#but that means I have to figure out how to scale for world count

[bucksboobs]

Multiple people have reached out to me about doing another BuckTommy donation event for Valentine’s Day so I’d like to open up this post to ideas and suggestions for that. Surely there’s a way to fit “Evan” into Valentine’s Day.

[rafecameronssl4t]

Ok, question, fem! forced marriage au - how would Rafe react/feel if she brought up ANYTHING about separating, weather that’s flat out divorce or doing it in secret - happy to the public but living in diff spaces/diff lives/maybe even having affairs(?)

Tied bonds || Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: don't mind me going off slightly in the beginning when its talking about the legality side of it, i was literally studying trusts and estates law a couple days ago lol

Warnings: angst galore!

Word count: 2,801

MASTERLIST (forced marriage au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

The heavy oak doors of the estate’s study shut behind you with a quiet but resolute thud, isolating you from the rest of the world. The room, with its high ceilings and ornate furnishings, exudes both the security and suffocation of wealth. The scent of polished mahogany and aged leather permeates the air, a sensory reminder of the legacy you're bound to uphold and the responsibilities weighing on your shoulders.

The dim light from the tall windows casts long shadows across the room, making it feel as though the walls themselves are closing in, urging you to act before time runs out. You sit across from your lawyer at the broad mahogany desk. He’s a man in his 50s, with silver-threaded hair and sharp, calculating eyes. His demeanour exudes quiet authority, the kind of calm that comes from handling the complex finances of wealthy families like yours for decades.

A briefcase sits open beside him, documents meticulously laid out in front of you. These aren’t just numbers and figures on a page—they represent your children’s future, your security, and the small corner of independence you’re desperately trying to carve out for yourself. “Now, given the scale of your family’s assets,” your lawyer begins, his voice smooth and professional, “it’s prudent to separate certain accounts. Some in your name, some under irrevocable trusts for the children. This will not only shield them from potential claims but also provide financial protection in the event of....unforeseen circumstances—marital or otherwise.”

You glance down at the papers, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. This was necessary, you remind yourself. You need some semblance of independence, some safeguard for your children. With Rafe’s unpredictable behaviour and the constant pressure from both families, you can’t afford to let everything slip from your control. Your lawyer pulls out another document, sliding it across the desk.

“We’re talking about setting up separate trusts for each of your children. These funds will be distributed to them upon reaching a certain age—18 or 21, depending on your preference. In the meantime, control of the trust can be vested in you alone, ensuring that no one else has access to or influence over these assets, including your husband.”

“And what about Rafe’s side of the family?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended. “Would they have any legal claim?” The lawyer shakes his head firmly. “No. Not if everything is properly structured. The trusts would be irrevocable, meaning no one—not even your husband—could alter them once established. His family would have no legal right to interfere, regardless of any financial entanglements between the two of you.”

You take a breath, the enormity of it all settling in. This is exactly what you wanted—an impenetrable safeguard. A plan that ensures your children’s future remains under your control, untouched by the unpredictable tides of Rafe’s influence or the demands of your family. “Thank you,” you respond softly, your fingers tracing the edge of the document, the weight of your decision pressing heavily on your chest. “I want everything arranged quietly,” you say softly, your voice carrying the weight of your decision.

“No one else needs to know about this… especially my husband.” The lawyer gives a small, understanding nod. “Discretion is key, as always.” You sign where indicated, feeling a mixture of relief and unease as you watch your name inked onto the page. This is the right thing to do, you remind yourself. For your children, for their future. Yet as you rise from the desk and collect your things, a sense of foreboding lingers.

The heavy oak doors creak open as you step out, and the estate feels impossibly vast around you. Despite the careful planning, you can’t shake the feeling that keeping this from Rafe will lead to complications far greater than you anticipate. With every step you take, the sinking feeling grows. You only hope Rafe doesn’t find out before you’re ready to tell him.

~

The moment you step through the front door of your home, the tension in the air is palpable. You pause, your coat still in hand, as your eyes land on Rafe. He’s leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, an almost relaxed posture, but the intensity in his gaze betrays any notion of calm. His sharp blue eyes follow your every move, calculating, probing.

"You have a nice little meeting today?" His voice is cold, deceptively casual. But you can hear the edge in it—the suspicion lurking beneath the surface. Your heart skips a beat, anxiety pooling in your chest. Of course, he knows. Rafe always knows. You hang your coat on the rack, avoiding his gaze, trying to maintain some semblance of calm. "I had a few things to take care of. Where are the children?"

You answer nonchalantly, hoping to steer the conversation away from any confrontation. "With Astoria, they wanted to play with their cousins," Rafe answers, his gaze sharp as he pushes off the doorframe, taking a slow, deliberate step toward you, his presence overwhelming as always. "Answer my question," His tone hardens, suspicion fully creeping into his voice now. "I know you met with your lawyer. What are you up to?"

Your pulse quickens as you hold Rafe’s gaze, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. He’s already jumping to conclusions, constructing a narrative that fits his fears. You knew this confrontation was inevitable, but the reality of it still unsettles you, the tension in the room thick and suffocating. "It’s nothing that concerns you," you respond, keeping your tone as even as possible, despite the way your nerves fray under his scrutiny. "Just some family matters."

Rafe scoffs, the sound harsh and filled with disbelief. His jaw clenches as he steps even closer, his towering figure casting a shadow over you, blocking any hope of retreat. His presence is overbearing, the heat of his anger palpable in the air between you. "Family matters?" His voice is dripping with accusation, dark and biting. "Don’t play games with me. I heard enough to know this wasn’t just about your parents or your siblings."

His words cut deeper as his tone drops, low and dangerous. "You’re setting up trust funds. Inheritance management. Without telling me. What the hell are you planning?" His words slam into you, twisting your stomach in knots. His paranoia, the sharpness of his accusations, stings in a way you hadn’t fully prepared for. Of course, you knew he’d react like this, but hearing it out loud—his anger, his distrust—it’s worse than you imagined. You steady your breath, trying to keep your composure.

"It’s for the children, Rafe," you say, your voice soft but firm, though the tightness in your chest makes it difficult to breathe. "I want to make sure they’re taken care of, no matter what happens. That’s all this is." But even as you say it, you can see the suspicion lingering in his eyes, the doubt still gnawing at him, twisting this simple act of protection into something more sinister in his mind.

Rafe glares at you, his eyes dark and intense as they search your face for the slightest hint of deception. His presence feels overwhelming as he steps even closer, the space between you disappearing in an instant. Without breaking eye contact, his hand moves down deliberately, resting on the swell of your belly where your third child grows. His touch, firm and possessive, sends a chill through you.

"You don’t trust me with that?" His voice is low, almost a growl, laced with an edge of disbelief and wounded pride. "You think I wouldn’t look out for my own kids?" His words sting, but it's the subtle accusation in his tone that cuts deeper, as if he can’t comprehend why you would feel the need to act independently. Your frustration bubbles to the surface despite your best efforts to remain calm, your emotions swirling between anger and exhaustion.

"That’s not what this is about," you snap, your voice sharp as the tension between you flares. You're trying to hold it together, but the weight of his misunderstanding—of him always assuming the worst—pushes you to the brink. "I’m doing this to protect them. To protect us. You can’t control everything, Rafe." For a split second, something flickers in his eyes—hurt, maybe—but it vanishes quickly, replaced by his usual defensiveness. He steps closer, his voice lowering, cold and accusatory.

"You’re doing all of this behind my back," he growls. "And I’m supposed to believe it’s just for the kids? You don’t set up secret meetings with lawyers for something as simple as trust funds. It looks more like you’re preparing for something else. Like maybe you’re planning to escape this all." His breath is hot against your ear now, the venom in his words unmistakable. "Is that it? Are you getting ready to leave me?"

His accusation hits you hard, knocking the air from your lungs. The vulnerability behind it cuts deeper than you expected. It’s not just anger simmering in his voice—there’s fear too, buried beneath the suspicion, fear of losing control, of you slipping away. His jaw tightens, but his hand remains firmly pressed against the swell of your stomach, as if anchoring himself to you, to the life you’re carrying.

“And have our children without their father?” you ask, your voice sharp. There’s a flicker of something more beneath the surface—hurt, uncertainty. His eyes search yours, almost pleading. You blink, stunned by the weight of your own question. “Rafe…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper, incredulity lacing your words as you try to make sense of what you’ve just implied. “I’m not leaving you.”

The tension in the room feels suffocating, as if the walls themselves are closing in. You take a breath, steadying yourself, as you step closer, your gaze softening despite the frustration swirling inside you. "This isn’t about that,” you say gently, trying to reach him through the haze of his suspicions. “But I need some control over my life, Rafe. Some protection.” Your voice wavers slightly, but you press on. “I’m not just here to be controlled or managed. I need to know that I’m not just a piece in this game.”

You can feel his breath against your skin, heavy with unspoken fears, and for a brief moment, the façade of his strength cracks. The fear of losing control, of losing you, is palpable, and it clings to the space between you like a storm cloud ready to burst. He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, pacing in frustration. "Control. Protection," he mutters under his breath, his movements sharp and agitated. "You think I’m the threat here? You think I wouldn’t protect you? Protect our family?"

You shake your head, stepping back slightly, trying to maintain some distance from the intensity of his emotions. "I never said that," you say, your voice softer now, trying to calm him. "But this is something I need to do. For me. For them." For a long moment, the two of you stand there, locked in a silent standoff. His breathing is heavy, and the anger in his eyes slowly shifts into something else—something more conflicted. He turns away from you, pacing a few steps before running his hands through his hair again.

"This isn’t how marriages are supposed to work," Rafe mutters, more to himself than to you. The words cut deep, piercing through the fragile layer of calm you’ve been clinging to. It’s a painful reminder of what your marriage has become—what it’s always been. The expectations, the compromises, the strain. This life… it’s not what either of you envisioned. You feel the urge to retort, to let loose the frustrations that have built up over the years, but you bite your tongue. Now isn’t the time for that argument.

"I know," you whisper, though you’re not sure if he hears you. The admission feels hollow in the tense silence that follows, the weight of your reality pressing down on both of you. The room feels unbearably heavy, the air thick with unsaid words. Rafe exhales, his broad shoulders sagging ever so slightly, as though some of the fire inside him has been extinguished. He turns his back to you, the physical distance a reflection of the emotional chasm that has been growing between you both.

For a brief moment, you consider stepping closer, reaching out, bridging that gap—but the weight of your decision, of everything you’ve been trying to secure for yourself and the children, holds you back. It’s a boundary you can’t afford to cross right now. "You should’ve told me," he finally says, his voice quieter, but still taut with lingering tension. There’s hurt there, beneath the anger, beneath his instinct to control everything around him.

Your throat tightens at his words, the soft accusation lingering in the space between you. "I didn’t want this to turn into a fight," you admit, your own voice subdued, drained from the confrontation. The fatigue in your bones echoes in your tone. "I just needed to make sure everything was in place. For the kids, for their future." You pause, the weight of your decisions settling on your chest. "I wasn’t trying to hide it from you."

Rafe turns back to face you, his expression a mixture of frustration, hurt, and something more vulnerable—something he rarely lets show. "It feels like you were," he mutters, the edge of accusation still present, though softer now. His blue eyes search yours, looking for answers, reassurance, something to ease the fear behind his suspicion. You hold his gaze, trying to convey the truth behind your words. "I need to feel like I have some control, Rafe," you say gently, your voice steady but laced with an underlying sadness.

"Our lives… they’re not easy. And I know you want to protect us, but I need to protect them too. In my own way." Your heart beats heavily in your chest, each word an attempt to bridge the gap between you, a gap that seems to widen with every conflict. Rafe’s gaze lingers on you, the tension between you both crackling in the air. You take a tentative step forward, closing the physical distance between you, hoping it will ease the emotional one. Just as you stop inches from him, his expression softens slightly.

He reaches for your hand, his grip firm yet tender, and before you can say anything, he brings it up to his lips. The moment feels suspended in time as he presses a kiss to your knuckles, the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin. It’s a gesture so gentle, so unlike the earlier confrontation, that it catches you off guard. The vulnerability in his eyes flickers, almost as if he’s silently asking for forgiveness or offering an unspoken truce.

You feel your heart ache, the gesture disarming you in a way his words couldn’t. It’s as though this kiss is his way of telling you that, despite his anger, despite his suspicions, there’s something deeper binding you together—a love neither of you can deny, even in moments like this. “I’m not the enemy, Y/n,” he repeats softly, his voice rough but sincere, the earlier accusation tempered by this quiet moment.

His lips linger on your skin for just a second longer before he lowers your hand, though he doesn’t let go. You swallow hard, your chest tight with emotion, your voice a whisper as you respond. "I know you're not." The air between you feels different now—quieter, softer, though still tinged with the weight of everything unresolved. For that fleeting moment, it feels as though the two of you are in sync again, even if just barely.

Rafe’s hand remains wrapped around yours, and though the tension between you hasn’t fully dissipated, it’s no longer suffocating. The kiss to your knuckles feels like a promise, fragile but meaningful. As he finally lets go and turns away, you watch him disappear down the hallway, the memory of his lips on your skin lingering long after he's gone. The weight of your choices still presses down on you, but somehow, in that brief exchange, it feels a little lighter.

You know this isn’t over. Rafe’s suspicions won’t vanish overnight, and your need for autonomy remains unresolved. But for now, the confrontation is over. The weight of your decisions, the strain on your already fragile relationship, presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You did the right thing, you remind yourself. This is about protecting your children, about securing a future for them. For now, all you can do is hope that, in time, he’ll come to understand why you did this. Why you needed to.

[vesperaominosum]

OMGG I'm so glad!! ok ik ur writing a story rn but if u have any free time I have a story prompt: fem reader with Leon Kennedy (established relationship) and she's bratty with him, like she's got attitude and she's snappy, but Leon doesn't mind bc he knows how to deal with her 🤭🤭 but yeahhh feel free to make it smutty or not, it's up to you <333

Summary : Journey through the pages of Leon figuring out how to handle a bratty girlfriend and accepting himself (kind of, implied)

Pairing : RE4 Leon! × Fem Reader

Tags : Established relationship, bratty reader, self deprecation (Leon being dramatic), some levels of generally harmless toxicity, angst, fluff, hints of hurt/comfort (maybe??), no smut but allusions to what grown ups do and a couple of curse words.

Word count: 2891

A/N: I'm in the middle of working with lots of translations for work and it's multiple different languages so my brain is #freid, so this is super rushed and all over the place but I've been thinking about this prompt and this is what I have to sayyyy. Anyway, sorry for prompt being "he doesn't mind" and the whole fic HE DOES MIND VERY MUCH HES GONNA CRY IF YOURE MEAN TO HIM but this is the prequel!! he doesn't mind after all that anymore hahaha i hope you like it anyway

Leon knew how to handle you.

It didn’t come to him naturally, it couldn’t. You were always difficult. Throughout your childhood you recall most of your caregivers - nannies, teachers, family friends and whoever thought it was their duty to comment - uttering “It’s going to be really hard to find someone who’d put up with her” after witnessing another one of your spectacles. Kinder ones would say “She’ll grow out of it”.

And they were right.

You grew up to be extremely caring, generous, kind and an all-around outstanding young woman. Attitude dissolved into calm confidence and you were very pleasing to be around. It wasn’t just your family who noticed those qualities bloom – everyone loved to be in the presence of your welcoming warm, yet joyfully prickly energy. This is exactly why special agent Leon S Kennedy was drawn to steal your attention at first. It seemed like you had no baggage. It seemed like you were unable to have any baggage. Like whatever hardships were placed your way simply melted and disappeared to the sound of you laughing away all the troubles, making another lighthearted joke that put everything into perspective. You had a magical ability to turn all problems in the world into something meaningless. Perhaps, it was just Leon being in love that made it possible with such ease, but it did not matter. It worked. And he was in love. It wasn’t a crazy concept.

You made him want to become a better person. Not on a grand scale, none of that illusive bullshit, but in everyday life. He counted his blessings and watched out for your feelings, deep down he knew that your carefree façade isn’t all there was, and he was afraid to hurt you. He was attentive, he thought about the things he said and tried to go out of his way to make your day better. He wasn’t the best at relationships, but he genuinely tried. It’s the least he could do for someone who brought him back to life. That if he was around.

When he would go away for work, you wouldn’t speak for weeks, sometimes months. This arrangement made it difficult for your relationship to progress naturally. Every time he came back, you two fell back into the very much juvenile day one: blushing, smiling, flowers, dates, shy kisses that felt like the first… As much as he enjoyed it, he wanted more. It was scary leaving your dashing self alone in the world full of people who could… see you. He wasn’t the unreasonably jealous type, and you never gave him a reason, but it was only logical that you deserved more effort. The lack of which wasn’t an issue, there just never been enough time for it to feel natural, but oh how he wanted to move in together. Sometimes Leon would imagine you in his kitchen and it made him feel shy. He had to better himself, to learn all about how to treat a girl this deserving, then it will fall into pieces.

It was coming along, until he found himself between trying to figure out whether he’s doing too little as of yet or it’s too late as of now. The thing was: you fell into a weird pattern.

Every time he came back, you loved him up and down, held him in your arms and told him all about how happy you were seeing him so close, but approximately on day four… You would switch up. Out of nowhere you’d appear cold and dismissive. He never saw this in you before. A sweet sunshine of a girl he wanted to care for, wanted nothing to do with him. You made borderline rude remarks, paid him no attention and even avoided his touch. One time Leon tried to kiss your shoulder and you snapped at him for ruining your makeup. He apologized and spent a long time trying to figure out what makeup could he possibly ruin by gently touching your shoulder, out of all places, with his lips.

Regardless of your behavior, before he had to depart for work, you were always caring. The juxtaposition messed with his head and he had no clue where you stood. He tried to be understanding, he tried to be kinder and softer, he tried and tried and tried… Day to day, while avoiding dangers his work instilled upon him, he was holding onto hope that much needed space would settle it down. And you would be back to your kind and sweet self. And it did, for approximately four days.

