Quackity. “Don’t tell me anything about your relationship, I categorically do not want to know.”

“Wait, what the fuck do you think I’m talking about—”

He meets Techno’s gaze. Techno raises an eyebrow, pointedly squeezes his hair with a towel, and inclines his head, as if to say, You deal with this. He glares back, trying to convey, Fuck off, I am not in charge of corralling these fuckers, and Techno rolls his eyes, the arsehole, because of course, he knows that that’s a damn lie, and actually, he kind of has put himself in charge of corralling these fuckers.

(something about this is familiar indeed, and these could be earlier days if he takes a step back and squints, looks at them all through blurry vision, and this could be a nation risen up around a drug van if he tilts his head just right, and he could be in charge of leading them, because the original members are all here, him and Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy and Eret all here, except the arguments are sharper and lined with more desperation than any of their original squabbles, before the war became real, before everything, before it all fell apart for the first time, before it was never meant to be, and he can lead, can pretend that it is all like it was then, but it would be unwise, perhaps, to forget that it is not like then at all)

So he steps further inside, notes with some displeasure the way that no one has marked his presence yet, and says, as loud as he can, “What the fuck are you all shouting at each other for, then?”

Quackity cuts off abruptly, which solves eighty percent of the noise problem, and Puffy stops after he does, which solves another fifteen percent. Quackity wheels toward him, not quite shocked, but still surprised, perhaps.

“Holy shit,” he says. “They said you were back, but—wow, Wilbur, you’re looking good. For a dead guy, I mean.”

“Thank you, Quackity,” he says, nodding. He strides up to the table, though he doesn’t sit, and splays his hands against it. It would probably be more picturesque if he weren’t still dripping a bit, but he made his choice to forgo towels and that’s the hill he’s dying on, apparently. “You’re also looking good. It’s nice to see you.”

“Tell him he looks sexy,” Schlatt suggests, and with a great amount of fortitude, he ignores him.

“So,” he continues, “is any of this arguing actually something that needs to be happening right now? Or can we move on to arguing about different things?”

Quackity’s face twists. “I’d say we do need to be arguing about it, actually,” he says. “Look, Wilbur, I know you—you left a while ago, right, so you’ve missed a lot, so I’m not sure how much about this you know. But Sam was supposed to be in charge of the prison. He had one job, and that was to keep Dream in his cell. And now look at where we are. So, yeah, I’d say it’s something that needs to be happening.”

(people keep saying that, that he left, and that’s not quite right, because leaving is slinging a bag over one shoulder and waving goodbye and leaving implies going somewhere when he wanted to go nowhere at all, and leaving is a sanitary way to phrase the desperate exit he made and perhaps they don’t know better or perhaps they do but don’t want to confront it but either way something in him recoils whenever they say he left because that is not the word is not the word at all and if they’re going to bring it up he wishes that they would actually bring it up rather than dance all around it dance in quicksteps that serve nothing)

“I agree that it’s important,” he says. “I would like Sam to explain what happened. But I also don’t see that recriminations are where we need to be directing our energy at the moment. Considering that what’s done is done” —He meets Quackity’s gaze as steadily as he can, meets his gaze and brings all the weight of their history to bear, from the debate floor to the podium and the stage to the dark caverns of the rebellion— “and going through all of the ways that everyone in this room has fucked everyone else over hardly seems like the best use of our time.”

He knows the statement won’t land like it should. He knows that he of all people has no right to ask for this. But the longer he stands here, the more aware he is of all the bad blood in this room, the more aware he is that this particular group of people is like a powder keg set to explode, that they could all turn on each other and do Dream’s job for him at a poorly placed jab or threat. The air is thick with the complicated web that binds them all.

(betrayals and lives taken and homes destroyed and even the bedrock of a once stable foundation shaken and torn up)

“Well, that’s kind of a convenient stance to take,” Quackity shoots back, and it’s precisely the response he expected “considering what you did.”

“I’m aware,” he says, drowning out the way that Tommy audibly starts to protest. “I think my point still stands, though. Unless you really think now is the time to air out everyone’s dirty laundry. I’m sure Dream would find it entertaining, at least.”

(the words taste like ash and he feels like a hypocrite but he can’t let them see how off balance he is can’t let them know because a leader is needed and he could step aside and let someone else take the position but that has always been a weakness of his, his need for control, so even when the control is slipping he grasps it with both hands and hangs on to it with all his worth whether it’s wise or not because someone needs to lead and he does not trust himself but he trusts others even less and he has always been one to take on the responsibility even when he ought not to even when)

Quackity breathes in and out, eyes narrow.

“Alright,” he says. “No, you’re right.” He steps up to the table as well, pulling out a chair for himself, though he doesn’t yet sit. He also, Wilbur notes, does not apologize to Sam, but that’s not a requirement, even though the way Puffy is glaring suggests that she would like it to be.

“Wait,” someone says, and Wilbur starts, looking to—George, and how did he not realize George was here, too? Perhaps because he’s been quiet. Quieter than the norm, though he can’t say that he’s ever known George all that well. Or perhaps it’s just a surprise to see him around. “Is he in charge?” George continues. “Why is he in charge?” He sounds genuinely confused more than upset, but he still feels his hackles raise.