It was day six of him being back and you planned to meet up with your friends together. Well, you planned it and Leon agreed, as he usually did. Leon was familiar with your best friend, not much with the rest of them. Your best friend was a clever girl, beauty and brains, witty but careful, very diplomatic, you sure knew how to pick them and knew that early, you were friends since school. You also had a small circle, just a couple of trusted friends, it was always quality over quantity with you. This thought is what made Leon sick to his stomach. He felt like he was slipping out of a place he didn’t fit to begin with. The idea of you two splitting made all the problems in the world heavy again. The weight that accumulated while he didn’t pay it no mind would crush him.

He tried to figure out what was wrong for the past month, falling asleep to same questions every day of his mission. Why were you pushing him away? Are you tired of waiting? Could it be that you lack courage to break up with him and want to give him a reason to take on this task? Did he scare you away? What if you grew bored of him? After all, dating an agent is exciting, but a life with one… What if you realized it’s a dead end? All the thinking convinced him to act. If you want him to take it further - he would. If you don’t want to - he’d change. He’s bending out of shape as it is to make you happy. Or at least to make you less of a… Less cruel.

So just a day ago he did ask you to move in with him. Prepared for any reaction other that the one you spit out, he stared at the wall, processing your answer. “For what? So, I get to wait for you in another four walls? No, thanks.”

“I could quit” – he said, not looking away from the damn wall. You laughed and patted him on the shoulder and you walked by, - “And do what?”

Right now, you were away, doing your nails or hair, he couldn’t remember. All this remembering and being attentive amounted to nothing anyway. It was slipping away and there was no fixing anything. All he wanted to know was why. All he was not ready to find out was how.

He met you outside of the restaurant, you were late and Leon didn’t want your friends to know you arrived separately. He didn’t want anyone else in the universe to register that you could be separate. To make it one step closer to becoming a reality. The idea was scary. You got out of the taxi, complaining about the driver taking a longer route, like you two were fine. Like you were okay. Like you didn’t reject his proposal to move in with him last night. “You know, I could’ve taken you…” – “To the hospital?” – you snapped, there was no malice, but the look on your face was something he couldn’t read. Was it just hate powdered with playfulness… Was it because you were about to face your friends and had to keep up the appearances? Were you really joking? “What do you mean?” – “You know you’re a terrible driver. I’m so not getting into a car with you. Like, ever.” – and you gracefully chimed into the restaurant. Leon looked like he was slapped, not because of your joke, but because of everything that gripped the hope of fixing that “us” thing he treasured was just shattered. One more time. He walked in after you.

You were radiant, laughing with your friends, who greeted him, exclaiming “The man himself!”. He felt sick. He couldn’t do it. Not in front of your friends, he couldn’t look at you with questions in his heart, and he never learned how to mask his emotions. Maybe that’s a reason you fell out of love. He excused himself barely saying a word and went to the restroom.

Your friend followed him with sorry eyes, honest concern on her face, before gripping your hand, - “That must be hard… Is he always like that when he comes back from… work?”

He washed his face with cold water, pushing wet hair away from his forehead and gripping the sink, Leon looked at himself in the mirror. His heart was heavy, beating with an annoying irregularity that made him nauseous. It was hilarious really, he wasn’t moved by any monstrosity on duty, yet this… He couldn’t afford another part of his life to turn ugly. It wasn’t fair. He did everything right and yet everything was turning out wrong. Now that he started questioning you, it felt like a part of him that he tried to build for you came crushing down. Maybe, had he known his parents and observed their relationship, he could figure out a better way to act, would be more convincing at being this version you would like longer. And he really wanted to be him. He didn’t care who he was, as long as you were there. But he couldn’t make you like him. Maybe that’s what you saw - there was a level of dishonesty in that act. Trying to appeal to your idea of a partner. Whoever that man was – he failed. And Leon was staring at the mirror at the only person he could be. The only company he deserves, it seemed.

Exhale. Inhale, exhale. Whatever goes.

He got out of the restroom and dragged himself to join you and your precious friends. No thoughts, until… Right before turning the corner where a large plant was hiding the hallway from the dining room of the restaurant, he heard parts of your conversation. It was your voice that made him stop. Gentle and kind, just like before. But what made him stay, was what he overheard.

“-no, no! That would never happen, and even if it does… You know I’m just happy he’s back. In one piece. I wouldn’t mind if he came back in more though…” – everyone exclaimed your name and laughed scandalized, - “No! I don’t mean it like that! You know what I mean, stop it! I just… He could be in a wheelchair and it wouldn’t…” – by the pause and laughter it was obvious your friends were making faces, you groaned, - “I hate you, stop making it weird. All I mean is I love him, okay? Whatever happens, in any shape or form, I’m just… I’m happy to…” – your voice got less confident and you started searching for words, - “You know, I get so worried yes, but…”

He felt like someone had to save you from being put on the spot, so he made his way to the table and with a quick “sorry” sat next to you. Everyone put on their best impressions of inconspicuousness and you looked down, almost shy. You noticed the change in his demeanor, he sat closer than you expected after walking on imaginary eggshells for days, intentionally letting his leg touch your thigh.

“Damn, did you take a shower?” – asked one of the men at the table looking at his wet hair, could be your friend, could be your friend’s boyfriend. “Almost. Got really car sick on the way here, had to cool down. Had a terrible driver.” – “Really? We thought you drove here!” – your best friend started fussing immediately, looking for a waiter to fix your boyfriend a real drink instead of a mocktail.

“Yeah” – Leon smiled – “I drove here”. You felt your cheeks burn, as your friends laughed at the joke, without a clue it was aimed at you, and even though he wasn’t looking, you could tell he noticed you turning red, which made his smile wider.

“Took you forever.” – you muttered, annoyed. Were you still trying to play this game?

It was hard to process his emotions. He wanted to squish you in a small ball for making him think all those ugly things, at the same time he wanted to kiss you for finally releasing him from this limbo. Knowing you didn’t want to end things made him euphoric. He still had no idea what was up with your act, but it didn’t matter anymore. He heard your quivering voice when you talked all about just how much you loved him, and he knew sincerity when he came across it. Had to learn it the hard way.

All he wanted to do was to pick you up on his shoulder and carry you away, the problem was – he still had no idea what he wanted to do with you. He was angry, but filled with joy. It was like waking up from the worst nightmare. With morning wood. Almost made him spiral for nothing. He would not let it slide. You were more silent than ever, sipping your milkshake, or whatever it was, and smiling. It was like you sensed you were in trouble and it made you happy. Amusing. As soon as he figures out what to do with all of this, you’re not going to be so giggly.

Evening was coming to an end, he opened the door of his car for you, looking at your much expected insulted expression, - “I said…” – you started, as Leon rolled his eyes and put his hand on your waist, - “Get in” – he pinched you, not hard enough to hurt, but it was enough for you to squirm away into the car.

The road was silent before he took one sharp turn and you followed it with, - “This has to count as attempted murder.” – “Don’t worry, nobody’s gonna find out.” - “Oh, they will, when they find my body,” – you took the front mirror and checked your makeup, - “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of your body”, - he smiled, looking as you let go of the mirror and tried to hide your smile and act offended.

Yeah, ever since that day Leon knew how to handle you. Turned out all these people from your childhood were right, as they usually are: it was hard to find him, but it was worth it.

For months you waited for him to snap and drop the act, you hated seeing him treating you like you were holy. You hated seeing him trying to change his ways around you, and him insinuating that you want something else - someone else - with his modifications was insulting. You could have a boring gentleman if you wanted. You wanted original Leon, and you wanted him to want you at your worst.

To this day you remain clueless about the overheard conversation, completely convinced that it took you insulting his driving to get him there. You were prepared to get on his nerves, you always knew he’d show himself, crawl back into himself for you, to take what he needs, to make you you again. You put all your trust into it. And he did not disappoint. He picked it right up every time.

Even now, as he came back to his apartment after another mission, he was not surprised by the lack of greetings at the door. He was not surprised to find you on the bed with a book in your hands as well, sparing him one disinterested glance, - “You’re late.”, - you turned a page, - “Who even let you in?”

He smiled, crawling into bed, and taking the book away from you, - “I welcomed myself”, - he smiled into your lips, holding the book up, as you whined and pretended to try to reach it before finally wrapping your arms around him and returning the kiss. The switch up was always fast with you, and soon he was the one, who tried to pull away, as you kissed and tangled your body into his. He managed to hold you still for a minute, as you ran your fingers through his hair, until the playful look in your eyes softened as you noticed him looking at you with so much care that it made your heart drop. “I missed you so much” – he placed a tender kiss to your chin and you felt hot tears fall from your eyes and make their way into your ears as you hugged him, pulling him closer into your neck, you started crying silently.

He held you up and turned you both around to grip you tighter without crashing, letting you hide in his chest as he held you, caressing your back and kissing your head.

Sometimes you hated him for making you worry so much, sometimes you hated yourself for hating someone you loved so much, sometimes you wanted him to hate you to even it out. Sometimes you didn’t understand yourself and it was okay.

Because Leon knew how to handle you.  

[screaminglygay]

third time is a charm, right? (part nine)

pairing: natasha romanoff x fem!reader, wanda maximoff x fem!reader, natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff,

summary: attending a gala together should have been a glamorous evening, but an unexpected encounter ruin the vibe... or show you the truth?

warnings: swear words, drinking alcohol, mention of a toxic relationship, teasing, crying, i think that´s it

word count: 5.2k

an: this one was fun to write, also the next part will be last and we will end this series after a looong time, which is crazy hehe, enjoy the reading and thank you as always!!

(italica = your thoughts)

You stare at your closet like it personally insulted you. Dresses, blouses, jackets... everything is a mess, thrown across your bed in a whirlwind of indecision.

"Okay, so… fancy-fancy? Or formal-fancy?" you mumble to yourself, holding up a sleek black dress in one hand and a more structured pantsuit in the other. "What does ‘gala fancy’ even mean? Is it rich people sipping champagne kind of fancy or ‘I’m about to get knighted’ kind of fancy?"

With a frustrated sigh, you toss both options onto the growing pile of discarded outfits. Natasha’s invitation had seemed like a good thing, proof that she was serious about you, but now you were spiraling. What if you overdressed? Or worse, underdressed?

Grabbing your phone, you quickly text Wanda.

You: tell me what level of fancy this is before I have a full crisis.

You pace as you wait for a response, staring at yourself in the mirror. Maybe the dress? Or was it too much? But the pantsuit... god, what if Natasha hated pantsuits? Not that she had ever said anything about them, but what if tonight was the night she decided she hated them? You groan, rubbing your temples.

Your phone buzzes, and you snatch it up like it holds the meaning of life.

Wanda 🌼: Deep breaths, sweetheart. It’s formal but not "sell your soul to capitalism" formal. Wear whatever makes you feel hot. Which, spoiler alert, is everything you wear.

You exhale, rolling your eyes but smiling. Of course, Wanda would be both reassuring and completely unhelpful at the same time.

You: That doesn’t help, Wanda. I need a scale.

Wanda 🌼: Okay, fine. Imagine "rich people event" but Natasha is there, so some leather is still acceptable.

You: So... like "sexy mafia girlfriend" vibes?

Wanda 🌼: Now you’re getting it.

You snort, finally feeling some of the anxiety melt away. Still, a part of you hesitates. Would Natasha even care what you wore? What if you showed up in something nice and she barely noticed? What if-

No. Stop. You shake your head, refusing to let that insecurity take over.

With a deep breath, you grab the pantsuit, pairing it with a sleek jacket, just enough edge to keep it from feeling too formal. You weren’t going to overthink this. It was just a gala. Just a night out. And Natasha had invited you, which meant something. Right?

Your phone buzzes again.

Wanda 🌼: Nat will do that little eyebrow raise thing when she sees you, I can bet on that.

You laugh, shaking your head. Okay. You could do this.

You stand by the window, your fingers tracing the fabric of your pants as you wait for Wanda to pick you up. The nervous energy hasn’t left your body since you finished getting ready. You keep smoothing down the outfit you finally settled on, glancing at your reflection in your phone screen every few seconds.

Natasha had to be at the event early... some CEO responsibility that required her presence, so Wanda insisted on picking you up. That should’ve put you at ease, but instead, it just gives you more time to overthink.

Would Natasha even like how you looked? Would people at the event notice I didn’t belong in their world?

The sound of a car pulling up outside makes your stomach do a nervous flip. You exhale, straightening up as you grab your bag and step out.

The sleek black car door opens before you even reach for the handle. Wanda steps out first, her deep red dress hugging her figure just right, and her emerald eyes sweep over you with an unmistakable gleam. Then comes the eyebrow raise, slow, deliberate, and paired with a smirk.

You knew Wanda was going to look good. She always did. But nothing could have prepared you for the vision that was Wanda Maximoff in a red dress.

The silky fabric hugged her figure in a way that was downright unfair, the slit along her thigh adding just the right amount of skin. She moved like she owned the damn place, confidence dripping from her every step. And when she turned to smirk at you, eyes glinting with amusement at your obvious staring, it was a miracle your knees didn’t give out.

Oh my god, how is that possible. Calm down, it´s all good all okay, just pretty girl- oh my god the thighs! This was going to be a long night.

"Well, well," Wanda hums, tilting her head as she lets her gaze roam over you one more time. "Aren’t you a sight to behold?"

Your face heats instantly, and you roll your eyes, trying to suppress a smile. "Shush."

"I’m just appreciating the view." She gestures toward the car, stepping aside with an exaggerated bow. "Please, after you, beautiful."

You shake your head, unable to stop the small laugh that escapes, and slide into the car. Wanda follows, settling beside you as the driver starts towards the event.

The momentary ease vanishes as the city lights blur past, and the weight of where you’re going settles in again. You press your hands against your lap, fingers gripping the fabric of your pants once again.

Wanda must notice because a second later, you feel her warm hand on your thigh. It’s not just a touch, it’s grounding. You glance at her, and she’s already watching you, concern flickering in her gaze.

"Nervous?" she asks softly.

You nod, exhaling shakily. "A little."

She squeezes your thigh gently, her thumb brushing back and forth in slow, soothing strokes. "You don’t have to be. You look stunning. You belong there just as much as anyone else."

You huff a quiet laugh. "Doubt that."

She leans in slightly, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Okay, between you and me, half of those people are only interesting if you like hearing about investment portfolios or tax loopholes."

That earns her a small giggle from you, and she grins.

"There it is," she murmurs, giving your leg one more reassuring squeeze before pulling back. "Just stick with me, detka. I promise you’ll survive."

You nod, swallowing back some of your nerves.

The car slows as it nears the entrance, and you swear your heart is trying to claw its way up your throat. Even from inside, you can see the flashing lights, the swarm of people elegantly dressed attendees mingling near the grand entrance, photographers trying to capture glimpses of the elite stepping out of their cars.

There is even photographers?! What is this Met Gala?!

Wanda, completely unfazed, glances at you. "Alright, here’s the plan," she says, her voice light but reassuring. "We’re going to head straight for the bar, get some drinks, and then say hi to Nat. Sound good?"

You swallow and nod. "Yeah. Okay."

She smirks. "Don’t worry, I’m not going to abandon you to a pack of business sharks. I only deal with them when absolutely necessary... aka, when Natasha needs me to look pretty next to her or to stop her from murdering someone with a champagne flute."

You huff out a small laugh, grateful for the way she’s making this feel less overwhelming.

Wanda reaches for your hand, giving it a squeeze. "Stick with me, detka. You’re gonna be just fine."

The car door opens, and you both step out.

Inside, the event is nothing short of extravagant. Chandeliers cast golden light over the room, reflecting off the sea of glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos. Conversations hum in the air, glasses clink, and waiters glide effortlessly through the crowd with trays of expensive drinks.

Despite the nerves buzzing in your chest, you keep your focus on Wanda. True to her word, she doesn’t leave your side. The two of you make a beeline for the bar, where she orders for both of you.

Once drinks are in hand, she glances toward the center of the room. "Alright, let’s go say hi before she gets too deep into whatever business talk she’s pretending to care about."

You follow her gaze and-

Oh.

My lord.

Natasha stands near a group of polished, serious-looking executives, holding a glass of whiskey in one hand. But it’s not the expensive liquor or the high-status company that has your brain short-circuiting.

It’s her suit.

The perfectly tailored black suit that fits her like a dream, making her look effortlessly powerful, the crisp white shirt underneath just barely unbuttoned enough to be unfair. The way she holds herself, confident, unreadable, a force of nature has you momentarily forgetting how to function as a human being.

Hot. Hot. Hot. How can one look so good in a suit. Jesus.

Have my babies.

Wanda, sensing your reaction, smirks behind the rim of her glass. "Breathe, sweetheart," she teases before nudging you forward.

As you approach, Natasha’s sharp gaze shifts and the moment she sees you, something softens.

"Hey," she murmurs, stepping away from the conversation without hesitation. Her eyes flick between you and Wanda, and a small smile tugs at her lips. "You both look incredible."

She leans in, giving Wanda a quick peck on the lips as a greeting before turning her attention fully to you. And for a second, you feel like the only person in the room.

Her hand finds your waist as she pulls you into a hug, not just any hug, but one that lingers just a little too long, her arms pressing you close, like she can sense the nerves radiating off you.

You let out a breath, allowing yourself to melt into her warmth for just a second. "You’ve got this," you whisper against her shoulder.

She exhales, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. "Yeah?"

You nod, offering a small, reassuring smile. "Yeah."

Something unreadable flickers across her face, but before you can decipher it, she gives your waist a final squeeze and steps back.

"Come on," she says, voice softer now. "I want to introduce you properly."

And just like that, despite the overwhelming setting, despite the lingering nerves, you feel a little more at ease. Because Natasha is here. Truly here. Truly with you.

Natasha leads you through the crowd with an ease that makes it obvious she’s used to navigating these kinds of events. Wanda sticks close, making sure you don’t get swallowed up by the overwhelming energy of the room.

Finally, Natasha stops near a tall man in a dark suit, his long hair neatly tied back. He’s mid-conversation but turns the second he notices Natasha approaching, a slow smirk tugging at his lips.

"Bucky," Natasha greets, a hint of warmth slipping into her usually controlled tone.

"Nat," he replies smoothly before his gaze shifts to you. His blue eyes sweep over you in a quick but not unfriendly. Then, he extends a hand. "You must be the infamous plus-one."

You hesitate for only a second before shaking his hand. His grip is firm but not overbearing.

"This is James Barnes," Natasha says, her hand resting lightly against your back. "But everyone close calls him Bucky."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Yeah, if you call me James, I’m gonna assume I’m in trouble."

You smile and nod, "I´m (Y/N)." He nods.

There’s something easy about the way he carries himself... polished, but not as rigid as the others in the room. It helps ease the tension coiled in your chest.

Wanda hums, tilting her head. "I don’t know… I kinda want to call you James just to see what happens."

Bucky narrows his eyes at her. "Maximoff, don’t start."

She grins. "I would never."

The playful exchange melts some of your nerves, and you finally let out a small breath.

Bucky notices, his smirk softening into something more knowing. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "Don’t worry, it’s overwhelming at first, but you’ll get used to it. Just gotta survive the first twenty minutes."

You give a small, appreciative nod. "Good to know."

Then, just as the tension starts to fade completely, Bucky turns to Natasha with a look of pure mischief. "By the way, did she tell you about the time she almost got escorted out of an event like this for trying to sneak a burger under the table?"

Natasha groans. "Jesus, Bucky."

You blink. "Wait, what?"

Bucky grins. "Yeah, our dear CEO decided she wasn’t interested in the five-course meal and made me smuggle her a burger. Security thought she was hiding something illegal."

Wanda snorts, she heard the story many times, but it always bring a smile to her face.

Natasha shakes her head, exhaling like she’s questioning every life choice that led to this moment. But there’s no real bite in her irritation, just the kind of resigned amusement that comes with longtime friendship.

You bite back a laugh, can you imagine it? Gosh.

Just as you’re starting to settle, a shift in the energy around you makes Natasha straighten slightly. You follow her gaze and see a few sharply dressed individuals making their way toward your group, their expressions poised and unreadable. Big names, powerful people, you assume. The kind who don’t just attend these events but own them.

Natasha exhales, rolling her shoulders back like she’s bracing for battle. Then she glances at Bucky. "You’re coming with me."

Bucky quirks a brow but doesn’t protest, already stepping closer to her side.

Natasha leans in just a little, her voice low but teasing. "Wish me luck. The sharks are here."

"You’ll be fine," Wanda assures her with a smirk, but there’s understanding in her eyes. Even she knows Natasha would rather not deal with these people alone.

Natasha nods, giving you one last lingering look, something that feels almost grounding, like she’s silently reminding you she’ll be back and then she and Bucky slip into the crowd.

The moment they’re gone, a waiter holding a tray of drinks weaves through the space near you, offering another round. Without thinking, you reach for one, needing something to do with your hands.

Before you can grab it, Wanda’s fingers close around your wrist, stopping you effortlessly. She tilts her head, her green eyes dancing with amusement as she plucks the glass from your grip.

"Malysh…" she drawls, her voice both affectionate and teasing. "Careful with that. Don’t drink your nerves away."

Your stomach flips at the casual endearment, and you swallow hard. "I wasn’t-"

She gives you a look. You were.

You huff, crossing your arms. "I just wanted something to hold."

Wanda grins, pleased with herself, and instead of handing the drink back, she brings it to her own lips, taking a slow, deliberate sip before setting it aside.

"Here," she says, slipping her arm through yours instead. "Hold onto me instead."

Her body is warm against yours, her presence grounding. It’s unfair, really, how easily she makes everything feel just a little less overwhelming.

You sigh but can’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.

After a some time you’ve settled into a strange rhythm now. The nerves are still there, but they no longer coil tight in your stomach. They just exist, humming beneath the surface as part of the night. Wanda’s presence helps, always keeping close, whether through a light touch at your back or a soft comment.

But then she shifts beside you, sighing. "I need to use the restroom. Can you stay here?"

You blink up at her, deadpan. "Wanda, I’m anxious, not five. Yes, I can stand here."

Her lips twitch, but she tilts her head. "Watch your mouth, detka."

And then, with a smirk and a wink, she’s gone, slipping toward the restrooms and leaving you alone.

For the first time tonight, there’s no safety net. No Natasha, no Wanda - just you, standing in the middle of a crowded event filled with people who belong here far more than you feel you do.

You exhale, shifting your weight from foot to foot, trying to focus on anything other than the weight of being alone in a sea of power players.

That’s when you feel it - a shift.

Not in the room itself, but near you. A presence approaching, deliberate and too familiar in the way people with bad intentions always are. And then, just as you’re trying to decide if you’re imagining it, a smooth, saccharine voice cuts through the air.

"Well, well… look what we have here." Your stomach twists, because you already know this isn’t going to be good.

You straighten your shoulders, forcing yourself to stay composed even as nerves crawl up your spine.

"May I help you?" you ask, polite but cautious.

The woman, Sofie, though you don’t know that yet - tilts her head, her lips curling into something that might have been a smile if it didn’t feel so… off.

She takes a slow sip from her glass, eyes flicking over you, assessing. "I was just wondering," she starts, voice honeyed, "how Natasha and Wanda are doing these days.”

You fight the urge to frown. There’s an unsettling weight to the way she says their names, like she’s pulling at a thread you don’t want to unravel.

"They’re fine," you answer carefully. "And you are…?"

The woman’s smile sharpens. "Sofie."

You nod, waiting for more, but she doesn’t elaborate. Just watches you, her expression entirely too self-satisfied.

Finally, you cave. "I’m sorry, do we know each other?"

Sofie hums, tilting her head. "No, but I know you." She takes another sip, eyes dark with something unreadable. "I’m like you."

Your brows furrow. "Pardon me?"

The alcohol has loosened her tongue, and she clearly has no interest in holding back.

"I mean," she continues, swaying slightly, "I was in your place once." She gestures vaguely, her fingers lazily swirling the liquid in her glass. "All wrapped up in their little world, thinking I mattered. That I was different." Her gaze flicks over you, amused. "But they always get tired of their toys, sweetheart."

Your stomach knots.

Sofie leans in, lowering her voice like she’s telling you some grand secret. "They’ll get rid of you, too, you know. When they’re done playing house. It always happens."

Your jaw tightens, but you stay firm, protective instincts kicking in despite the discomfort crawling under your skin. "I don’t know what you think you know," you say, voice steady despite your unease, "but Natasha and Wanda don’t keep people around for fun."

Sofie lets out a laugh soft and pitying. "Oh, darling.” She shakes her head. "That’s what I thought, too."

The words slither into your head, settling into the cracks of your insecurities, planting roots where doubt already lingers.

And the worst part?

Natasha and Wanda are nowhere in sight.

Sofie just smirks, like she can see the cracks forming, like she’s enjoying every second of this.

"I mean, look at you," she continues, gesturing lazily with her drink. "So eager, so starry-eyed. Thinking you’re different." She lets out a soft, pitying laugh. "That’s exactly what I thought too. That I was special. That I mattered."

Your stomach twists, a slow, sinking feeling settling in your chest.

Sofie leans in, voice syrupy-sweet, but her words are like knives. "You think Natasha is really the settling-down type? That Wanda will always hold your hand like she does now?" She tilts her head, eyes gleaming. "They did that with me, too. And the girl before me. And the one before her."

Your pulse pounds in your ears.

No. That’s not true. That can’t be true.

But she’s not stopping, she’s circling now, smelling blood in the water.

"They loved me, too. Just like they love you. Just like they loved all of us." She sways slightly, the alcohol making her looser, sharper. "But love isn’t enough, sweetheart. Not when they get bored. Not when they move on."

You swallow hard, throat tight.

"You really think you’re the one?" she murmurs, shaking her head. "You really think they won’t eventually get tired of you, too?"

Something in you shatters.

Because the truth is... you don’t know.

You never really knew.

You’ve always been aware, somewhere in the back of your mind, that Wanda and Natasha belong to a world that moves fast, one that doesn’t slow down for long. That they have a history - messy, complicated, full of people who came before you.

And now, here is one of those people, standing in front of you, spelling out your worst fears like it’s some inevitable fate.

Your fingers tremble slightly.

Where the hell are they?

You want to believe this is just drunken bitterness. That Sofie is lashing out because she’s jealous, because she lost something she thought she could keep.

But the doubt, the storm she’s unleashed is already roaring to life inside you.

"No."

It comes out quick and sharp, more of a desperate rejection than an argument. Your voice is tight, breathless, like the air in your lungs is barely holding itself together.

You don’t say it because you’re sure she’s wrong.

You say it because you need her to stop.

Because if she keeps going, if she keeps digging her nails into this wound she’s opened, you’re not sure you’ll be able to hold yourself together.

Sofie just tilts her head, unconvinced, lips curling as if she can hear the shake in your voice, can taste the doubt clinging to your words.

But you don’t wait for her to respond. You turn, your feet moving before your mind even catches up, and you push through the crowd. It’s not graceful, not controlled, you’re rushing, weaving between bodies, your pulse hammering against your ribs like it’s trying to break free.

You just need air. Space. Anything but this.

Wanda steps out of the restroom, smoothing down her dress as she moves back toward where she left you. But the spot is empty.

Her brows knit together. She glances around, scanning the crowd. First toward the bar. Nothing. Then back toward the entrance. Still nothing.

That’s… strange.

A flicker of unease curls in her stomach. You wouldn’t just leave.

Right?

A new presence shifts beside her, and she turns to see Natasha approaching, a triumphant smirk playing at her lips. "Managed to tame the sharks," she announces, slipping beside Wanda. "Didn’t even lose a limb."

But Wanda doesn’t react. Doesn’t even look at her. And that’s what makes Natasha pause.

"What?" Natasha asks, her smirk fading.

Wanda’s eyes are still scanning. Still searching. "She’s gone."

The words hit Natasha like a slap.

Gone?

Her eyes flicker across the room, shoulders tensing. "What do you mean, gone?"

"I mean she’s not here, Nat," Wanda snaps, turning to her fully now. "I left her for two minutes."

Natasha’s jaw tightens. She’s already moving, already searching. But then-

Laughter. Smug. Giggly. The kind of laughter that slithers under your skin and makes something burn. And when Natasha turns, she sees her.

Sofie.

Leaning lazily against the bar, drink still in hand, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

Wanda follows Natasha’s gaze, and immediately, her expression darkens.

Sofie notices. And her smirk only grows.

"I saw your new girlfriend," she purrs, sipping at her drink, eyes flickering between them like she’s relishing this moment.

Natasha’s body stiffens, her whole posture going razor-sharp. "What did you do?"

It’s not a question. It’s a warning. A low, dangerous edge creeping into her voice.

Sofie just hums, all feigned innocence. "Oh, nothing," she muses. "We just had a little chat."

Wanda’s hand twitches at her side.

Natasha’s eyes darken, her jaw tightening so hard it could crack. "Where is she?"

Sofie shrugs. "No idea." Then she leans in, voice dripping in satisfaction. "But she looked pretty upset when she left."

Natasha doesn’t think. She moves. Fast.

Wanda barely has time to process before Natasha is grabbing Sofie’s wrist, yanking her just enough to force their eyes to meet.

"I swear to God, Sofie," Natasha hisses, voice so sharp it could cut glass. "If you-"

Wanda steps in before it escalates further, pulling Natasha back, her touch firm. "Not here," she murmurs, voice low.

Natasha might be furious, but right now, that doesn’t matter. Right now, they need to find you. And neither of them waste another second. Wanda is the first to move.

She doesn’t waste time telling Natasha to calm down or warning Sofie again, there’s no point. You’re out there somewhere, and nothing else matters.

Natasha follows instantly, her body rigid with unspent anger, but her mind already shifting to something more important - finding you.

They push through the crowd, sharp eyes scanning every corner, every possible exit. Natasha is dialing your number, pressing the phone so hard to her ear that it might snap in her grip.

Voicemail.

A quiet curse slips from her lips, but Wanda isn’t waiting, her hands are already on the shoulders of a passing server. "Did you see a woman leave alone?" she demands, urgent.

The man blinks, startled. "Uh- maybe? Pentsuit? Looked-"

"Anxious?" Natasha cuts in.

The man nods. "Yeah, I think she went outside. Looked like she was in a hurry."

Wanda’s heart is hammering against her ribs, her pulse so loud she can barely hear anything else.

Outside.

That’s all she needs to know.

She’s gone before the man can say another word, heels clicking against the floor as she rushes for the exit. Natasha is right beside her.

The night air is sharp, cold enough to bite at exposed skin. The city hums around them... cars, distant voices, the occasional burst of laughter from inside the gala. But none of it matters.

They are both scanning. Searching.

Nothing.

Natasha exhales harshly, running a hand through her hair. "Where would she-"

Then Wanda sees it.

A park bench. A little ways down the path, tucked beneath the dim glow of a streetlight.

And you.

Sitting there, curled in on yourself, arms wrapped around your body as if that might keep the cold at bay.

Wanda moves before she even breathes.

Natasha follows, both of them crossing the distance in seconds, their heels barely making a sound against the pavement.

And when Wanda reaches you, when she finally sees you, her chest tightens painfully. Your eyes are downcast, distant. Your hands are gripping your arms, your whole body tense with cold. And you’re shaking. Not violently. Not enough that someone passing by would notice.

But Wanda notices.

Natasha notices.

The moment Wanda speaks, her voice is softer than she meant it to be. "Detka…"

Your head jerks up, eyes wide, like you weren’t expecting anyone to find you so quickly. Or maybe at all.

For a second, you just stare at them, like your mind is trying to catch up to what’s happening.

Then Natasha exhales, stepping closer, her voice low but firm. "What the hell happened?"

You open your mouth. Close it. You don’t want to talk about it. Not here. Not now.

What I would even tell them?

But your silence only makes Wanda kneel down in front of you, her hands finding yours - warm, steady.

"You’re freezing," she murmurs, frowning as she rubs gentle circles into your knuckles. "Why didn’t you answer your phone?"

You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know how you ended up here, so you just shrug. You just know that your chest is tight, your head is buzzing, and there’s this horrible mix of doubt and fear swirling inside you.

Wanda’s gaze searches yours. Slowly, she lifts a hand, gently brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen into your face.

And that’s when you break. Not fully. Not enough to cry.

But enough that your lips part, and you exhale a shaky breath you didn’t even realize you were holding.

"I just needed air," you whisper.

Wanda swallows. "Okay," she says softly, voice warm, careful. "But next time? Tell me."

There’s no anger. No frustration. Just concern.

Natasha sighs through her nose, shifting beside you. "Let’s get you out of the cold," she murmurs.

But she doesn’t just say it. She shrugs off her own jacket, the expensive, tailored one she was so proud of and drapes it over your shoulders without hesitation.

The warmth is immediate. So is the scent of her perfume, faint but grounding. You blink at her, caught off guard.

Natasha just arches a brow. "What? You thought we’d let you freeze?"

You hesitate.

The weight of Natasha’s jacket is solid around your shoulders, the warmth of Wanda’s hand grounding in yours. But your mind is still stuck on Sofie’s words, circling like a storm that won’t pass.

And before you can stop yourself, it spills out.

"But- she said-"

Your voice is quiet, but strained. Like you’re forcing yourself to say it, like you know you shouldn’t, but you just need to get it out.

"She said you’d get rid of me, too," you murmur, eyes flicking between them, searching, pleading. "That I’m just another name to add to your list. That you-" you swallow. "That you loved her."

It’s barely a whisper by the end of it, but it doesn’t matter.

Because the moment the words leave your lips, Natasha snaps.

"Fuck her."

It’s not angry. Not in the way you’d expect.

It’s firm. Unwavering. A decision made long ago.

Even Wanda blinks, caught off guard by the sharpness of it.

Natasha steps in front of you, her expression unreadable, but her eyes are sharp, piercing through every doubt Sofie left in your mind.

"Whatever she said, it’s not true." She says it like fact, like there’s no room for argument, no space for doubt.And when she continues, her voice is steady, but there’s something raw underneath it.

"We did break things off with her," she admits. "But that’s her problem. Not yours."

She exhales, shaking her head. "Sofie didn’t want us. She wanted the idea of us being wealthy. The lifestyle. The benefits." Her lips press together, as if she’s holding something back before deciding, screw it. "And when she didn’t get what she wanted, she made herself the victim. But we saw through it."

You don’t miss the way Wanda is watching her now, like this is more than she ever expected Natasha to say out loud.

And then Natasha’s eyes meet yours again. Soft, but steady. "You are not her," she tells you. "And we are not idiots."

The words hit you all at once. You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know what to feel. But something inside you eases. Because Natasha Romanoff does not give reassurance easily.

And yet - here she is.

Telling you exactly what you needed to hear. And meaning it. A breath leaves you, something tight releasing in your chest.And for the first time since Sofie opened her mouth, you feel okay.

Not perfect. Not completely steady.

But somehow safe.

Natasha must notice, because she tilts her head slightly, watching you, before saying, "Better?"

You nod. Just once. But it’s enough.

Wanda squeezes your hand, her thumb brushing over your skin. "Come on, let’s go home."

You blink. "But what about the gala?"

Natasha scoffs. "Fuck the gala."

You can’t help it. A chuckle slips out, light and unexpected, but so needed. And Natasha notices, her lips quirk slightly, like she’s pleased with herself. Like she needed to hear that, too.