(he is placing himself in this position and it feels natural and right and feels wrong and unsteady like his footing is slipping like he’s on the edge of the cliff face and below the rockslide is starting but he can do this, he can, he can lead this, it’s just one meeting and he can do it because if not him then who else will and he can do it)

“I’m not ‘in charge,’” he

(lies? he doesn’t know doesn’t know)

says. “I’m just trying to get a meeting started. We’re all here, aren’t we?”

“Everyone we were able to find is in this room,” Eret says softly, and then, to everyone else. “And I agree with Wilbur. We need to plan out our next move. And seeing as a meeting table has been provided—” They gesture, rather pointedly, and Puffy is the first to nod, pulling out a seat and all but collapsing into it, running a hand through her hair. Sam is next, and then Tommy and Tubbo enter fully, situating themselves directly to his right. Phil is the next to approach, followed by Techno and Ranboo, and he does not miss the way Quackity’s eyes track Techno’s movements.

Before long, it’s just him and Quackity standing. A concession might be needed here, or at least, a show of one; he doesn’t actually want to cause too much conflict with the man, if it can be avoided, not right this second, so he tilts his head slightly and sits in a chair of his own, though carefully, so as not to slump into it. Sitting seems to make him realize just how tired he still is, and the urge to let himself sag is strong. But the ploy works; Quackity seats himself, Sapnap on one side and George on the other, and really, this has to be one of the strangest collections of allies to have ever existed.

It reminds him of the final days of the rebellion, a little bit. The way that so many flocked to their banner to depose Schlatt. It’s difficult to look back on, but that aspect of it, at least, is not entirely tainted. There was a sense of camaraderie among them that is not quite present here, but he doesn’t miss it for himself; in those days, too, he held himself apart, struggling to resolve himself to what he was going to do, knowing too well that the traitor they all feared existed was him.

But there’s people here who weren’t here then. And people here then who are missing now.

“Who couldn’t be found?” he asks, and it is Puffy who answers first.

“Niki,” she says, and his heart skips several beats, unprepared for that answer, though its truth is undeniable. “I tried, but we only had so much time, and I have no idea where she’s been staying these days. There also wasn’t time to get to Foolish, but he lives a long way out, so he’s probably fine.”

It is a struggle not to react outwardly. Niki. He hadn’t even thought to—

No. Now isn’t the time.

(even though he wronged her, too, wronged her as he wronged everyone else and she deserved so much better than what he could give her and she is a dear friend so dear that even Ghostbur always remembered her but it seems that in the midst of everything else he might have failed her again and she deserves a thousand apologies and all the atonement he can offer but now he may never get that chance, may never and now is not the time to focus on it but oh gods Niki)

“Jack Manifold, too,” Tubbo chimes in. “He was staying in Snowchester, but I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Karl’s gone,” Quackity says. “But he does that a lot, so that might not necessarily mean anything.” His voice is too strained to be causal, and Wilbur has to make an effort not to react to that, too, though for an entirely different reason. He’s not sure how much Quackity knows. Not sure how much he should say, if anything at all.

(but he has seen Karl bargain with a god has seen the universe cling to him has seen the way he sidesteps in and out of reality and through time to the places inbetween and he would not have thought it of Karl of all people but perhaps that is the point)

“Hannah,” Sam offers, and nothing else. It’s not a name he knows.

“That might be everybody, though,” Sapnap says. “Alyssa and Callahan are long gone, and people like Vikkstar and Lazar haven’t been around for a while, now. Or, wait, actually, I have no idea where Hbomb is.”

“And there’s Purpled, too,” George says around a yawn. “No clue what he’s been up to these days, but he was always pretty close to Punz.”

“Oh, yeah, and the vines were all over his UFO,” Puffy agrees. “Um, and we might want to add Skeppy onto that. I have no clue where he is, but I’d be surprised if he weren’t Team Egg, since Bad is.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Is that actually everybody, then?” George says. “That’s more people than I thought.”

“It could be worse,” Phil says. His head is tilted back, eyes tracing the ceiling, though Wilbur knows him better than to think he’s actually relaxed. “We know about Dream, and BadBoyHalo, Antfrost, Ponk, and Punz. It’s a maybe on Niki, Jack Manifold, Hbomb, Skeppy, Karl—”

“Not Karl,” Quackity insists, and Wilbur is inclined to agree with that much, at least, even while Phil presses on.

“—Purpled, and—Hannah, did you say? And possibly Foolish, since we don’t know, but I’m inclined to agree with Puffy that he’s probably alright. So absolute worst-case scenario, that’s twelve, maybe thirteen people we’re up against. Pretty even odds.”

Phil’s definition of even odds, he thinks, is slightly skewed.

“Yeah, except you’re forgetting that the Egg is a demon. Dreamon, whatever. And Dream is also a demon, kind of,” Sapnap says. “That doesn’t sound even to me.”

“He’s still homeless,” Techno murmurs.

“The fuck does it matter if he’s homeless?” Quackity snaps, and then visibly quails when Technoblade looks at him, even though it’s also obvious that he’s trying not to. History there that he’s not privy to, perhaps, and he’s hardly going to bring it up right now.

“Well, I mean, we’ve already—” Fundy tries to speak up, but he’s drowned out by about four other people trying to weigh in on whether Dream’s homelessness has any bearing on the conversation, and Wilbur takes a second to frown at Techno for the hornet’s nest he’s kicked up, and by that time, Puffy’s speaking again.