Wanda smirks, looping her arm around yours as they start leading you away. "Oh, I bet you’ve been waiting to say that for a long time."

Natasha huffs, but doesn’t deny it.

Being with them is indeed a big roller coaster ride.

Thank you for reading this, ooof this was funnn. I hope you liked it! <3 can´t wait for you to read the last part!

taglist:@arualdcg, @beholdagaywriter, @snowdrop1026, @itsdoni, @newawakening9​, @aliherreraaa, @zzswiftyzz, @lesbiantothemoonandback, @maggieromanov

[evilminji]

I think I figured it out?

My favorite thing to do with Danny? And the Zone in General?

Is to just... zoom out a bit, maybe move stage left, leave the trouble and (most of the) dramatics of his teen years behind and just? Discover that not all of Death is War. Not every Obsession is violence.

Sometimes it's owning a fancy little soaps shop. Or that PERFECT garden of their dreams, where they can share with EVERYBODY, that they could never manage in life. Maybe it's the universe biggest Comics library.

Yeah, when you can't die and pain is kinda subjective, a good ol fashioned brawl IS the best way to communicate. Fist to Fist, ecto to ecto, come out the otherside understanding each other a bit better. But like?

.....you could ALSO just use your damn words, you know? Maybe some of us don't WANT to fight.

The freedom to Do Anything? Means a good chunk of us will say "Nah, we good". And move on to do other, non-violent things! Not every Area of the Zone is the SAME you know. It's like countries. Or, well, Galaxies? Since it IS far more spread out then any country will ever be.

It's why Danny probably didn't notice. Thought his area was all there is. It's the standard "my neighborhood is the default. Normal for everywhere" mindset that people unknowingly tend to have before they travel much. It's not like he had any chance to learn otherwise.

He had school in the morning. Had to stick close in case a fight broke out. How FAR could he truely travel? The end of the metaphorical street? The next block over? The Far Frozen alone was pushing it!

But then! He defeats the Tyrant of his Area of the Zone. And it's like a map filling in, in the back of his head. Perfect outline of what's "his" and "not his". And??? Wait, wut?

Why is he not surprised the Observants fuckin Lied? Pariah wasn't King Of Everything! He was king of... *head starts to violently hurt as he tries to grasp the scale of things* ow, Ow, OW! Bad idea! BAD IDEA!!! A chunk? Yeah, big chunk! Let's go with that!

It was APPARENTLY like saying "ruler of the known world". Other countries very much still existed, just APPARENTLY didn't count. Good to know! AFTER THE FACT.

At least HIS territory likes the "Wooooo! Anarchyyyyyy!" Goverment model. Frees him up to do other shit. He can come back to it LATER. But FIRST? :) Get? :) The FUCK :) Off his lawn! :) *kicks everyone back through the portal* *closes it* AND STAY INSIDE THE ZONE!

Abuse of power? Sorry, he can't hear you over his magically recovering sleep schedule and GPA. The fact he might ACTUALLY graduate. His new favorite past time of watch the GIW slowly losing both their funding AND minds. Mmmmmm~ relaxing!

He graduates.

He is the son of crazy people with a shit GPA. His parents may have finally come around on ghosts, started over on their research... with a frankly ALARMING enthusiasm, but? You can't undo decades of damage. The Fenton name is untouchable.

He applies anyway.

Goes ghost for the first time in over a year.

Is... bigger. Starlight and ice. Royal. It feels right, settled in a way. More HIM then his skin could ever hope to be. He notes it, but doesn't linger. Decides to find out what's OUTSIDE "his" territory.

And...

Huh.

The answer depends?

In one direction? An endless battle. From horizen to horizon, like shooting stars. Crashing and smashing, weapons clanging and ringing. Mad blood stained grins. Worthy opponents. A challenge that goes on forevermore.

He...backs away slowly.

Going sorta, up-ish? Leads to a weirdly muted stillness. Muffled. He can't find anybody. But the doors here are pretty... worn. He doesn't want to keep pushing.

Finally, he tries at an angle to the right. And? Spots a patrol? They look nervous to see him, but hold their ground. He asks what's in this direction. Is polite. They look incredibly relieved.

Which is how Danny? Learns about the SINGLE BEST thing ever. The thing I actively fantasize about. Long for. And gift to him because I can.

Floating island cities FULL of highly specific little shops and passion pursuits. All for damn near free, because they are mostly doing it for THEM and you just happen to be there. The islands go one for days in every direction. Overflow with color and sound and the flash of ghosts flying too and frow.

Stunned, Danny, jaw on the floor. Wanders the streets.

Finds a space themed shop and feels his eyes dilate like a cat. Mine ™. He gets a book on "First Astronaut's of their Species" and some BESPOKE space meme socks. Looks around. Decides that this? This is where his doing ALL his shopping from now on.

He's pretty sure he sees a shop dedicated solely to canned food from across the Multiverse.

There is a sale on corn(non radioactive), apparently.

He tells EVERYBODY. Well, Fenton and friends "everybody". But you get the idea! The shopping trip they organize? Is legendary. His Father finds a Fudge shop and probably scares the local ghost population with his mad Fudge Glee cackling. Mom found a weapon smith. And an old fashion lace maker. Jazz? Lost to the world of intergalactic boy bands and psychology textbooks.

Tucker made a running slide straight for the nearest tech shop. Then the butcher. And Sam?

........m....maybe if he doesn't ask? He can claim plausible deniability?

@hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @hypewinter @lolottes @nerdpoe

[boxturret]

One Tenth Scale Mata Nui

Mata Nui is a cool place, but did you ever feel that it was a bit...big for what it was?

The official maps put the island at 357 kio long, which if you take to be a stand in for kilometres¹, would make the island 357 kilometres long.

This lines up roughly with what we can see in the concept art: they say that Mata Nui is around the size of Denmark, the real measurement being 368km, and it matches with what we see in the Mata Nui Rising cgi video.

So that's all well and good, Mata Nui is 357km long, the GSR itself is 3300km tall, all hunky-dory, as long as you ignore some guy named Greggory yelling about how the robot is actually much bigger, but its fine to ignore him.

But now, actually consider what this means. Denmark is by no means a small country, it has a population of 6 million and would take hours to drive across by car on modern roads. Now that isn't an issue really, but in most media depicting the island its shown to be a place that can be traversed by foot or on animal back in a reasonable time frame.

But now let us look at this earlier map:

Initially the most interesting thing to me on this map was the 3rd measurement: the height of the Mangai volcano²

Now on the one hand, this was cool, now I know how tall to make the volcano, on the other hand... 23km seems pretty big.

It is. 23km is higher than Olympus Mons, the largest known volcano in the solar system, standing at only 21.9km. So that's pretty big. This made me start thinking about how far various things are apart and how long it would actually take and using some very VERY generous numbers I started plotting out how long it would take to actually get from place to place.

It wasn't very pretty. In the Mata Nui Online Game it would have taken Takua roughly 5 hours to walk from the beach to Ta-Koro, and another 18 to get to Onu-Koro using the highway. Now this would be fine in an epic like Lord of the Rings, but in Bionicle Mata Nui is consistently treated as a place people can pretty quickly get around on.

The Toa are running all over the place and bumping in to each other. Kopaka getting in to the Caldera at the top of the Mangai volcano isn't the equivalent of climbing 3 Mt Everests in a row, its just something he does [correction: It wasn't the caldera, but a lava pool half way up the mountain, so just 1.5 Mt Everests]. Takua travels all over the island in a pretty small amount of time, unless we're supposed to insert day long journeys in between every screen transition.

But then I noticed something. Something very interesting.

Now lets look at the two keys for the sizes on the released and the early map:

Seems pretty consistent, the sizes of the island are the same, a Toa is 1.6 bio on both (incidentally a real Toa figure is approximately 16cm tall), everything seems to match.

But then I counted the zeroes.

The old map has a kio being not 1000 bio, but 100!

You can even see it on the other version of the map.

Now this is incredibly interesting! This shrinks Mata Nui to 1/10th of its commonly accepted size! It goes from being the size of Denmark to being the size of the Isle of Man.

Which....really works a lot better! This turns Takua's trip from the beach from a 5 hour hike to a short half hour walk. This turns the cable car to Mt Ihu from a massive 70km mega structure to something that's dwarfed by real world constructions.

I don't think this is a mistake either, looking at the details of the map.

You have much finer details, such as these ice shelves collapsing in to small icebergs, whereas on the full sized map some of the larger chunks of ice are kilometres across.

One of the major things it includes are the mesas that can bee seen in many of the promotional renders set in Le-Wahi which are nowhere to be seen on the final map. At this 1/10 scale the plateaus seen would match up well with the massive mesas seen in monument valley in terms of size, but with the final size they would be absolutely massive (10 times as big if you can believe it!)

So suffice to say, I don't think this is just a case of a zero being dropped, it really seems to line up with the level of detail on this earlier map.

But what does this do to the GSR? I hear you cry, well it varies. Going by the earlier numbers it would simply be 1/10th the size, so 330km tall instead of 3300km, so still very large, but depending on the size relationship between the robot and the island it could be as "small" as 180km

The island in this picture is roughly the same size as normal, just covers more of the GSR. The final GSR's head is so proportionately tiny compared to its body that the Mata Nui island had to be very small to cover it. But in any case, a robot "only" 180km tall standing up is still going to tower over anything, its many times higher than airplanes fly, its taller than most clouds, really it would be quite consistent with this render:

So, in conclusion, an earlier concept of the island of Mata Nui has it being 1/10 of the size of the final, and that size seems to work better with what we see in various media from the time, and works better with the story.

Personally this is what I'll be going with in terms of the scale of the island going forward, as it really fits with my vision of the setting and works well with all the story and media from that time.

¹-I don't care about someone saying a bio is 4.375966487787¾ feet, feet aren't real and neither are you. ²-Mt Ihu is NOT the highest point on the island, the GSR isn't Pinocchio with a big pointy nose, this has never been reflected in any visual media.

thank you for reading/have a nice day

Update: I have made a companion post with many renders of George visiting places on the island to hopefully better illustrate the scale.

[caplanbuckybarnes]

With This Embrace (Syzoth)

Summary: just one last hug.

Warnings: sadness, worry

WC: 680ish

A/N: i know next to nobody is probably reading my MK fics, but i'm going to psot them anyway in hopes that y'all will at least reblog it lol.

Read on Ao3!

--

The air was thick with tension as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the battlefield that lay in ruins. You stood amidst the remnants of the fight, your heart heavy with the weight of loss and the uncertain future that awaited you. Around you, the sounds of distant chaos faded, leaving only the soft rustling of leaves and the echo of memories.

Syzoth approached, his tall frame cutting a striking figure against the backdrop of the setting sun. The scars of battle were etched across his green scales, but it was the sorrow in his amber eyes that caught your breath. He moved closer, and the world around you seemed to blur, leaving just the two of you in sharp focus.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, but you could see the flicker of something deeper in his gaze. “I’ve faced many battles, but this one feels different.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, knowing that both of you had faced far too many challenges together. It wasn’t just the physical battles that weighed on you; it was the emotional toll that came with being warriors in a world so full of conflict.

Syzoth took a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, his voice low and intense. “Before we part ways, I need you to know how much you mean to me.”

Your heart raced, and you stepped forward, closing the distance between you. “Syzoth…”

“I just want to touch you one last time,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “To remember this moment, to hold onto it in case… in case this is the last time.”

You nodded, understanding the weight behind his words. The thought of parting ways filled you with a sense of dread, but you also understood the inevitability of the paths you both walked. You reached out, your fingers brushing against his arm, feeling the warmth of his scales beneath your touch.

“Then let’s make it count,” you said softly, your voice steady.

He stepped closer, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. The world around you faded, and all that existed was the connection you shared—the heartbeat of two souls intertwined. You rested your head against his chest, feeling the rhythmic thump of his heart beneath your ear, grounding you in the moment.

“I’ll carry this with me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. “Your touch, your presence… it will be my strength in the battles to come.”

You looked up at him, your gaze locking onto his. “And I’ll carry you with me, Syzoth. Always.”

He smiled, a rare and beautiful sight, and leaned down to kiss you gently, the warmth of his lips igniting a fire within you. The kiss deepened, and in that moment, you poured all your emotions into it—the love, the sorrow, the fear of losing him, and the joy of having shared this journey.

When you finally broke apart, you both remained close, your foreheads touching, breaths mingling in the cool evening air.

“Promise me something,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Promise that no matter what happens, you won’t forget me.”

“I promise,” you replied, your heart aching. “And I won’t forget this moment... I could never forget you, my love.”

Syzoth’s gaze softened, and he leaned in to brush his lips against your forehead, a tender gesture that made your heart swell. “You are a light in my darkness,” he said softly. “No matter where we go, you will always be my light.”

You both stood there, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the world around you fading into the background. The battles ahead felt daunting, but in that moment, you knew that the bond you shared could withstand anything.

As the last rays of the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, you closed your eyes, savoring the embrace, the touch, and the connection that transcended words. You were two warriors, but in this moment, you were simply two souls bound by love, and that was enough.

--

Buy Me a Coffee

[astroboots]

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #9

COLLABORATED WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You get a new mysterious co-worker.

Word count: 8,100

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[Previous] [Next]

August 1st

Nearly pancaked by grand piano falling from the 8th floor outside of favorite cafe. No casualties (except the piano).

August 5th

Freak blizzard out of nowhere during lunch. Nearly crushed by large icicle dropping directly outside the exit of the Chrysler building. No other known casualty.

August 6th

An escaped hippopotamus from the Bronx zoo ran 11.3 miles, nearly got stampeded when exiting hotel for work. No casualties.

August 12th

Tornado appeared inside the Guggenheim museum, nearly squashed by large falling statue. Nobody nearby was seriously injured.

It's already mid-August now. You've used up more than a month of your allotted three. It means you don't have much more time to waste, but that knowledge does nothing to help you in figuring things out. 

You’ve compiled a comprehensive list of the Universe's ongoing murder attempts, determined to keep track of them all. All in all, there are 37 incidents and counting that you’re aware of… and they’re all different. 

They differ in severity. They differ in scale and they differ in frequency. Sometimes it can take weeks, sometimes days, sometimes within hours of each other. If there’s any sort of pattern to them—anything that might help you predict what will happen next or how to stop it—you can’t see it.  There’s nothing that gives you any hint or clue as to where you can start to make progress with solving this mystery.

The one thing you have been able to observe from cataloging these incidents is that Miguel was right about what he told you that day at Starbucks: the universe is ramping up. Each attempt is becoming more and more bizarre, defying the very laws of physics and nature in its attempts to snuff you out. Before this, in all of your years in New York, you’ve never heard of a blizzard in July or a tornado indoors. 

With the escalating dangers, Miguel is more on guard than ever. Sticking close to you at all times like a particularly insistent herding dog that’s always a few inches from nipping at your heels. Even when he’s seemingly preoccupied by something else—reading a book, folding clothes, eating a crate of kit kats in one sitting—you can always tell that he’s keenly aware of and attuned to your every minute move. 

Practically, the only time he lets you out of his sight is for bathroom visits. 

Work is still a point of contention between you two. He hates that he can't enter the building to monitor you at work and make sure you're safe, and after that incident when you caught a co-worker trying to take a surreptitious selfie with Spiderman while Miguel was loitering around in the windows, you’d banned him from climbing and scuttering around the exterior of the building like some deranged squirrel. 

It’s made him even less pleased about your whole work situation, something he’s not shy about sharing with you. Every morning when you are about to leave for work, Miguel will stand by the door with that ever present frown and ask you: 

“Why are you still going into a job you hate when there’s only two months left?”

This morning, you sigh as you reach for your jacket and messenger bag. 

Part of you completely understands and even agrees with his logic. If the end of the world is only two months away, why go back to that shithole everyday? You could go to Disneyland. Eat fancy croissants in Paris for breakfast. Have Lyla fake a reservation at an all-inclusive yoga retreat in Bali. You could be living your life like every moment is your last. 

The thing is though, as delusional as it may be, you’re not ready to bet on the world ending just yet. 

“Miguel, I fully intend for the universe to still be around in two months. And I don’t want to be unemployed when that day comes. I’m not some trust fund baby. Once we figure this thing out, you’re gonna be free to go, and if you take Lyla with you, then what am I supposed to do? Live on the streets? Rent in the city is ridiculous, and my rent-controlled apartment got blown into a million pieces.”

For once Miguel doesn’t seem to have anything smart to say back. He tilts his head, quietly studying your face. Then after a long pause, he gives you a curt nod, as if something clicked into place. 

"Fine."

You stop mid-way through zipping up one of your boots to eye him suspiciously. 

Okay, that’s… different.

In all the mornings you’ve repeated this argument, this is the first time he’s simply accepted your explanation without sassing you back. He just gazes right back, apparently unperturbed, and holds the door of your hotel room open for you, ready to walk you to work. 

There is definitely something going on inside his head, because this stubborn dummy never lets anything go without a fight. You just don’t know what it is yet. 

By mid-morning, you've forgotten all about your suspicions, too busy dealing with the aftermath of your coworker's incompetence. You're not entirely sure how they managed to corrupt the Excel formula you’d painstakingly inserted to make sure all the numbers add up correctly, but two hours later, you're still trying to get the data to compute properly. 

It’s the kind of mind numbing task that lets your mind wander, and you spend most of that morning wondering what Miguel is up to. He’s probably lingering near the building, eating mini donuts by the dozens from that food truck that is always parked around the corner. 

There’s a pointed series of knocks on your cubicle wall. The noise is grating, and it makes the whole of your back seize up because you recognize that signature knock from sound alone. It’s your boss, probably here to ask if you have capacity to take on more case evaluations. 

And sure enough, as you reluctantly turn to look, you see her, toothy smile and all, looking down at you in that hammy and strained way of hers. 