(it’s fine, it’s still under control, he has this under control, it’s fine, and so what if he’s running on too few hours of sleep and so what if he wants to set his head down on the table and stay there, because he’s not about to actually do that, and it’s fine, he’s fine, it’s all fine)

“What about you guys?” she says, and everyone else falls quieter. “You were looking for dreamon-related stuff, right? Did you find anything? Honestly, we weren’t sure that you guys would be back this soon.”

“Is that where you went?” Schlatt asks. “How the fuck did that lead to you antagonizing a god?”

He ignores him, still. It’s the only option, really. “We went through as many of the stronghold’s” —There are several exclamations at that, at the fact that they know where one of the server’s strongholds is, as well as a sigh from Phil, no doubt an objection to spreading that tidbit around, but he continues— “books as we could, but we didn’t find anything. I did attempt to provoke a god into helping us, so we’ll see if that pans out at all, but I wouldn’t call it a wasted trip. I also managed to confirm for sure that the Egg is a dreamon, but I think we pretty much knew that.”

There is another moment of complete silence.

“I’m sorry, you did what now?” Quackity asks, and from where he’s drifting behind him, Schlatt starts cackling, loud and extremely irritating, a wheezy undertone to it that makes no sense considering that he does not need to breathe.

“I attempted to provoke a god into helping us,” he repeats. “I’m not sure whether I succeeded or not—in the helping area, at least. They were very provoked. But—” He pauses, considering. It’s always a tricky game, figuring out what to say and what to keep close to the chest, but this case is harder than most. “Actually, Sapnap and George, I’d like to ask, were you aware that Dream is a god? Or was a god?”

He is predicting the chaos that erupts after that, all exclamations and incoherent sounds, most of them some variation on either “What?” or “Fuck!” or some combination of both. But he keeps his gaze flickering between George and Sapnap, measuring their reactions. George’s face goes blank—shock, he thinks, rather than the expression of someone being caught out. And Sapnap’s jaw drops slightly.

“Dream’s not a god,” he says, and his voice overrides everyone else’s. “Dream’s not—there’s no way he could’ve kept that from us. Absolutely no way.”

“He’s not now,” he agrees. “He separated himself from the vast majority of his power, somehow, when he realized he’d be corrupted by the remnants of the dreamon. But he was one. I’m sure of that much. He may have hidden it from you, but I am certain of it.”

Sapnap’s face reddens.

“Aw, I think you hurt his feelings, Wilbur,” Schlatt says.

“Dream’s not a god,” Sapnap says again. “He’s not.”

“Even if he is, what does it matter?” Fundy says suddenly. “Especially if he’s not one now. It’s the dreamons that we have to deal with. The Egg, and whatever’s left in Dream. So if we don’t have anything that can take care of that, then what the fuck is all of this for? We have nothing.”

“Weird time for the kid to grow a spine,” Schlatt comments, and he’s ignoring him, he’s ignoring him, even though the vitriol in his son’s voice hits like a knife driven through stitches, back into a wound not yet healed. Fundy’s not looking at him, and the avoidance only makes it worse.

(it is directed at you it has to be it has to be that it is directed at you and it hurts hurts hurts and there is no one to blame but yourself and it hurts and you’re so tired and you have to stay in control but it hurts)

A hand touches his. He glances down to find that he’s clenched them, that his knuckles are white and his palms are stinging from the bite of his fingernails in his flesh, and Tommy has placed his hand on his, watching him. It is an effort to relax even a little bit, but for Tommy’s sake, he manages it.

Tubbo clears his throat. “What Fundy is getting at, I think, is that even with the stuff that me and Fundy have, it won’t be enough to kill them. Maybe we could banish the Egg, but apparently the exorcism we used on Dream wasn’t entirely effective, so we can’t be sure of that much. So maybe we’re not quite at square one, still, but we haven’t gotten that far. And if we can’t beat the dreamons, we can’t beat the Egg. Since the Egg is a dreamon.” He shrugs. “We’ve managed to keep it out. And as long as none of us break the enchantments from the inside, we should be fine to hold out here. But in the way of attacks, we don’t have much.”

“Great,” Quackity says. “So where the fuck does that leave us, then?”

He narrows his eyes at the table, attempting to collect his thoughts, and then looks back up. “I think we’re getting a bit off track,” he says. “Sam, is there anything that you can remember from the moment that Dream broke out that you think might be relevant?”

He tries to keep his voice, if not gentle, then at least free of blame, perhaps because he sees what Quackity apparently doesn’t; there is nothing he could say that would assign more fault than Sam has already assigned to himself. His eyes are dark, shadowed, and what skin is visible above the lines of his mask is pale and gaunt. It’s only been two days, little though that seems possible, but Sam appears as though he hasn’t eaten or slept for a week. Frankly, Wilbur hopes that he’s not planning to join in the fight that is sure to be on the horizon; he hardly looks as if he could effectively wield a sword. He is a far cry from the confident, stoic warden he met in the prison a few weeks ago.