“Are you busy?” she asks. “I just wanted to introduce you to the newest member of the team.” 

She gestures to the person standing beside her. Your gaze goes up over their insanely long legs, up and over the narrow and tapered waist and torso, up over the wide chest and broad, broad shoulders, and even before you get to the familiar face, you already know who you are looking at, because no one else is that tall.

Your mouth gapes open wide in shock.

This stupid motherf-

“This is Mickey O’Hara,” your boss introduces, simpering up at him. (You didn’t even know she knew how to simper.) 

Has Miguel gone insane?

What is he playing at?!

He didn’t even bother to change his name properly!

And the man looks unfairly good in office casual! He’s dressed in a white, well-fitted button down shirt and dress pants. Wearing ridiculous thick-rimmed glasses that would belong on Gregory Peck. Riotous curls are as messy and wild as ever, not having even bothered to comb it back. You don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling, the subdued get-up only makes him stick out like a sore thumb.

“Mickey is our newest hire,” your boss continues, batting her eyes at him. “He's interning with our team as a junior insurance claims adjuster and will be shadowing you for the next two months.”

After that, Miguel truly is with you everywhere you go. 

He spends most of each workday sitting on a spare chair in your small cubicle, the two of you squeezed into 6'x6', shoulder touching shoulder in that tiny, cramped space.

A superhero he may be, but Miguel is a terrible office worker. He seems completely bamboozled by the copier, and you quickly learn not to ask him to do any copying or scanning or even pick your printouts from the printer, because he always manages to mangle the process, coming back with crumpled up prints or half-shredded paper that looks like budget confetti.

Before the week is over, he’s gained a reputation with the rest of the team as the handsome-but-useless junior that can’t even make coffee for shit.

Most of the time, he doesn't even make an effort to look like he’s doing any actual work, just sits right next to you, and reads books all day long. When you scold him and ask him to at least pretend like he's doing busy work, or he'll get fired, Miguel will just shrug and quietly hum back at you, engrossed in whatever latest sci-fi book his nose is buried in. 

"If they fire me, I'll just have Lyla hack into their HR system and rehire me."

Then there’s the way his sleeves are always rolled up halfway up his arm, hugging tight around the firm muscles of his forearm. The peep show of gorgeously tanned skin that is always on display for all to see. It's obscene. 

He’s maddening and distracting. 

Still, you can’t be too mad about his presence. The office is a much more treacherous place than you’d initially thought. It’s a danger zone of death traps. 

One morning when you’re in the supply room, getting a new pad of post-its from one of the massive industrial shelves—the ones that are supposed to be bolted to the wall for safety—suddenly crumpled, taking half the wall with it and nearly flattening you. That was almost game over for you. Squashed like a bug and entombed under a pile of archived TPS reports. 

Then there’s that time with the runaway elevator when the supposedly secure and unbreakable industrial cables snaps, with you in it, falling through 40 floors. And you still shudder everytime you walk past the copy machine because of that time it tried to electrocute you. If Miguel hadn’t been there for all of these incidents, you’d be a goner. 

Another upside is that it’s also nice to have a cubicle buddy. On slow days, the two of you kill time watching YouTube origami tutorials and practicing with post-its stolen from the temporarily-relocated office supplies. 

Despite having hands the size of a giant, Miguel is surprisingly good at it. Delicately folding paper cranes, butterflies and flowers that sit in the place of pride atop of your computer screen, compared to your questionable attempts that usually wind up in a crumpled ball in the trash. 

With Miguel there, your days at the office are never boring or predictable in the way they used to be. It no longer feels like you are just going through motions. It's almost… fun. 

If there wasn’t a cosmic executioner’s ax looming over your neck, you don’t think you would mind spending every day with him like this.

You take it back. You do mind spending days with him like this. Miguel is the worst. 

You've been doing data entry all morning, and the man will not shut up about how primitive Excel is. 

“Malo! I don’t understand how your company relies on this software. There are so many data consistency issues! It completely lacks data validation and integrity checks, and it’s too prone to human error when entering crucial data, which results in–” 

You take deep calming breaths as you continue to type, trying to pretend his rant is white noise.  

The previous day's near death experience—an electrical surge from the printer, trying to finish what the copy machine started—also wiped out one of the file servers, and now you and half your department are stuck manually re-entering three years worth of data.  

Two hours in, your fingers are aching, and you're about ready to start banging your head on the keyboard out of frustration. (Or banging the keyboard on Miguel’s head if he doesn’t shut up.)

Like he can hear your thoughts, the man in question obligingly stops talking, and there’s a moment of blessed silence before your chair glides smoothly and suddenly to the left as Miguel rolls you out from in front of your computer. Your first instinct is to wonder what new danger he’s saving you from, but no… He’s just moving you out of the way to make space for him to drag his own chair in front of the screen. “Enough,” he says firmly, already typing out some unintelligibly complex code at a speed that far outstrips your own personal best of 67 words per minute, “I can’t watch you keep doing this when it’s so simple to automate.”

You sometimes forget just how smart Miguel is. 

True, he can’t seem to work the office printer, but he’s a genius scientist who single-handedly built an A.I. sophisticated enough to hack into financial institutions and topple governments. He successfully invented a machine that travels between dimensions. Every other sentence coming out of his mouth sounds like something that would confound Stephen Hawking. You don’t know why you’re surprised he’s able to automate Excel spreadsheets. 

It doesn’t take him very long at all. 

Within minutes, he’s finished, hitting enter one final time, and then you can see all of the cells rectify themselves one by one. Errors disappear and new corrected information appears, data populating blank cells and aligning itself in tidy rows. 

You lean in closer to get a better look. Your elbow snags the edge of your coffee cup and the cup topples over, splashing runaway hot coffee across your hand.

Before you have a chance to react, there’s a strong pull backwards. Miguel is already grabbing you and pulling you sideways into his lap and out of the firing range.

The cup clatters off the edge of the desk and onto the floor. The rest of the burning liquid never had the time to land on you. 

Then you’re sitting on top of him, confined in the much too small seat of the office chair that can barely fit him and his broad backside, and much less the both of you. But if it’s uncomfortable, Miguel doesn’t show it. He takes your hand in his to inspect it carefully.

The patch of skin burns and stings, but you can’t tell if it’s from the coffee or his burning touch that makes you feel like there’s liquid fire simmering in your veins. 

“You okay?” he says, his voice right in your ear.

He is so close. Surrounding you. Broad arms locked around your waist and the firm muscles of his thick thighs under yours.

“Yeah,” you manage, nodding slowly. Your tongue feels heavy and dry in your mouth.

He quietly drags your hand closer to his face, then blows on the back of your burnt knuckles to soothe the sting. 

“Better?” 

Those stunning eyes are staring into yours from inches away, cut cheeks right there, nose barely brushing against yours, and – god, is he close. Too close. 

Miguel is always in close proximity to you these days. Never more than a couple yards away, but save for life or death situations, the two of you do not find yourself like this. He only ever holds you when you’re crashing through the skies or about to collide with a runaway vehicle. This is different somehow. 

Your heart feels like a trapped bird in your chest, fluttering so fast and panicky it might burst from inside out at the proximity. 

“I– um– ah…” You’re not saying any words, just making strange noises in your throat like a squawking bird. 

Your eyes flicker away from his face avoidantly and from the corner of your eye, you spot Matt from accounting spying on you from the cubicle across. 

Oh god. This probably doesn’t look great, does it?

You’re sitting on a co-worker’s lap in the middle of an open plan office. Compromising does not even begin to describe the position you two are in.

Jumping off his lap, you quickly stand up and turn away, trying to ignore the flustered heat in your cheeks. 

You walk back over to your chair, about to sit yourself back down, but there’s spilled coffee everywhere. The dark brown liquid quickly sinking into the already stained fabric of the seat.  You need to clean this up or else your chair is going to smell like expired coffee for the rest of time. Grabbing for your bag, you start digging for some tissues so you don't have to walk up to the supply closet.

You pull out item after item. Tampons. Sunglasses. A half-eaten chocolate bar. More tampons. New wallet with new ID, (expedited, all courtesy of Lyla). A handful of pennies. A random pamphlet. Still no tissues though, so you upend your bag onto your desk, wincing at the clatter. 

How on Earth have you accumulated this much stuff in the few short weeks since your apartment was destroyed?  And how on Earth do you not have any kleenex or napkins or anything in your handbag?? 

You paw through the mess, hoping for something useful, then swear as some of it spills over onto the floor. Ducking down, you crawl half under your desk, collecting wayward tampons and receipts, until your eyes pause on the pamphlet.

Not just any pamphlet. It’s yellow and bright with Whoopie Goldberg's face in the corner. It's the map you received from the fortune teller lady. One of your many misfires.

Now that you look closely at it, there are faint lines that seem to glow faintly in the dimness under your desk that weren't there when you were looking at it in plain daylight.

You pick it up and unfold it, laying it out on the floor. It looks like it’s been written on with some kind of a glow-in-the-dark marker, but it’s not dark enough for you to see clearly. You need to get somewhere darker to test your theory.

Backing out from under your desk, you get to your feet and head briskly off down the hall. You barely make it three steps before Miguel’s on your tail, his towering height blocking out the bright LED lamps above as he follows after you like the world’s biggest duckling. 

“Cielo, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you murmur curtly under your breath. The heat from before is still riding persistently on your face, and you quicken your steps, hoping it doesn’t show. 

You half run to the end of the hall until you reach the small supply closet. When you open the door to step inside, Miguel is right behind you, apparently trying to squeeze himself in after you. 

"We won't both fit in here!" you scold as you close the door after you.  His unhappy expression is the last thing you see as darkness envelops you in the pitch black.

There’s a niggling feeling of guilt that wiggles down into your skin. But you remind yourself that you can always steal cupcakes meant for clients from the conference room to make it up to him. All will be forgiven if you appease his sweet tooth. 

Ducking your head to stare down at the map clutched in your hands, you squint your eyes in the dark to study it closely. There's a small star glowing bright in the middle of the map.

It's a literal star map.

She gave you a location.

You're standing in front of an old stone building at 177A Bleecker Street, smack in the middle of Greenwich village with its picturesque ivy covered old brownstone houses. 

Then there's this monstrosity: Sanctum Sanctorum. The infamous residence of Dr. Strange.

The mansion is built in a mix of a Victorian and Gothic style as if the architect couldn't make up their mind and just decided 'why not both?' Throughout the rooftop, there are ornate carvings and intricate stonework that you suspect was meant to lend it a mysterious air, but instead the place reminds you of Disney’s Haunted Mansion ride attraction. 

You bring up your hand to the old knocker, gripping it firmly. Your lungs tighten, breath constricting in your chest as you hesitate, unable to bring yourself to pull the brass down to make contact with the wooden front door. Instead you’re holding it still in the air. 

Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all. How are you going to explain this? 

‘The universe is out to get me, please send Avengers to help.’

Isn’t he just going to think you’re nuts? One of those delusional Supes-fan with munchausen syndrome?

"We can still leave," Miguel says. 

The man's been protesting every step of the way here, buzzing in your head about how much of a bad idea this is.

You frown, turning around to him. "I want to do this,” you answer. 

His continued opposition is the final push you need. You bring down the knocker against the front door and tap it repeatedly. 

There's no answer.

Part of you has to fight the urge to turn your feet and flee, saving yourself the embarrassment. But before you do, there’s a loud creak and a heavy scraping noise against the entrance as the double door swings inwards and slowly opens. 

No one greets you by the door. The entryway before you is empty, revealing a grand imperial staircase leading to the second floor, curving upward into a majestic spiral on each side of the room. 

It looks deserted. It’d be impolite to just step inside without someone to greet you and explicitly invite you in. But the doors did open to let you in. 

You look at Miguel, unsure of what to do, but the man does not have the same compunction for politeness that you do, he’s already walked in, shoes and all, straight into the main hall. 

“Can we just get this over with without you making your usual stupid grand dramatic entrance?” Miguel says into the empty room seemingly to no one in particular and you don’t know who he thinks he’s talking to. 

A ring of ember and fire sparks into existence out of nothingness in the center of the room. The ring grows wider, and you can see hints of another room inside of the circle: one decorated in a different decoration style than the current room you’re in: moroccan seats and plush cushions with oriental wooden carved furniture. 

A man steps out from within that room to stand in front of you both. The ring of light closes behind him once he’s made it through. Clad in a rich purple tunic and dark robes that is monk-like in appearance. Miguel steps in front of you, tucking you safely behind him. 

"You're not Strange," Miguel sneers, and you want to smack him. Why does he always have to be this rude?

"Oh, I'm quite strange. But I am not the Doctor. I am Wong. I’m the Sorcerer Supreme and guardian of this place." The man’s voice is calm and formal, and he holds himself with a stately manner as he speaks. 

You pop out your head from behind Miguel’s side. "We’re here to see Doctor Strange." 

At the repeated mention of Strange, the man’s formality seems to fall away, an expression of irritation bleeding into his features. 

"Let me know when you find him. Because he is not here."

"Where is he?" Miguel asks, and there’s that contempt rumbling in his voice again. 

"I do not know. Probably playing hooky again. The man comes and goes as he likes." Wong makes a muttering noise under his breath as he continues. "Treats this sacred place like a summer gig at McDonalds."

Your chest deflates. How are you supposed to get Dr. Strange to help you if he’s not even here?

"I need help,” you plead with Mr. Wong. Maybe he can help you if Dr Strange can’t, he is the Sorcerer Supreme after all, supreme is the highest level, right? This might even be an upgrade from Strange. “I know this sounds crazy, but I think the universe is out to get me." 

Wong just looks at you, expression unchanging, and okay, yeah, that was maybe not the best place to start. You take a deep breath, trying to figure out how to make yourself sound less paranoid.

"I've almost died 40 times since the beginning of the summer. I just want to know why this keeps happening and how to make it stop."

You dig into your bag, pulling out the folded map. 

"We talked to a fortune teller in Chinatown, and she gave me this map. It led us here, and I'm really, really hoping you can help me."

Wong dips his head down to the map, "This is a celebrity home star map," he says, with a straight face and a neutral voice that only slightly betrays that he thinks you're batshit crazy.

“I know it sounds crazy, but-”

“Sanctum Sanctorum opened its doors for you, which means it wanted me to meet with you. I believe what you’re telling me.”

Oh thank god.

You tell him everything, rambling on as you try to explain what’s been happening and what little you know about it as best you can. The near death experiences, Miguel being a Spiderman from another dimension, the destruction of your apartment,  the unnatural phenomena and the universe’s escalating attempts on your life. 

Wong is quiet throughout, studying your face with grave concentration as you speak. 

When you’re finally done, he sighs with deep weariness that emanates from the core of his soul. He looks down on his feet, tapping them in deep consideration.

"I have an idea,” Wong says cautiously, “I could perform a Multiversal Divination on you, that might give us a clearer idea of what we’re dealing with,” 

“What does that mean?” Miguel asks, anger vibrating off his skin and boiling in his tone.  

This man needs to calm down. You clearly need to take him to anger management, because since the moment he’s stepped into this place he’s been on the edge (even more so than usual).

“What does a ‘Multiversal Divination’ entail?” he continues, “Is that some magical mumbo jumbo that’s going to hurt her? Because if so we’re not–”

“I’ll do it,” you say, interrupting his objections, and you sidestep Miguel who is scowling, mouth already parted in yet another protest, to stand in front of Wong. 

Wong looks to you and then Miguel, then back at you again, caught in the awkward stalemate, before you interrupt. 

“Please, I need answers. Whatever it is, if it might help, I want to do it.”

Wong nods, stepping closer to you. "This will feel a little bit strange," he warns with the bedside manner of a patient doctor.

His hand comes to your collarbone and he places his palm there with a gentle push. There is barely any effort put into it, but you feel the force of it as if you had been slammed with the full force of a six ton truck. Your body wants to leap out of its skin. It is the sensation of being dumped in cold water from head to toe. A shock runs through your entire nervous system.

Images flash before your eyes, flickering by too fast for you to process. They’re vivid and bright. Glimpses of a scene: your apartment, your work, your commute home. Each of them expiring in a fraction of a moment before you have a chance to latch on and make sense of any of them individually.

You see yourself in picture after picture. Except slightly different in each. Short hair. Long locks. Curly.

In some you're wearing glasses instead of the contact lenses that you usually use. In others, you’re sporting the piercing you wanted to get at 16 but never did. Sometimes you have tattoos, sometimes not; occasionally you’re covered in them. Dyed hair, in every color of the spectrum: pink, blue, purple. A myriad of versions of you, of every variation of the decisions you could have possibly taken in your life. 

There are pictures of memories you have had and not had. They rush in and flee before you're able to grab hold of one.

Captured moments of lifetimes you have never lived.

It's overwhelming. You don't understand what you're seeing. There’s pandemonium inside your head.

Then everything slows to a crawl.

The scene unfolding before you is one that you immediately recognize. An image that you'll never forget.

Window after window after window flashing you by. You know this view. Have seen it twice before. The same view of the Chrysler building as you were falling. But it's different this time. 

The sky isn’t blue, nor is it gray. It’s a pink and an abnormal purple, a color you’ve never seen on it before and it looks both beautiful and completely wrong. There’s an angry tear in the sky, cracking at the edges with static. The whole of the sky looks like it is going to cleave in two and bring the whole world with it. Is this the future? Is it the past?

There's no pain, but somehow tears run down your cheeks uncontrollably.

In the distance you hear Miguel's voice, muted even though you know from that tone that he's furious and must be bellowing loud enough that it echoes through the walls. It sounds like you are underwater, and you have to strain to make out what he is saying.

"Why is she crying?" He's definitely shouting, voice raw and growling. Is this part of your memory or is it happening in the now? "You're hurting her."

The ground approaches. 

"Stop! Stop!" Miguel's voice is shouting, but there's no way to stop this. Everything is going too fast this time around.

Miguel is here, tearing through the sky towards you. But you know it's too late. He's too far away. He can't save you this time.

Then everything does stop. 

No images in your head. No noise in your ears.

Everything goes black, like the ending of a movie.

Then you hear a thud.

It's loud and close and real.

You snap yourself out of your fugue state, to see Miguel towering over Wong's body where the Sorcerer Supreme lies, limp and lifeless on the ground.

“What did you do!? Are you out of your mind?" you shout, running up to them.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Wong isn’t moving, not even blinking!

"He was hurting you!" Miguel roars. 

"He wasn't hurting me, you big doofus!" you shout back, and it’s only then that the fury in Miguel’s eyes seem to abate. 

"What's wrong with him?” you ask, bending down Wong’s limp body on the ground. “Is he dead!? Did you kill him?” There's a rising panic pushing inside your throat.

"He's just paralyzed."

"He’s para– What do you mean paralyzed? What did you do to him?"

"I just... I bit him," he uses a finger to part his lips slightly, pushing the upper one up just enough to reveal the sharp edges of his fangs. "There's toxins in them that can have a paralyzing effect."

You glance back at Wong. He’s still worryingly still. 

“Is there some kind of way to un-paralyze him!?"

"It was just a small bite," Miguel says, ducking his head down sheepishly to stare at the floor, like a scolded boy. "I didn’t use that much venom... It’ll wear off. He shouldn't be out long. Maybe half an hour or so."

“I’m sorry. So, so sorry,” you tell Wong fervently, hovering over him. You can see his eyes tracking yours and the rise and fall of his chest, and you breathe a sigh of relief at the proof that he’s still alive. “Do you, um… Do you want me to help you up?”

“He’s not gonna want to move for a few more minutes,” Miguel interjects from behind you. “Moving will be incredibly painful until the venom wears off the rest of the way”. 

What the actual fuck!?

You throw a glare at Miguel, as you loop an arm under Wong’s waist, “Well help me move him so he can be more comfortable.” 

At your command, Miguel helps you prop the man up against the wall in what is (hopefully) a more comfortable position, and then you sit next to each other and wait.

"I can't believe you bit the Sorcerer Supreme," you mutter under your breath. “Miguel, you can’t just–” you cut yourself off, too frustrated to find the proper words. 

"I'm sorry,” he says, grimacing at your scolding, looking regretful for once as he ducks down his gaze. “You looked like you were in pain".

Your anger subsides, if only slightly at his repentance. 

“It still doesn’t make it okay. You can’t just attack someone like that! He was trying to help us.”

He doesn’t say anything more to that, just stares down at his feet in contrition. 

The two of you sit in the silence. 

Your mind goes back to the surreal experience you just had. The myriad of thousands if not millions of images that were flashing through your mind at the speed of light.

The warped shape of your world, the jarring images of it distorted and wrong, as it started to collapse. 

Miguel had said that didn’t he? That the universe was going to ramp up its game and if it didn’t succeed, it would eventually self-destruct in its mission to get you.

It takes 26 minutes. The first sign that the toxins are wearing off is that Wong is able to wiggle his toes. His recovery accelerates after that, he's able to move his fingers, then the muscles in his face until he's able to form a grimace. He doesn't look happy, and you don't blame him.

After another five minutes or so, he's able to speak again. 

"Strange way of expressing gratitude, literally biting the hand that helps you."

You get up on your feet to help Wong, and Miguel moves next to you. 

“No, you stay there! Don’t move,” you order, and even though he scowls, Miguel complies. 

You hunch over next to Wong, and help him sit fully upright. He stays seated, but dusts his robe off from the caked soot and fine layers of dirt. 

“This has happened in other dimensions,” Wong tells you. “And if we don’t stop it, our universe will be destroyed.”

“How do we stop it?” you ask. 

“The universe wants you dead. It won’t stop until it achieves its goal.”

Your stomach drops. 

“So in order for this to stop… I need to die?”

There’s a look of barely contained fury burning in Miguel’s red eyes that seems to vibrate out of his skin and pounce. But he doesn't, this time he remains in place, visibly restraining himself, still following your orders. 

“There is that option, or you will need to find the reason for why it wants to kill you. And you need to find it soon, because you don’t have a lot of time left. You will have even less time once the people of this world realize the threat you present to the continued integrity of this universe.” 

“Are you threatening her!?” Miguel demands, and somehow even though you didn’t hear him move, he’s right behind you, red eyes glowing, shoulders rising, looming over Wong, ready to cut him down at any further hints that the man might be a threat to your safety. 

Wong doesn't seem deterred in the slightest. 

You have to give it to the Sorcerer Supreme. He's a brave one. It took you weeks before you stopped being intimidated by the man, and Miguel’s never bitten you. 

“I am only telling you what the universe tells me. And it tells me that you do not belong here at all. The universe thinks neither of you belong here.”

You think back on fortune teller's drawing of the poorly drawn circle and stickfigure of you that’s speared with arrows.

"What if we went… somewhere else?" Miguel asks.

For the first time since he entered this house, his tone is no longer dripping with anger. “What if we left this universe and dimension?”

The image of white blankness enters your mind at his words. You shudder at the reminder. The cold numbness of the void and the sensation of nothingness. Dread fills your veins. A cold clammy sweat flashes hot and cold against your skin at the memory.

Wong tilts his head up in deep consideration. “That might work. This universe would slowly return to equilibrium with her gone. But… This will just start again in any new Universe. Most likely she wouldn’t be able to stay. She might have to leave every dimension she's in for the rest of her natural lifespan. A life spent always on the run.” 

Wong pauses as he glances over to you with sympathy and concern in his gaze. “Is that something you would want?” 

What is the alternative here? To lie down and die?

“Yes.”

“One month’s time, you need to find a way to leave this dimension before then.”

Back at your hotel that evening, you wake up to the sound of distress. Muffled whimpers and quiet moans. 

By habit, your eyes roam the room, seeking out Miguel in the dark. He’s lying on the sofa from across the room and even in this distance you can make out that his body is writhing beneath the covers. But you’re groggy and too sleep-drunk to make sense of what you’re hearing or seeing. 

There’s murmured noises from him, and it takes you far too long to understand what’s going on. 

He’s having a nightmare. 

Tugging off the blanket on top of you, you get up and scoot over to the end of the bed over to him. Miguel looks like he’s in pain. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he tosses and turns, face pinched in pain and distress. Now that you’re closer, you can make out words in the sounds he’s making. 

“Quiero quedarme contigo. No te vayas, no te vayas,” he keeps murmuring. 

He looks exhausted. Which, of course he is. He's been on constant alert trying to protect you. Fighting off supernatural weather phenomena, blocking hazardous furniture and fighting off charging hippos out of nowhere. Of course he's worn out.

“Shhhh, It’s alright.” you whisper to him, reaching out to gently stroke his arm, attempting to soothe him. “It’s okay.”

He groans unhappily in his sleep, burying his head into the cushion.

“Quiero quedarme conti–”

"Hey, hey, Miguel,” you tap insistently at his shoulder now. If you can’t soothe the nightmare away, then maybe you can at least wake him up out of it, “It's okay. Wake up."

This time his eyes slam open, wide with adrenaline and shock, and he shoots upright, head whipping from side to side as he scans the room. Every inch of him prepared to leap into a fight.  

“What’s wrong? What’s–”

“You were having a nightmare,” you explain to him. 

He stiffens at that, dropping his eyes to stare down at his lap unhappily. 

“Shit, did I wake you?” he runs a hand over his face, then lays back down, “Sorry.” 

Silence blankets the two of you, and you don’t know what else to say to him. Except just that you want him to be able to rest–truly rest–after the day, week and month you’ve both had. You don’t want him to have to go back to snatching moments of troubled, uncomfortable sleep on that stupid, too-small couch.

“You could come sleep on the bed with me,” you offer, “That couch is nowhere near big enough for you.”

"It's fine," he mutters, "It's been fine the last month, and it's fine now."

"It's not though. You're clearly not sleeping well.  I should have asked you before.  I'm surprised your back isn't already killing you—that sleeping position looked painful."

His head darts down, eyeing his own spread legs that are sticking out into the empty air from the bottom of the couch. But he doesn't concede the point.

"Please?" you try again, "It will make me feel better."

Apparently all you needed to do was ask, because Miguel immediately complies like your request was a decree. He gets up, pulling the quilt with him, his mop of curls in adorable disarray as he drags his feet over to the other side of the bed and flops down with a loud thump that makes the whole mattress bounce underneath you.

You can feel the pull of the sheets where his legs threaten to brush up against your bent knees, and you're beginning to realize you didn't think this through. Even in the big bed, there's only so much space, and he seems to be taking up most of it.  

He's close, and you can't seem to peel your eyes away from the strong line of his throat. Can't help the way your body reacts. Your pulse starts to race, heart kicking up hard and fast against your ribs.

Miguel turns around to observe you with narrowed eyes. “You okay?” 

Shit! Did he hear you? That timing was too on the nose. You nod at him a little bit too frantically and you sound high-pitched and skittish even to your own ears. 

 “Yes of course, why wouldn’t I be?”  

“Your heart is beating really fast.”

Fuck. He could hear you. Of course he can, he has super hearing powers doesn’t he? 

“I’m just tired,” you stammer out, wrapping the blanket close to your chest for layers as a shield from his super hearing. 

Miguel doesn’t push it. He turns back around, letting his head drop down the pillow. 

The distance between you has been growing smaller and smaller with each passing day together and you think you have been crossing an invisible line that you shouldn’t be crossing as of late. 

You think of the closeness of him in the office, the weight of his arms on your waist as he held you in his lap. His eyes on you. The bare skin of his broad back casually revealed to you when he was changing. The same back that you find yourself staring up at in this moment. 

“Go to sleep,” Miguel rasps from your side, and you nearly jump out of your skin in surprise. 

You close your eyes, but somehow in the dark you become even more keenly aware of his presence in the bed with you. Your heart seems to skip a little bit faster as the seconds pass, each beat a little bit harder. 

There's a quiet sigh, then a much louder exhale, as he turns back towards you in bed. 

"What's wrong?" His voice is still gruff with sleep.

"I can’t fall asleep,” you say, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. “Can you talk? It might help me sleep."

He snorts with a laugh. The sound of it makes something pleasant skitter up the length of your spine. He's got a nice laugh. It's a shame he doesn't laugh often.

"What's so funny?"

"No, nothing. Just... some things never change." Even in the dim of the unlit room, you can see the smile on his lips.

"What do you want me to talk to you about?" he asks.

You tilt your head, considering it. Miguel rarely gives you a carte blanche to ask him for information. Logically, you should use this moment to seize a tactical advantage and ask him for all the salacious details that you know he’s been keeping from you. But as you wrack your brain for questions, the only ones that come to mind are disappointingly ordinary. You just want to know more about him. Small, silly, personal details, the way he seems to know everything about you. 

"Tell me about where you're from," you request, "Your dimension. Your hometown." 

He shifts on the bed, lying flat on his back until he’s staring up at the ceiling with you as he reminisces. 

"It's called Nueva York. It's significantly more technologically advanced than this dimension. Definitely cleaner. People aren't as big of assholes as they are here. Public hygiene is way better, everything doesn’t reek of piss. Oh, and there’s not a rat epidemic in the public transportation system there." 

His head turns to his side to look at your face, and he gives you a small mischievous grin as he continues. "Food is healthier. You don't get junk food there."

The words should be complimentary, but from his tone of voice and what you know of his eating habits, you think it’s probably a win for your dirty, rat-infested dimension.

"Lots of skyscrapers and neon-lights everywhere. It's colorful."

He pauses, as if he's struggling to find anything more to say about the place. Then his head tips to the side, meeting your eyes, and his gaze is soft. 

“I'll take you there," he promises, voice quiet and warm and it makes something sweet and honeyed trickle inside your veins pleasantly. 

“How?” you wonder.

His smile drops, replaced by an unhappy frown. “Not sure yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Can’t we just open up a portal like last time?”

He shakes his head. 

"The last time I took you through the portal, it was meant to take us back to my dimension.  But I built the parallel universe traversal device to transport me—and only me—through the multiverse."

He reaches out to you, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. The contact makes your skin tingle, but you don’t pull away. 

"I wasn't thinking last time. We can’t take the risk of winding up back in the void.” 

He’s mumbling now, nearly asleep. His eyes half-shut as he blinks slowly, struggling to keep them open as he slowly blinks.

"Someone that disappears in the void, they'll be erased from existence and out of every timeline. No one will ever remember you or know you existed. It's as if you've never existed at all."

You eye the watch on your wrist. The slight sheen of the bed light reflecting against the shiny glass.

"Can we modify the watch?"

"Firstly, not a watch", he reminds you by rote as he fluffs up his pillow with his arm. 

"And second..." he pauses, eyes drifting up to study the ceiling before he shakes his head, "I've tried. It doesn’t work. The power source isn’t powerful and your world is not technically advanced enough for me to build an upgraded self-sustaining fusion power source that would be needed. It’s how we ended up in the void.” 

Worry burrows into your chest, and your gaze drops down from his face. It always feels like you’re taking one step forward and ending up two steps back. Futile and hopeless but that’s what you get for trying to fight against the will of the universe. 

"Go to sleep," he says again, his hand coming to rest gently on top of your head, "I'll figure it out, don't worry.”

You smile, warmed by the comforting gesture and his reassurance. 

“I won't let you get hurt this time."

…‘this time.’

The promise cuts through you like glass. Sharp and jagged and clawing its way into your chest until it hurts you to breathe.

Miguel is talking to you, but you don’t think it’s you he’s thinking of when he says the words.

He attacked Wong without a second of hesitation when he thought you were hurt. He's exhausting himself half to death to protect you. But you know that he’s not really doing any of this for you. 

It’s not your comfort he was thinking of when he cradled your burnt hand and gently blew on your fingers. It’s not your love of egg tarts that makes him save the flaky pastries for you when the two of  you go out for dinner. It’s not you—has never been you—that he’s seeing whenever his eyes linger on your face when he thinks you’re not paying attention. 

You're riding on the emotional coattails of the other you. The unwavering loyalty that he had for her has transferred to you now that she's gone.

He must have really loved her. 

There’s a sharp fissure in your chest, and you try to swallow down the thistle of needles that’s found its way into your throat, only to discover that your saliva tastes sour and bitter. 

Closing your eyes, you can see an image of yourself smiling with him, laughing with him, holding his hand. Except it’s not you. 

It’s her. 

Other-you, with the wedding band and the happy life and– And somehow better hair too, the lucky bitch!

Except… she wasn't lucky, was she? She's dead.

She’s dead, and you still resent her for what she had with Miguel. It's such an ugly feeling. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as hard as you can, but the image doesn’t go away. Nor does that acrid taste in your mouth. You can't help it. This irrational and childish madness is eating into the edges of your mind. You're envious of your other self. 

God that’s fucked up. 

Does someone like you even deserve to be saved at all?

~ Next Issue

Credits & Dedications: To @thirstworldproblemss for all the rubberducking we do together on this silly little story. Thank you so much for sitting with me and making this fun! I love you 234238472938492374923 x infinity and back again.

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow astroboots-writes and turn on notifs.

[olderthannetfic]

No disrespect to Mr. Squidge, he's just one guy and he's running a great little archive and image hosting service for us, but he *is* just one guy and I'm starting to get the impression that he just adds whatever features people ask for as long it's technologically reasonable.

So one rando asks for a language to be split into two or an archive warning to be added, and he goes "that's something I can add to the code, and I guess someone wants it, ok!" and the rest of us get stuck with a feature that wasn't thought through and that doesn't make sense culturally.

There's the nonsensical Spanish split that other people have brought up already.

There's an archive warning for incest but no guidance re what does and doesn't count as incest.

There's a relationship type for antagonistic relationships, which is cool, but I can't figure out if you're supposed to use it instead of or in addition to the slash if you're writing hatefucking, instead of or in addition to the ampersand if you're writing platonic nemeses.

--

I consider this a feature rather than a bug, personally.

I mean, yes, it does result in some incoherent features (potentially), but it's a fun return to how the little archives tended to function in the 00s. If an archive has only dozens or even thousands of regulars instead of the many millions of AO3/Wattpad/FFN, why shouldn't some rando get the exact thing they want?

I think the key piece here is that Walter, like most oldschool mods, is assuming he can just make a reasonable judgment call when some individual issue with the incest warning comes up. He may be setting himself up for a world of pain if the archive grows way too fast, but if it stays at the scale it is now, he can just keep running it how he always has. (At the scale of something like AO3, you need clearer policies that can be enforced by a team with only a little institutional knowledge.)

Archives back in the day had a lot of little idiosyncracies, and it's not always a bad thing.

But yes, it does mean he'll probably need a heads up now and then if a rando has asked for a feature that's causing a problem.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

A Balancing Act

There were so many wonderful prompts that I couldn't fit them all in here! Thank you so much to everyone who submitted one :)

Read on Ao3

Warnings: bruised ego, panic attacks, touch starvation

Pairings: none

Word Count: 6556

It starts, as do most things, in the Imagination.

Deep beneath the surface of the world, buried in layers of implication and mystery, lies a set of scales. Perfectly balanced? No, never, but always in a state of equilibrium. It operates on a set of rules far older than the theories of physics that govern the Waking World—that is, what most would refer to as Reality, outside the bounds of the Mindscape—for science is an intersection of math and literature and magic is a science based on a math most esoteric. Its golden rule is simply thus: whatever gives must be pulled, and whatever pulls must be given.

The scales must always hang. The scales must always be.

In the middle of the night, when no one will notice, Remus turns on his convincing loop of his own sleep noises—grunts, sloshing, the occasional rustle of bed covers—and sinks into Roman's room. Roman is awake, sitting on the edge of his bed, tying and untying the same knot in a length of rope as he stares into nothingness.