“I don’t know,” Sam says, voice half a moan. “I think—I didn’t go in his cell. I know that for sure. I’d have no reason to. I didn’t go in, and the lava wasn’t lowered, so somehow, he escaped despite that. Which doesn’t make any sense, since the prison was designed to cut people off from any extraneous powers that they might otherwise have access to, and that includes admin abilities.” He stops for a second. The table has fallen silent again, though this time, there is a certain anticipation to it, a horror. Even Quackity looks considering rather than outraged. “I didn’t see him coming. He stabbed right through my armor. And I don’t—maybe it’s related to the demon thing. Or maybe—Wilbur, you said he was a god?”

His voice rises in pitch on the last sentence, cracks a bit on the last word, and Wilbur is suddenly reminded that Sam, like Sapnap and George, has known Dream for a very long time. Known Dream for a very long time and somehow, not known this.

“He was,” he says. “I don’t know how much of that power he still has. Not much, I’d imagine, but in combination with demonic corruption, perhaps that doesn’t matter. And in any case, it’s not something you would have known to plan for.”

“Wait,” Schlatt says, “is that why he could see me? Wilbur, what does it mean that he could see me? Does that mean something?”

He blinks. That—might actually be a good point. One that he hasn’t thought about in some time, though where he fits that into the mess of puzzle pieces spread out before him, he has no idea.

“So we’re back to square one there as well,” Phil says.

“Then I’ll reiterate, where the fuck does this leave us?” Quackity says. “We’ve been doing a whole lot of talking here, but not a whole lot of actual planning. Does anybody actually have an idea of what to do, or are we going around in circles?”

“I don’t see you offering much of anything either,” Eret points out.

“Yeah, ‘cause I don’t know what the fuck is happening!” Quackity shoots back. “At least I can admit that instead of yanking everyone around pretending like I know what I’m doing!”

That is a barb, probably, but Quackity isn’t even looking at him, is glaring at Eret, and this is about to erupt into another argument, and he thinks he’s going to allow it to, because even laying out all the information available to them isn’t getting them anywhere, and even if he had the ability to impose control over the room, there is still a part of him that whispers, that cries out that he does not have the right, and any moment now they will decide that punishing him for his crimes should be higher on the list of priorities, especially if he tries to step back into his old role, and—he’s not nearly as over this as he hoped he was, is he?

(he forgot how to trust a long time ago and perhaps these fears are baseless but that makes them no less potent and he forgot how to trust a long time ago he cannot trust them he cannot and he holds none of his former power not even that which was rightfully his he holds none of it and he cannot trust)

(he can control this he can lead but)

(but he)

(he’s supposed to be)

(a question, one that you do not want to confront: were you ever in control?)

So he lets them. He lets them talk over each other. Even Tommy joins in after a moment, after a sideways glance and another squeeze of his hand, and he can’t even pay attention to what everyone is saying.

It is difficult to keep his shoulders erect. There is a weight trying to bring his head down to his chest. It’s just an argument, and he can hardly expect anything less from these people, so bitter have the tides of history turned between them all, but it feels like a failure on his part, and his thoughts are fracturing again, flying beyond his grasp.

“Wil,” Phil murmurs next to him, but he just shakes his head.

“Yeah, this is going great,” Schlatt says. “Good job with the meeting. Y’know, when I was in charge, I didn’t let any of this happen. I ruled with an iron first. People listened to me. They respected me.”

“And then you died in a drug van,” he says, “from a heart attack, surrounded by people who hated you.”

This gets him an extraordinarily strange glance from Phil, but no one else is paying attention. He can’t keep track of who is snapping at who, but they’re all snapping at each other. In a way, Schlatt is right; the peace lasted, what, ten minutes at most?

Schlatt is silent.

Fundy is looking at him, too. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t want to read the expression on his face. He doesn’t want—

“Wait,” Schlatt says suddenly, “wait, fuck, do you feel that?” He sounds genuinely alarmed, for once, and after a second, Wilbur feels it too, feels

(the air in the room alight and alive and their voices waver in and out of tune with the underlying melody and the regard lies heavily on them all and the universe is always there is always with you in the back of your mind but it is leaning in closer leaning in over your shoulder and you feel)

the way the atmosphere shifts. His ears fill with white noise. Everyone is still arguing, and they need to stop, but he can’t force the words out. Beside him, Phil jolts. Tommy grips his hand tighter. He doesn’t know if they’re saying anything, can’t hear anything past the ringing.

(a realization, dim and far too late: he really should have tried to get some more sleep)

Schlatt curses. He can hear that, for some reason, loud and clear. And then, he becomes aware of the tether again, aware that the tether is being pulled, is being yanked on, a burst of energy departing from him, energy that he’s fairly sure he might not actually have to give, and—

“Hey, could you all just shut up for two fucking seconds?” Schlatt says, voice almost causal, strong, no longer echoing, and the static clears from his mind and ears, and the room is once again quiet. His hands have begun to shake, and the tether is pulling on his heart, he thinks. He doesn’t have to turn to know that Schlatt stands behind his chair, solid as anything.

His heart is literally fluttering. That might not be good.

“What,” Quackity says, “the fuck.”

And he doesn’t say anything else. Because the god appears, then, hovering over the meeting table, cloak fluttering without wind, twin halos circling their head, and it’s interesting, that he can see those now without straining his mind. The space under their hood no longer appears full of shadows, but rather of the universe itself, a darkness that is not empty, starstuff swirling just out of view.

“Oh, shit, that actually is a god,” Schlatt mutters.

He hears the humming. It bolsters him, a bit, boosts his flagging strength. He takes in a deep breath, and his heart calms, steadies.