"Sorry," he mumbles as soon as Remus comes to sit next to him, "I'm…trying. I just can't seem to get anything…more."

"It's okay, Roro, I'm not mad or anything. I honestly thought it was kinda cool."

Roman huffs a laugh, only mostly filled with humor. "I figured you would. I mean, it's way more of a you idea, isn't it? Having the entire tower suddenly become as flexible as rubber and threaten to kill everyone inside?"

"I'm not gonna try and summon Janny at this point of the night, I'm definitely stealing it for my next video game dungeon idea."

"I'm glad at least one of us is getting some use out of it."

The humor dissipates quickly as Roman's fingers keep working unsteadily at the knot. Remus reaches over and rests his head on his shoulder, enjoying the warmth of Roman's breath ghosting over his temple as he wraps his arm around Roman's waist. "Are you doing okay otherwise?"

Another sigh. "I don't know, Remus. I don't—I haven't had the energy to know how I'm doing which I think is answer in and of itself, and every time I try to actually do something about it, the Imagination knows that I'm not—that I can't—"

Remus gives him a squeeze when his breathing starts to pick up a little. Roman winces and he sits up right away. "Are you bruised again?"

A suspiciously long pause. "It's nothing, Re—"

"Bullshit." Remus storms to the bathroom and returns with the first aid kit, tossing it on the bed. "Lemme see, Ro-bro, I'm not letting you get away with being bruised to hell and not letting anyone take care of you."

"Re," Roman almost whines, but he sets the rope aside and starts fiddling with the hem of his pajama shirt. "I'm—it's really fine, it's not even that bad this time."

"I'll be the judge of what's 'that bad,' thank you very much. You're not allowed to evaluate your own injuries after you hid broken ribs from me for almost a week."

"I was sort of proud of that, actually. Hey!" He yelps as Remus tugs on his hair. "Not the hair!"

"So lemme look at you. Come on."

"You're so demanding." But off comes the shirt and Remus has to begrudgingly admit that it's not actually that bad this time. A light smattering of yellow and a dusting of blue along Roman's side, probably just enough to make him wince if someone presses down on the right wrong spot. "See? It's fine. It'll probably fade by morning."

"You can't blame me for being suspicious, though."

"No," and Roman's voice gets all soft and gentle for a moment, "I don't. Thank you, Re. I…"

"No need to get too sappy, Roro, the night's still young."

"Yeah, maybe by your standards."

"I always go by my standards, because my standards are right," Remus remarks as he goes to return the first aid kit at a more reasonable pace, "how you should be treated better, how the others should know about some of this stuff—"

"No."

"But Ro—"

"No, Remus," Roman says, voice suddenly cold. He puts his shirt back on and hunches his shoulders. "We both know that them knowing isn't going to be a good idea."

"They care about you, Ro—"

"Evidently not!"

"But they don't know about it!"

"Yeah, because I've tried opening up to them in the past and all it's gotten me are insults, badly veiled pity, and the promise that it will be used against me at the first time it's convenient for them! I'm not going to give them an even more detailed guide of 'Press Here to Hurt the Prince!'"

Remus is quiet for a long moment and Roman sighs.

"You're thinking of how to make that into some sort of weird carnival game for your horror country fair, aren't you?"

"Only slightly—"

"I knew it."

"—but I'm also worried because you're my brother, Roman," Remus says quietly, coming over to sit next to Roman again, taking his hands and giving them a squeeze, "and I don't like seeing you hurting."

"But you know I'm right."

"…but I have a feeling that your instincts may be accurate."

Roman's brow quirks in amusement. "You've been spending more time with Logan, then?"

"Yeah. We, uh, we have an experiments lab in the mad scientist part of that big old spooky mansion you and I made when we were younger and it's…it's really fun, Ro, you should come hang out with us."

Roman chuckles, smoothing his thumb over Remus's scarred knuckles. "I don't think me and experiments would be very fun for all of us, but I'll happily partake in quests to gather the more obscure resources you might require. I'm sure you could convince Logan to take a small break for such an excursion in the future?"

"Ooh, a quest with an actual party! That might be fun. We'll have to think about that more tomorrow after we get some rest," he says pointedly when Roman looks eager enough to keep going now, only to chuckle at Roman's disappointed face, "hey, you're telling me—I'm being the reasonable one here and I'm exhausted already."

"Restoring balance to the universe, then." Roman leans forward to rest his forehead against Remus's. "Thanks for coming to check in on me."

"Hey, you're my brother. The entire world could be turned upside down and back to front and that'd still be true."

"Is that your way of saying you're always gonna be there for me?"

"Just like I know you will. And yes, before you ask, I'm enjoying imagining the others being surprised we're like this too."

"Just checking."

Remus ruffles Roman's hair. "Get some sleep, okay, Roro?"

"You too."

***

Roman wakes up cold.

Well, no. That's not quite right. He wakes up in agony that he can only bear to keep to himself because he's too cold to have the energy to move.

The first thing he registers is the pain. Deep, bone-weary agonizing pain that feels like he's been locked in a suit of armor that is being tightened, slowly, half-turn by half-turn of a screw. A noise threatens to escape his lips before he presses them tightly together, managing to roll onto his back.

He's on his side—or he was on his side. There's a soft rustle and a weight that indicates a covering of some kind. Blankets. He's in a bed. A bed he doesn't recognize in his state of delirium. The pain becomes enough of a dull roar that he can move his head, looking around at a blurred and darkened room. The barest sliver of light comes from a window just off to the side, behind his head, exposing the dark red of the covers slathered across his body. It stretches away into the darkness as though it were an ocean of blood, a tug of renewed pain reinforcing that as his neck cries out for release. Already exhausted, he lets his head flop back down onto the pillow—pillow, right, that's what it is.

He closes his eyes. It isn't often that he has nightmares as visceral and violent as this. To his—shame? Relief? He doesn't know anymore—it's been so long that he doesn't quite remember what he's supposed to do about it.

Behind his eyes flash aftershocks of his own screams of pain, his own bitten whimpers and whines as pain explodes along his body. He flinches away from the memories on instinct and the blood-red covers jostle with him. He remembers the darkness, the too-bright light, the pain, the waiting, and the voice.

The voice, taking observations and notes in a clinical, detached tone, ready to aim the next caustic remark to paint black and blue and purple across his fragile skin.

He knows it's probably a bad thing, to have nightmares about his fellow Sides. He knows it's probably not healthy, indicative of much larger problems between them—and for Thomas. He knows the best thing to do is probably to talk about them with the Sides in question so they can move forward together.

But bruises ache in a way that not many other injuries are capable of, and Roman has always, always been so, so sensitive.

He sees one last terrifying glimpse of Logan's face, a twisted curiosity pinned to him as though he were a bug to be displayed, and turns the idea away. He won't give it any sort of excuse to come true.

***

"No, no, no, we're not going over this again."

"On the contrary," Logan sighs as Virgil groans, slumping against the railing, "it seems that is exactly what we're going to do."

Janus rolls his eyes and examines the tops of his gloves, brushing away imaginary specks of dirt. "I don't understand what the hold-up is here, Patton, it's not as though we don't have endless possibilities for what we can watch for movie night."

"I'm just saying we can do better than getting them illegally! Thomas has access to streaming services, we can just ask one of his friends for their password—"

"Password sharing?" Janus mock gasps, holding his hand over his mouth. "Patton, didn't you know that's also illegal? The streaming services don't want you to do that! They want you to have your own account!"

"But that doesn't make any sense!"

"That's his point, Pop Star."

"But by all means, Patton," Janus continues, adopting a sickly-sweet tone that quickly morphs into one of disdain the longer he keeps speaking, "if you'd prefer to get the movies legally like a good little servant of this capitalist hellscape and contribute to the erasing of public ownership of storytelling by allowing corporations to scam us by 'selling' us copies of media that we can never actually permanently have, then by all means, let's keep looking."

There's a pause. Then Patton snorts. Soon everyone's laughing at the sheer ridiculousness—and accuracy—of Janus's little monologue. He holds his hands up. "Alright, you've convinced me."

"Thank you." Janus preens a little. "I always did think there was more validity in such arguments once you add just a little bit of flavor."

"Okay, if that's what you call a little bit of flavor, I'm never coming over for dinner again."

"Why, Virgil—"

"Nope." Virgil holds up a finger. "'Cause, see, I always thought it was weird that we went through spices so quickly over there when the ones in this kitchen have lasted for months—"

"I'm not sure Remus is entirely free of blame in this case," Logan remarks wryly, "in any case, thank you, Janus and Patton, for coming to an agreement. Now that it's all settled, shall we proceed with movie night as planned?"

"Works for me!"

"Yeah, I'm all set now."

Janus simply waves his hand in an 'of course' gesture. Logan glances around. "Alright, then—and Roman? You're all settled?"

He sees Patton and Janus visibly jerk, as though they'd forgotten he was there. He smiles a little weakly from his corner. "Yeah. I'm all good."

"Okay, I'm gonna admit something I really didn't think was possible," Virgil mumbles, fiddling with his hoodie strings, "but I genuinely forgot Princey was here and was just about to ask L what he was talking about."

"Gosh, I think I did too! I'm so sorry, kiddo, I didn't mean to!"

"It's okay."

"You better watch out, Princey," Virgil laughs, "pretty sure J's gunning for your spot as Thomas's theater kid Side with monologues like that."

Roman forces himself to laugh with everyone else—well, almost everyone. Remus shoots him a concerned look that he only nods back to, I'm fine, it's okay, as a bruise blooms warmly along the underside of his ribs. Thankfully, his little exhale disguises himself as part of the laugh as Janus starts preening again. Still, the words linger over his skin as they settle in for movie night, wriggling their way up from his stomach to the tip of his tongue.

During a loud part of the movie, he turns to whisper to Janus. "Hey."

"Hey," Janus whispers back, "you doing okay? You need us to turn it down?"

"What? No, far be it from me to keep you from enjoying something. I was just—I was just thinking. I have a proposition for you."

"Oh?"

"Did you, um, do you have any interest in learning how to fence?"

Janus fully turns to look at him, surprise painted in the many colors from the screen. "Really?"

"Yeah, I think you'd—"

"You know how to fence?"

A smaller bruise, colored mostly by the surprise, but a bruise nonetheless as Roman makes himself hold the smile. "Yeah, I know how to fence. I think you'd enjoy it."

"Yeah, yes, Roman, I think I'd like that very much." Janus blinks, surprise settling into something more akin to excitement. "I'm—well, I'm grateful you've finally noticed me as someone worth spending time with."

It's a tease, it must be, and yet the bruises ache no less at the implications. "What can I say, I need to make sure Thomas's theater kid Side knows everything."

Janus takes it as a joke. He usually does when it comes to things like this, which is why Roman knows he can get away with it right now. While Janus is distracted, high on the energy of winning the argument and the general daze that comes from being invested in a good movie with friends. Where he doesn't have time to realize that this isn't a lie, it's the truth, and if he uncovers that then this has a lot smaller chance of this actually working.

But Janus doesn't notice. And Roman can breathe a sigh of relief when no more bruises blossom across his aching chest.

***

The scales tip further and further to one side. The Imagination responds, growing wilder and crueler as the woods thicken and the rivers deepen. The skies grow darker, the wind colder. In the center of an old castle ruin, a garden that has lain untouched for years begins to wither. A single rose petal flutters to the ground.

***

He's grateful for the excuse of training Janus how to fence. That way, he has a reason to wince and smile sheepishly when the bruises covering him reassert themselves. Then again, as with most things that work in Roman's favor, it's a double-edged sword. Wow, Janus must be improving quite a bit, then! He's getting good enough to put you on your ass already, Princey? It's a good thing you've found a sparring partner that challenges you, then. Can't wait to fight, Snakey!

And then new bruises will spring up and the cycle will begin anew.

Janus is, in all honesty, quite an excellent sparring partner. His movements are fluid, graceful, no doubt in part due to his snake-like traits, and he internalizes the key lesson Roman teaches him on their very first day. It doesn't matter how quickly you get somewhere so long as you arrive at the right time. Slow is steady. Steady is smooth. Smooth is fast.

"I'm curious," Janus asks once day while they're taking a break, sipping from a water bottle and eyeing Roman over the top, "why fencing?"

"What, am I not fulfilling all the stereotypes as you wished?"

"Most knights don't fence, not all swordplays are alike." Roman waggles his eyebrows and Janus rolls his eyes, smacking his shoulder. "That's not what I meant. You grow more like Remus everyday."

He's grateful that his entire body is covered when a light smattering of purple decorates the insides of both of his arms. "I like fencing. It's all about timing."

"You mentioned."

"I don't know, I think—you know, like with most stories. It's all about getting the pacing right. You can't rush into the narrative, you can't force the plot, it has to sort of…happen on its own. Your job as the storyteller is to make sure the pace is right so the story has the most impact."

Janus's eyebrows raise higher and higher the longer Roman keeps talking. "Careful, there, you're getting dangerously close to being insightful."

"Hey! I'm a storyteller, shouldn't I know my own craft?"

"I suppose so."

"You suppose—what is that supposed to mean? Oh, shut up," he grumbles when Janus makes a smug expression, "I'm not falling for that again."

"I believe you already did, dear prince."

"Don't call me that."

"Whatever His Highness commands."

Roman rolls his eyes and turns around to hide the flicker of genuine hurt behind putting his water bottle down. "Come on, then. If you've got enough energy to bully me with words you can do it on the mats."

"You'll make me think you like being pushed around."

"Believe me," Roman says darkly, "you have no idea what a glutton for punishment I'm turning into."

***

"Hey, Remus?"

Remus pokes his head out from the massive gorgon corpse he's butchering, draped in all sorts of gore with a manic grin on his face. Virgil mumbles a quiet sure, why not as Logan adjusts his glasses. "Friends!"

"Hello, Remus," Logan greets, "we were wondering if we could have a moment of your time."

"Sure. Gimme just a sec to finish up with this thing and I'll be right with you."

"Is there, uh, somewhere we can wait that's less…entrail-y?"

"Go over the hill to the back, that's where the big shed is. I'll be in there in just a moment." There's the whirring of some sort of machinery that no one quite has the patience—or stomach—to name as a spray of something wet and squelchy-sounding hits the ground on the other side of the carcass. Virgil and Logan glance at each other before making a strategic and somewhat hasty retreat to the shed.

True to his word, Remus shows up a few minutes later, wiping the remains of something off of his hands with a rag he tosses into a wash barrel on the porch before coming inside.

"My two favorite Left Brain Boys, how can I help you today?"

"We've come about Roman."

Remus sobers immediately. He runs a hand through his hair and pulls a stool closer, sitting down and immediately tapping his fingers against his thighs. "What is it about him?"

"He's been bad," Virgil blurts out, hands bunched in his hoodie pockets, "like…really bad. Worse than normal bad."

"I got that much."

"He's been distant during brainstorming," Logan says quietly, "and I'm not sure—I do not know enough about it to understand what I can do to help."

"He won't talk to me about anything that isn't meeting or food related anymore. I can't even get him to complain about stupid plot twists that don't make any sense."

"He's stopped writing in his notebooks, at least where the rest of us can see."

"He's not even singing as much anymore, Remus, it's bad."

"I know." Remus's quiet admission startles them into silence. He's still tapping out a frantic rhythm, eyes darting from beaker to chart to specimen as the silence grows fuzzier and fuzzier. The wind whistles through the holes in the shutters. "Believe me, I know."

"My apologies," Logan says after a moment, "we didn't consider—at least I didn't consider that you would know Roman better than we would."

"No, no, I didn't—fuck, shit, sorry, Remus."

"You guys don't have to apologize to me. Ro's—Ro's not having a good time right now, yeah. And I'm…not helping."

"What do you mean, you're not helping? You're always there for Princey."

"Yeah, but not—okay, shit, look, I'm actually—I need to check with Roman before having this conversation."

"What? Why? Is there something wrong that we shouldn't know about?"

"It's just—to explain why—you know what? No. We're gonna do the short version of this conversation where you guys ask me questions and I tell you what I can. I'll talk to Roman later."

"We don't mean any harm," Logan starts to say, but Remus waves him off.

"I know. It's not about that. It's about me making sure I don't fuck up Ro's boundaries."

"I get that." Virgil shuffles a bit on his stool. "So can we—can we ask you stuff now?"

"Go ahead."

"Princey's been off ever since the wedding. Is—is that accurate to say?"

"Yeah."

"And it seems like it's not—like, it sort of seems like it's getting better, but it's not, not really. He's still been really down and upset and it's—it's getting really hard to like, talk to him about things. I'm just—is there something else we don't know about Roman that's making this harder?"

"Yes."

"Are you…gonna tell us what it is?"

"No."

"Okay, I guess that's fair."

"Would I be correct to say," Logan asks, "that Roman's struggles are related both to the wedding and to additional factors?"

"Yeah."

"Would it be accurate to say there is something unique about Roman that makes this situation significantly worse?"

The corner of Remus's mouth twitches. "No."

"Amended question: is there something unique about both yours and Roman's relationship to the Imagination, the Mindscape, and Thomas himself that makes this situation significantly worse?"

"Where the fuck are we, in court again?"

"Do you see why Janny didn't want Logan to be part of it if he was gonna win?"

"Answer the question, please, Remus."

"Yeah, Lolo. You're right. And we're not in a court room, which means I'm not bound by any of those stupid fucking rules and I will tell you that you're walking a dangerous line over there."

"Forgive me. I'm not trying to pry into Roman's business—okay, I'm not just trying to pry," he amends hastily when Remus glares at him, "I want to help. But I need to understand in order to help."

Remus sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know you guys want to help. But Ro…fuck, okay, this is the only piece of info you're getting from me about this that isn't gonna be just an instruction on what to do, but Roman…Roman really isn't good about letting people help him."

"Why?"

"He lets you help him."

"I'm his brother. I'm exempt and can make him let me take care of him."