He focuses.

“Is hovering over tables the only way you know how to make an entrance?” he asks.

The god’s hood swings his way.

“I asked the universe,” they say. “The universe did not refuse.”

“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck,” Quackity is muttering under his breath. Eret is staring, jaw slack. Puffy has grabbed onto Sam’s arm. The reactions on his side of the table are less pronounced; Phil and Ranboo have seen the god before, Techno is not one to be impressed without what he considers due reason, and Tommy refuses to be cowed on general principle, though he does hear him and Tubbo both let out a, “Holy shit,” under their breaths, almost in unison.

But Sapnap has risen to his feet, eyes wide.

And George says, “Dream?” His voice does not waver. He sounds curious, confused. Perhaps hopeful.

The god actually seems to still, the motion of their cloak dying down as they turn away from Wilbur and toward the other side of the table.

“Once,” they say, and Wilbur is surprised that they’re answering at all, to be honest. “No longer.” They pause. “He loved you. May yet still, under the corruption that has taken him. I am sorry.”

The god does not know human emotions. The god is not a person in their own right, not really; they are built of the power of a god and little else. But somehow, Wilbur almost believes that they mean it.

Sapnap makes a gasping sound, like air tried to escape his lungs but got caught in his throat. George has sat up straighter in his seat, his whole body leaning toward where the god is hovering. His hands rest on the table, palms facing upward, as if in invitation.

If it is one, the god does not take it.

(DreamXD, Karl called the god, DreamXD, Dream XD, Dream Xed, Dream crossed out, Dream but not, and perhaps this is the cruelest thing he could have done to these two, inviting a facsimile of their friend to hover in front of them, a reminder of what they lost and are not likely to ever have again, because this god could never hope to replace the man that Wilbur remembers from the beginning, the Dream that used to be and will likely never be again)

“I asked the universe,” the god says again, and turns back toward him. “The universe did not refuse. The universe sees you, and the universe would reply.” They pause, allowing that declaration to simmer in the air for a moment. Their voice echoes, and he can hear in that echo the overlay of the song, the tune, the notes that the stars hum reverberating in the world’s atoms. “If I alone were strong enough to exorcise this corruption, he would have done so when we were whole. But you have met with the universe, and the universe would aid me, so that I might aid you.”

His attention is fixed on them. But in his peripheral vision, he sees Sapnap slump back into his seat, face contorted.

(yes, this is the cruelest thing he could have done, bringing their dearest friend’s mirror reflection here)

“And what—” He stops. Wets his lips. His mouth is dry. “And what aid would that be?”

The folds of their cloak stir. A hand emerges, and the hand, too, is darkness-that-is-the-universe, and it is not connected to any arm that he can see. Their fingers splay wide, and then dropping from the air and onto the table, there are two swords. On first glance, they seem to have been forged from diamonds, sparkling blue in the throne room’s flickering firelight, but there are runes crawling up and down the blades and hilts, runes that seem to squirm and dance and shift.

And the runes are lit with starlight. He’s not sure that anyone else can see it. But he knows.

(the runes hum)

“The void is not so easily subsumed,” the god says, “and it is from the void that the corruption comes. But the void is part of the universe even as it exists outside of the universe. Corruption can be destroyed.” The hand gestures to the swords, now lying beneath them on the table. “With great effort, but the universe has joined me in it. These are the result.”

“I’ve never seen runes like those before,” Tubbo breathes, eyes wide. He leans forward, apparently overcoming his wariness. “These can—these can kill a dreamon? Like, actually?”

“The blow must be lethal,” the god says. “But the corruption can be destroyed. You asked me for help. This is all I can offer you.”

“It’s far better than nothing,” he says, and pauses, just to hear the hum, now coming from multiple sources, the swords and the god alike. “Thank you.”

“Do not fail,” the god says, and under any other circumstance, Wilbur might laugh at the words, so stereotypical, like something out of a television show. Do not fail. As if he plans to, as if he would without this prompting. “Do not allow this to be in vain.”

The world folds around them. The air compresses. Just as they appeared, they are vanish again, the only sign of their presence the swords that still glimmer before them all. The atmosphere lightens, the sensation of being watched easing away, like storm clouds dissipating. The god is truly gone, then, and staring at the blades, he’s not sure what to feel. He supposes that he hoped for more, somehow, hoped that the god would have the power to solve the issue for them, that if he could just persuade them to act then their troubles would go away. But it makes sense that they can’t; if the god’s power were enough to destroy a dreamon, then Dream wouldn’t have been possessed in the first place, and none of this would be happening at all.

This is the second best thing. The universe itself has interceded.

(and it’s such a strange thought is something that he never would have thought plausible because the universe does not interfere the universe watches and waits but he has been there in the cradle of the cosmos and felt them watching heard them whisper the stars and the space between and they watch but they watch with love and the universe has not fixed their problems has not made them magically disappear but it has given the means to do it themselves and upon further reflection that is like the universe that is very like the universe and perhaps what it has given them is hope)

“Well, that was enlightnin’,” Techno drawls. “So glad we got all of that cleared up. Can I have one of those fancy swords, or do we need to have a whole argument about this, too?”

“Why the fuck are you being so calm about this?” Quackity says. “Why the fuck—what the fuck even was—and you!” He stands, the motion quick and sharp, and he throws an accusing finger in his—no, in Schlatt’s direction, because the god is gone and he can feel his heart fluttering again, his energy tugged away from him at a rate that should perhaps be considered alarming, and he can sense Schlatt’s presence behind him, solid and breathing. “How are you here, you’re dead, you are so fucking dead, I ate your fucking heart that’s how dead you are, I literally own your, your leg bones, I have your femurs, how are you here, and can you just die again, right now?”

“Aw, did you miss me, honey bear?” Schlatt says.

“No, I hate your fucking guts, I hate you so fucking much, you are—” And he keeps going, and Sapnap has shaken himself out of his stupor enough to glare daggers at—shit, at his fiance’s ex-husband, and that’s a bit messy, isn’t it? And absolutely no one at the table appears pleased that Schlatt is here, even though several people seem to be too focused on absorbing what’s just happened with the literal god to be too concerned at the sudden reappearance of a former dictator, but Quackity continues and Schlatt eggs him on, and Tubbo is a few seats down, swiveled in his chair and staring at Schlatt with an expression that’s impossible to determine

(but that he doesn’t like, doesn’t like the mix of hope and fear and want and disgust, doesn’t like it at all)

and it’s all too much, and his chest hurts. Like it’s too tight. Like his lungs aren’t inflating.

(Schlatt died of a heart attack hated and alone even surrounded as he was he was alone and he died of a heart attack of a)

He glances around the table one last time, hoping for some indication that somebody, anybody, wants this conversation to get back on track. Instead, his gaze lands on Fundy, who is watching Schlatt with shock and open anticipation but very little anger, and somehow, that is what does it, what sends everything boiling over, the fact that his son is looking at Schlatt with a more welcoming expression than he greeted him with.

(and he deserves it he deserves it he knows but)

He never had control here. He has to face that.

He yanks at the tether, pulls with what little strength he has left, and the flow of energy halts, and Schlatt goes translucent mid-sentence.

“Just to be transparent, the bastard’s always around,” he says into the silence, rising from his seat, blinking black spots from his vision. His own voice sounds distant, but clear, at least. “But he literally has to draw from my lifeforce to do that, so that’s enough for now, I think. Please direct your complaints to the empty air rather than me, as I have very little say in where he decides to go poking around, and I probably agree with all of your objections to his general everything in any case.” He leans against the table, and tries not to make it obvious that that’s what’s keeping him upright. “I suggest we conclude our discussion for now, and come back in a few hours to actually formulate a plan based on our new resources.”

He gives it a second, but only waits for one person—Puffy, he thinks, though his vision is swimming—to nod, hesitantly, before turning on his heel and leaving the room. Going anywhere. Anywhere else.

(you lost control of them and you’re losing control of yourself and how long until you have to admit that you never had control in the first place that you claim to be better but don’t even know what that means that the paint really is scraping off and once it’s all gone there will be no more lying to yourself and then where will you be, Wilbur, where will you be)

No one stops him. A few people call out. Schlatt—sounding irritated, but that’s tough; he’s going to have to deal with it—and Tommy, and Phil.

He took a few minutes before the meeting began. To compose himself, to relax. That didn’t work, so he’ll take a few hours. And then get back to it. There’s no choice otherwise, after all. No real rest until this nightmare is over with, whenever that may be.

He ignores the voice that whispers that he’s not going to make it that far. He’s pushed through times like this before.

He can do it again.

[kayte-overmoon]

"Slow Cherry" Chapter 4

(cross-posted on AO3)

Tags: Mild Depressive Episode, Drinking (everyone is of age; no alcohol abuse), drunk texting, accidental face reveal

Snippet: A soft laugh drifted over the line. “Are you still drunk, Dream?”

He hummed. “Maybe a little.”

“You’re a mess, Dream.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for putting up with me.”

“Anytime, love.”

Read Chapter 1 Here

Read Chapter 2 Here

Read Chapter 3 Here

No sexual content in this chapter.

Dream spent the next few weeks losing himself in his schoolwork.

Every time he closed his eyes, he thought of George, heard his voice, saw his smile. It was wreaking havoc on his attention span. His feelings toward the older man were confusing to say the least. It was easier to hyperfixate on school than to try and sort out why he felt this way about a man he’d never even met face-to-face.

Knowing they were only a few short weeks away from living not only in the same country, but the same city made it very, very hard to think about anything else.

Luckily, he had a hardcore coding assignment coming up, so he locked himself in his bedroom with the lights off and drowned himself in Python.

Sapnap noticed something was off and made sure to text Dream whenever he got food (conveniently always with a little more than one person could eat alone). On the rare occasions Dream emerged from his cave, Sapnap looked at him with concern written in every corner of his face, but he didn’t ask what was wrong. He just pushed a bottle of water or a granola bar across the counter to him and told him he looked like shit.

Dream was sure he was right. It was winter, so he hadn’t properly been in the sun in months—for a Florida boy, that was too long. He’d skipped a few showers, and the only time he’d eaten was when Sapnap made sure he did. He shuffled into the bathroom to scrutinize himself under the fluorescents. He squinted in the bright light, so used to the darkness of his room. His hair was a mess, several days overdue for a wash and unbrushed for longer than Dream could remember. He also needed to shave, not liking the scratchy growth around his jaw. There were dark circles around his blood-shot eyes and his skin was paler than it had been in years. He scoffed at himself before stripping and jumping in the shower.

The hot water burned his skin, but it was a religious experience. He hadn’t realized how far he’d pushed himself and how deep he’d let himself fall until it was over. His last final was the next morning, so he was almost done. Thank God.

As it usually did when he had a free moment, his mind strayed to George.

They had still been snapping back and forth, which soothed some of the ache. But it felt like he was looking down the barrel of addiction: he knew that taking one more hit, one more drink, would land him far beyond his limit, pushing him past the fabled Point of No Return. He considered ghosting George, but just thinking about that made his stomach turn. Sex workers got enough shit as it was without their clients pushing boundaries, trying to make something real out of their arrangements, or dropping them outright without warning.

Dream was so fucking pathetic.

He emerged from his shower scrubbed raw, physically and emotionally. He didn’t feel great in his head still, but at least he didn’t stink. He brushed his teeth to cover all his hygienic basics, put on a clean pair of pajamas, and went to bed.

And just like that his semester was over. He did well on his final—not as well as he’d hoped, considering how much time he’d spent studying, but well enough to stay on track to graduation.

He emerged from his final to find a snap from George waiting for him on his phone.

The older man was sitting on his bed, throwing a peace sign to the camera with a huge, cheesy grin. There were boxes stacked around the bed, the only thing left in the room being his bed.

Good luck on your final! Getting ready to put my stuff in the shipping container. Only a few more days.

Despite himself, Dream smiled at the message.

Dream and Sapnap celebrated the end of the semester that night in the only way college kids knew how: by buying as much beer as they could afford and inviting over as many people as they could fit into their apartment. Someone connected their phone to the sound system in the living room, blasting hip hop music over the subwoofer. Dream knew they were going to get a noise complaint from their neighbors, but he was too excited—and drunk—to care.

He got a few drinks in him and danced when he was pulled from the couch. Faces blurred before him, but he knew almost everybody there, so he didn’t mind whenever someone pressed up against him. Someone else pressed another beer into his hands. He was sweating, the heat in the apartment still fighting the December cold even with a few dozen people packed into the cramped space. His jacket came off at some point, so he was only in his beer-stained t-shirt and jeans.

He could happily say he had nothing on his mind. He was just happy, done with school for the next month and surrounded by his favorite people in the world.

But not his favorite person in the world.

No, that person wasn’t here.

He stumbled to the bathroom at one point to piss, wobbling a little and struggling to aim. He washed his hands and stared at himself in the mirror. He looked much different than he had the previous night: he was flushed from the alcohol and dancing, for one, but he also felt lighter. Maybe it was the beer talking, but he felt good. He always liked life better when he wasn’t in school. And that message from George made him so, so happy.

Only a few more days.

George.

Just thinking about him made Dream smile.

He pulled out his phone just to look at the photo, which he’d screenshotted. They’d agreed they could save anything they sent each other except for nudes, which they had to get permission to keep. But innocent little messages like that one were free game. Dream was thankful for that, since it let him get a fix whenever he needed it. He found himself pulling out his phone to look at pictures of his camboy whenever he had a free moment to twiddle his thumbs.

He wrote a message to George, not really paying attention to what he said. Mainly he just wanted George to think of him while Dream was thinking of George. He sent the message and pocketed his phone. The music became unmuffled as he opened the bathroom door and someone immediately grabbed him and pulled him back into the fray.

Dream had… many regrets come morning.

Before he even opened his eyes, he knew how much of a doozy this hangover was. His head was pounding with the beat of his heart, his mouth felt packed with sand, and his stomach was turning. He felt like he needed to puke, but he was too numb to get up. Besides, he had a feeling he’d only end up dry heaving.

He scrubbed a hand over his eyes, debating going back to sleep. Something on the bed shifted next to him (much bigger than Patches), alerting him to the fact that he wasn’t alone.

After some coaxing, he squinted his eyes open and blinked against the scarce light peeking around the curtains—it wasn’t much light, but it was enough to make him want to die. He turned to see someone’s back facing him in the bed, a dude. Dream sent up a silent prayer of thanks that both the dude and Dream himself were fully clothed. He levered himself onto an elbow to see who was next to him. It was Skeppy, of all people, and he wasn't alone. Puffy was there too, curled up against Skeppy’s chest at the edge of the bed. Dream had no clue how neither of them had fallen off yet, so tightly wound together on the ledge. But they were there, snoozing happily.

Someone was snoring, but it wasn’t either of them. Dream sat up further and poked his head around to find Bad sprawled on the floor beside the bed. It seemed he’d wanted to get in with Skeppy and Puffy, but there hadn’t been enough room with Dream there as well. Skeppy’s hand was dangling off the side of the bed where Bad was; they must have fallen asleep holding hands. Despite his head and his stomach trying to remove themselves from his body, Dream smiled. They were all so sweet together.

He extracted himself from the bed slowly, not wanting to disturb them, and grabbed his phone charger from the power strip at his desk. He slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind himself carefully. His phone was dead in his pocket, so he plugged it in at the bathroom counter as he set about cleaning himself up. He contemplated trying to throw up but decided against it. It might only make him even more sick. He washed his face and brushed his teeth. He definitely needed a shower and a change of clothes, but he didn’t have the energy for it yet.

A soft ding told him his phone was back on. He dried off his hands and picked it up. He had a couple of missed notifications. Karl left one saying he was taking Sapnap back to his place because someone had already taken Sapnap’s room. There was one from his next-door neighbor asking him to turn the music down or they would call the cops. Dream assumed that was a bluff, considering he didn’t remember the cops showing up at any point.

The last notification caught his eye.

It was a Snapchat message from George, received around 3 a.m.

Dream, call me when you get this. I don’t think you meant to send that. I need to talk to you.

Dream’s heart sunk.

What had he sent George? Had he drunk texted him? What had he said?

Oh God, he hadn't told him anything... incriminating, right? Had he said anything about wanting to be more than a sugar daddy, a friend with benefits, a casual observer?

There wasn’t anything saved in their chats above George’s most recent messages. The last message before that was Dream’s response to George’s “good luck with finals” message.

Wait. No it wasn’t.

The time stamp was wrong.

Dream had sent George a picture around 2:30 last night, when he was several drinks deep. He remembered going to the bathroom and texting George, but he couldn’t remember what he’d said no matter how hard he’d tried. He thought it had been a typed message in chat, not a picture.

Maybe he’d sent a dick pic? He hoped not. He had been too drunk to get it up at that point. If that’s what it was, it had to be horribly unflattering. And if not a dick pic, what had he taken a picture of?

His blood ran cold.

He was hitting the “call” button before he could overthink it.

George answered a few rings later. “Dream?”

“What did I send?” His voice was rough. He was trying to keep quiet so he didn’t bother his guests, and his mouth was dry even after brushing his teeth. He sounded like shit.

George sounded uncomfortable when he spoke. “Dream, I’m sorry. I don’t think you meant to—“

“What did I send, George?”

He knew the answer in the silence before George spoke. His stomach dropped when he said it anyway. “You—you sent me a picture of your face.”

Dream hung his head. Perfect. Of course. He’d had grand plans to pick George up from the airport and reveal his face then, or he’d at least make it sexy over their video calls or something. He wanted to make it a spectacle. Instead he’d drunk texted him a selfie.

“It wasn’t bad,” George tried to reassure him. “I couldn’t see it too clearly anyway. It was in the mirror, and you were very drunk. You were a little blurry.”

“What was I doing?”

“You were, like, leaning on the counter. You were smiling. You had a, uh…”

Dream frowned harder. “I had a what?”

“You had—have—a hickey on your neck.”

“What?” Dream stood up straight and pulled the collar of his shirt. Sure enough, there was a dark red mark on his neck, barely hidden by his shirt. “Huh. How the hell did that get there?”

George snorted. “Sounds like you had a fun night.” There was something bitter in his tone.

Dream scrambled for a response that wouldn't put him in the metaphorical dog house. “I don’t—I didn’t sleep with anyone. I would know. It just—my friends are super touchy. One of them probably did it while we were dancing.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Dream,” George said softly. “I’m a big boy. I know I’m not the only person in your life.”

“I do have to explain myself, though.” Dream ran his hand through his hair. “I care what you think about me. I don’t want you to think I sleep around. I don’t. Not really. Not anymore, at least. And I wanted to surprise you when you saw my face. I wanted it to be a thing.”

“Dream, calm down.” There was something calming about the British man’s voice, especially when he used that tone, like he was soothing a spooked animal. Which, for all intents and purposes, Dream was. “It’s okay. I’m not upset. I was just worried about you. I know it’s a thing for you, people seeing your face.”

“Oh.” Dream’s heart was thundering in his chest. It was making his head throb harder, but he didn’t particularly care at that moment. “Thank you. That’s—you’re really considerate. And did you—I mean, did…”

“You’re very handsome, Dream.”

Dream was dumbfounded. That wasn’t what he was going to ask, but he’s glad George said it. He wasn’t really concerned about that particular aspect of this whole ordeal, but it was nice to know. “Oh. Thanks. That’s… you too. I mean, I think you’re—fuck.”

George’s laugh echoed across the line, settling Dream’s frazzled nerves. “I know, honey. You’ve told me before. But let's continue this conversation when you’re not so hungover, yeah?”

Dream hummed in agreement. “You can tell?”

“You were sloshed last night. I could tell just by looking at you. Partied hard, hmm?”

Dream snorted. “Just a little. I don't even want to see the state of my living room right now. And there’s, like, two-thirds of a thruple in my bed right now.”

“Oh?” Amusement and interest tinged the older man’s voice.

“No, not like that,” Dream laughed. “They passed out in there. Their third is on the floor. They’re good friends of mine. No clue when we all fell asleep though.”

“Sounds like you need to get started making coffee for everyone, then. Be a good host.”

“Probably. I thought about ordering pizza. I have no clue how many people stayed over though.”

“Celebrating the end of term, then?”

A yawn worked its way out of Dream. “Yeah,” he said. “We all finished up yesterday so we just bought a bunch of beer and invited folks over.”

“Sounds fun.”

“We’ll invite you next time,” Dream said, his tongue loose from his hangover. Oh well. “I think you’d like my friends. They’re all… absolutely insane. But they’re the coolest, nicest people you’ll ever meet.”

A soft laugh drifted over the line. “Are you still drunk, Dream?”

He hummed. “Maybe a little.”

“You’re a mess, Dream.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks for putting up with me.”

“Anytime, love.”

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