Logan looks like he wants to argue for another second before he makes himself take a deep breath and adjust his glasses. "Thank you for telling us, Remus. How…how can we help?"

***

"It's getting worse." Patton confides in a whisper as Janus leans into his side. "I don't know what to do."

"There's not much we can do if Roman doesn't let us."

The irony of this conversation is not lost on either of them, not when the expression Roman wore when they glimpsed him all but fleeing back to his room is still in the forefront of their minds. They'd tried everything Remus had suggested, all of it: letting Roman have a say in what they watched for movie night, what they had for dinner, what they talked about when they all hung out in the living room just for the sake of it. They'd tried asking about his projects, expressing enthusiasm for things they didn't love for themselves but they loved because Roman loved them, even just asking Roman if he was okay, if he needed anything.

And Roman just kept falling further and further away from them.

"I don't know what to do," Patton confesses, prompting Janus to reach up and card a hand through his hair, "Roman's so quiet now, he's so small, he's not—Roman's not supposed to be small."

"He isn't," Janus agrees, "he's supposed to be our larger-than-life prince. I don't…I don't know how to fix this."

"If I'd known that it was going to be this bad, that the wedding would cause something like this to happen—"

"Don't play the 'what if' game, Patton, it never ends well. It's not—" Janus sighs— "believe me, as someone who's spent too long wallowing in the guilt of how badly my actions have hurt others when I truly didn't intend them to, it's not worth it."

"But I don't know what else to do! Roman's hurting, Janus, and I don't know how to fix it! I'm supposed to know how to fix it, we all have to take care of each other, and Roman's not—he's not letting us!"

"I know," Janus whispers, pulling him closer, "I know."

"What do we do?"

"The only thing we can do is keep trying and hope that Roman realizes how badly we want to see him alright again."

So they do. They try, and they try quite desperately to make sure Roman knows how much he is loved and how they care for his happiness. Roman, their wonderful vibrant prince who is greyer than any can remember him being. Roman, their songbird who hasn't sung a single note in weeks. Roman, who once could light up a room simply by appearing within it who has relegated himself to silent corners where their eyes long to skip over him. They don't know what to do. Roman is fading right in front of their eyes and nothing they do seems to have any effect on it whatsoever.

Remus is getting worse. He's more frantic, more hyper, more exaggerated. His ideas grow more and more frenetic, his experiments wilder and less restrained. The Imagination grows dangerous and chaotic as rules break and remake themselves over and over. The doors are soon locked and barred lest something try and escape and only the brothers can safely enter its depths without fear of getting lost in the storm. Remus tries to keep himself contained there, just because there is so much energy brimming within him that it would be catastrophic should it leak into the Mindscape proper, but Roman…

They're losing Roman.

Desperation makes fools of us all.

They have a meeting. They ask Roman what's going on. They try to be gentle. They try to tell Roman how much they care. They try to show that it's all coming from a place of love.

And Roman, their precious, lovely, wonderful, incredible Roman, collapses into a heap of tears.

***

The break comes. It's horrifying, tragic, and so very beautiful. The scales are upended, one side swinging wildly towards the heavens as the other shatters free from one of the links holding it aloft. The Imagination screams.

***

"Please—please—just tell me what you want, I can't do this anymore, I can't—I can't—" Roman's hands tangle in his hair and pull— "don't do this to me, I'll never—I can't—don't fucking do this!"

"Ro, Ro, you gotta calm down—"

Roman flinches away from Remus's touch, even as the others back up to give the brothers more space. His sobs run his breathing ragged, each inhale more pained than the last as they echo around and around the room. Remus swallows and reaches out again, carefully prying Roman's white-knuckled grip free.

"Ro-bro, it's me. It's just me. You know I'll never hurt you, right?"

"I don't understand, Re—"

"Shh, shh, hang on, breathe first. Don't try and speak, it's gonna be okay."

Sobs choke themselves free from Roman's lips as Remus coaxes him forward, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist and pulling him nearly into his lap. He sets Roman's head in the crook of his neck and keeps murmuring reassurances, stroking his hands up and down his brother's spine.

"Remus—"

"I'm right here, Roro. Don't you fall away from me, not again."

"I can't do this—"

"You can. You have to, Ro, I can't—I can't hold all of this by myself, you know I can't. Come on, just breathe with me, okay? I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere and neither are you. You're gonna stay right here, with me, and we're both just gonna breathe and let this even itself out." For indeed, Remus is trembling too from the force it's taking to restrain his nails from digging into Roman's back. Even now, there is too much energy thrumming inside him, two vessels forced together and it's not sustainable, none of this is. "I'm right here, Ro, you gotta let me be here for you."

"It hurts, Remus," comes the whisper against his neck, "it hurts so much and I don't know how to make it stop."

"I know, Roro, I know."

"I can't do this anymore. It's too—I can't. I just can't."

"You need to let us help you, Ro. I know, I know," he says, quickly hushing Roman when he cries out in pain again, "I know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"I can't!"

"I won't let them hurt you, not again. I promise." He tightens his grip. "Just—just hold on for me, okay?"

"I'm so scared, Re. I'm so scared."

"I know. Me too."

The two of them stay like that for a long, long time. Long enough for the room to grow cold as the sun goes down, long enough for them to start to shiver from having expended so much energy just to stay in each other's arms.

"Here," Logan says softly, so softly so as not to startle them, "I have a blanket for you."

"Thanks, Lolo."

"Of course."

Roman eyes him warily as he approaches, blanket held out unfolded between the two of them like a peace offering. Logan offers him the gentlest of smiles and drapes it over them. He retreats to a safe distance where the rest of them are, still watching, still waiting.

"You stayed," he croaks, throat weary from overuse.

"Of course we did, kiddo," Patton murmurs, "we were so worried."

"We wanna make sure everything's okay, Princey," Virgil agrees, slumping down a little to make himself seem like a smaller target, "that's all."

Janus, scales glimmering from his bare hands, wordlessly holds up another blanket.

It takes another long pause for Roman to nod, but he does nod, and perhaps that makes all the difference.

***

"Come in, please," Logan says, smiling when Roman shyly knocks on his door. He steps aside so Roman can shuffle through. "Sit wherever you'd like."

"Even on your bed?"

"Even on my bed."

Roman looks at it, clearly tempted, before he decides to only partially push his look and sit on the floor, his back against the bed. Logan just chuckles and comes to sit next to him, getting comfortable before holding out his hand.

"It's not a trick," he says when Roman just looks at it, "will you let me hold your hand?"

"Why?"

"I'd like to." When that just gets him another look, he lets out a small sigh. "I'm…concerned that in my failure to realize how much you were struggling, I've cultivated a relationship between the two of us that is a great deal more adversarial than it needs to be. I'd like to amend that by offering you comfort, both emotional and physical. So…I'd like to hold your hand."

"…oh."

"But if that's something you're not comfortable with yet, I understand."

"N-no, I didn't—I didn't mean—" Roman splutters for another second before he puts his hand in Logan's—well, he more lets it flop in his direction like Logan might take it back if he lets it go for too long.

"Thank you, Roman." He covers it with his other one and pulls it into his lap to cradle it gently, raising an eyebrow at Roman's noise of surprise. "What?"

"I, um…didn't know that's what you meant."

"Is this alright?"

"U-um…yeah. Yeah, it's…it's okay."

"I'm glad." His thumb strokes soothingly over Roman's still-trembling knuckles. "Can I ask you something?"

"Aside from that?"

"Yes."

"Sure."

"Are you…is it possible that you're touch-starved, Roman? Shh, shh, easy," he soothes when Roman tenses immediately, "my apologies, I didn't mean to frighten you."

"I—um—I don't—"

"No tricks, Roman, I promise. I'm only asking because I want to help. Here: is it easier to just nod or shake your head?" Roman nods. "Alright. Can…are you?"

He nods again, his mouth twisting up to hold back a sob. Logan quickly squeezes his hand, still stroking over his knuckles.

"Thank you for telling me, though I am sorry to hear it. If…if it's alright with you—and please know you can say no or shake your head and I won't bring it up again—may I help?"

He likes to think that the work they've put in to making it easier to spend time together without it feeling like a fight or an interrogation is what makes Roman nod. He's unable to keep the grateful smile from spreading across his features, nor the way he scoots a little bit closer so their sides press together.

"Thank you."

They sit together like that for a long while. Long enough for Logan to start running his fingers up and down Roman's arm, long enough for him to squeeze his hand when Roman's grip shivers and shudders, long enough for Roman's head to drop onto his shoulder, breathing heavily.

"That's it," he whispers, turning his head so his nose brushes Roman's hair, "you're doing so well. It's alright. Is this still okay?"

Roman nods.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he can't help himself from asking, "I would've helped, I would've done this earlier."

"…I was scared."

It's not a surprise to hear, not truly, but Logan can't stop the slight pang of hurt. Quickly, he moves past it; Roman has been so terrified of asking for help for so long, he will not give him the opportunity to be further hurt by this. Instead, he carefully lifts Roman's hand to his lips and presses the smallest kiss to his knuckle.

"What were you scared of, little one?"

Patton had always warned him about asking questions, said at some point he might learn something he wished he hadn't. This…is not one of those times, as he does not regret learning about Roman's terrifying nightmares, but he does…ache.

"If ever you need to be reassured that something like that will never happen," he manages, voice slightly hoarse with Roman's confession, "please, little one, let me know."

"I don't think it'll happen anymore."

"Perhaps not logically, but fear is rarely logical." Roman shifts, caught out, but Logan doesn't give him time to murmur an apology. "It's alright, I understand, and my promise stands."

"You mean it?"

"Of course I do, Roman."

***

"Go on," Roman whispers when Janus, Patton, and Virgil don't say anything for too long after he's explained himself, "just get it over with."

"May I hug you?"

His head snaps up. Janus is looking at him with that foreign soft expression again and he—he can't have heard that right.

"May I hug you," Janus asks again, holding out his arms, "please?"

"I—um—sure?"

Janus stands and hurries—hurries?—over to wrap Roman up in his arms, pressing a kiss to his temple and Roman is confused but Janus is warm and solid and there are more hands than he expected and he's—he's going to cry again, isn't he?

"You're gonna overwhelm him, J."

"Too late for that, I think," as Patton and Virgil come closer too, "oh, kiddo…I'm so sorry we didn't know about this sooner."

"I know that was on purpose, Princey, but…" He runs a hand through his hair. "Shit, I didn't—I didn't know we were—that you—fuck, I didn't know we'd fucked up that badly, I guess."

Roman glances at Patton, who looks so upset that he doesn't even call Virgil out on his language. "I didn't know how," he manages, just as Patton reaches up to brush a tear from his cheek.

"You shouldn't have had to go so far for us to notice, and that's on us."

"But I should've said something—"

"But you didn't to try to keep yourself safe," Janus interrupts, his own voice thick with tears.

"…yeah."

"Will you tell us, now?" Patton wraps an arm around the part of Roman's waist he can still reach. "If we do something that hurts you?"

"Don't feel like you have to promise something if you don't think you can," Virgil adds when Roman looks even more terrified at the thought, "just…know you can tell us, okay?"

"Okay."

"There's no replacing you, Roman," Janus says, leaving no room for argument, "not at all."

"Not even with your monologues?"

"Not even with my monologues."

"Can we hug you too, kiddo? Please?" Patton has to keep himself from beaming when Roman nods, quickly ducking over to wrap his arms around both him and Janus properly. "Oh, kiddo, I'm so sorry."

"Move over, Princey," Virgil teases gently when Roman tries to lean against the wall, "I'm the one who gets to cuddle you, not the wall. Hey, hey, shh, it's okay—c'mon, let's all be a puddle on the floor, okay?"

"I like floor puddle plan."

"Me too."

Roman is crying too hard to say he agrees, but he thinks the boneless way he slumps into the embrace is as good as anything else.

***

"Hey, Remus?" Roman whispers in the middle of the night as the rest of the Sides slumber around him, curled up on the massive mattress with fluffy blankets and soft pillows.

"Yeah?"

"You were right."

And because Remus is a good brother who loves Roman so very, very much, he doesn't even hold it over his head. He just smiles, leans over to bonk their foreheads together, and tells his brother to go the fuck to sleep.

***

A new chain holds the scales together, forged in longing and heartbreak and strife, borne of an old magic far more ephemeral than whimsy and fantasy. Tendrils of roses curl up the sides of a golden dish, affixing it to links of courage and loyalty. The Imagination heaves a sigh of relief. The sweet smell of petrichor wafts over the exhausted landscape.

The scales stand balanced once more.

General Taglist: @frxgprince@potereregina@gattonero17@iamhereforthegayshit@thefingergunsgirl@awkwardandanxiousfander@creative-lampd-liberties@djpurple3@winterswrandomness@sanders-sides-uncorrect-quotes@iminyourfandom@bullet-tothefeels@full-of-roman-angst-trash  @ask-elsalvador @ramdomthingsfrommymind@demoniccheese83@pattonsandershugs@el-does-photography@princeanxious@firefinch-ember@fandomssaremysoul@im-an-anxious-wreck@crazy-multifandomfangirl @punk-academian-witch@enby-ralsei@unicornssunflowersandstuff@wildhorsewolf @thetruthaboutthesun @stubbornness-and-spite @princedarkandstormv  @your-local-fookin-deadmeme @angels-and-dreams@averykedavra @a-ghostlight-for-roman @treasurechestininterweb @cricketanne @queerly-fluid-fan @compactdiscdraws@cecil-but-gayer@i-am-overly-complicated@annytheseal@alias290@tranquil-space-ninja @arxticandy @mychemically-imbalanced-romance@whyiask@crows-ace @emilythezeldafan@frida0043 @ieatspinalcords @snowyfires@cyanide-violence@oonagh2@xxpanic-at-the-everywherexx@rabbitsartcorner @percy-07734@triflingassailantofmyemotions @virgil-sanders-the-gay-emo@cerulean-watermelon@puffed-up-bees@meltheromanstan@joyrose-fandomer@insanitori@mavenmush@justablah65@10paradox10@uhhh-hi-there-i-am-nervous@cutebisexualmess@bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti@ultrageekygirl@raven1508

[srgntjamesbuckybarnes]

The List (6)

Summary: When a hit list spreads around New York, Bucky’s ex-wife is the only one with any information.

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Mafia Bucky Barnes x Ex-Wife Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: Not Beta’d.

Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Chapter 6

Surprisingly, Bucky was just as good at taking orders as he was at giving them. He called Y/N every chance he got. Some days they kept things simple, light. That was the easy part. It was like second nature, falling back into old habits. They were the conversations that reminded Y/N just how removed Bucky had kept her from his other world. How easily he had lied to her.

Other days, they discussed business. These conversations were shorter. Y/N hadn’t known the code words Bucky and Steve used to discuss private matters in public and she figured she never would. So, Y/N and Bucky invented their own secret language. Bucky had always been able to read Y/N with just a glance but there was something intimate about birthing their own language. Secret words designed for their ears only. It was intoxicating.

Steve on the other hand, was incapable of following orders, at least from Y/N. The six-foot man lurked around the house eavesdropping on Y/N’s conversations. Despite his skills, Y/N had noticed him. It was impossible to miss him when he physically absorbed so much space. He never said anything, but Y/N guessed he wanted her to notice him. He wouldn’t let her words alone push him away. Steve was still loyal to Bucky. Y/N had sliced her heel one too many times balancing around shattered glass. That didn’t mean she had to cut her fingers while gluing the broken pieces back together. So, she let him listen.

Each morning Sam’s first question was, “How’s Bucky?” Today wasn’t the exception.

Y/N’s face lit up. While the question was stale, the answer was fresh. “He’s doing well. His lawyer vouched for him and thinks he could be out any day now.”

If the island countertop hadn’t separated them, Sam would have hugged Y/N. Delighted by the news, Sam leaned down until his elbows came in contact with the marble. His head rested in his palms with a toothy grin. “Sounds like it’s almost time for a wedding. Let me know if you need a male’s opinion on honeymoon attire. I happen to have an eye for that sort of thing,” he teased.

Y/N gasped, slapping his elbow. Sam’s face fell as his elbow gave out. Ignoring the blush splattered on Y/N’s cheeks, she shrieked, “You’re lucky Bucky isn’t here to kick your ass.”

Sam let out a loud belly laugh as he straightened. “The man practically wears all black. He has no sense of fashion. He would be grateful for my opinion.”

It was true. Bucky gravitated toward the darker scale when it came to clothing, but it suited him. His eyes always stood out letting the rest of the world know they were under the eyes of a predator.

“Well in that case, I’ll let Bucky know your offer extends to him as well. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to try on some little outfits for you.”

Sam fake gagged. “Now that was cruel. I don’t want to imagine Bucky in anything little.”

Now it was Y/N’s turn to laugh.

A shadow lingering outside of the kitchen caught her eye. Steve. It wasn’t the first time he listened in on her and Sam’s banter.

Sam turned to his left at the sound of footsteps. There hadn’t been any bad blood between Steve and Sam. Steve knew it wasn’t Sam’s fault he had been demoted. Sam who once reported to Steve had been silent since taking over. He was so busy with Y/N that Steve hadn’t realized how much his relationship with Sam was mostly business.

“Hey Steve.” Sam waved.

Steve stood in the doorway; one shoulder rested on the doorframe. He sent Sam a nod and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“How is he?”

Y/N knew he had been listening in. He already knew how Bucky was but maybe it was a test. Would she tell him a different story? She didn’t hate Steve but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t call him out.

“You should know already. You’ve been listening in for a while.”

Steve’s lip twitched upward as if he knew something she didn’t. An unsettling feeling pooled in her stomach. It wasn’t the reaction she had been expecting from Steve.

“If you knew I was listening, why haven’t you said anything before,” he questioned.

Y/N shrugged, “I don’t have anything to hide.”

Steve hummed, “Except for when you talk to Bucky. What aren’t you telling us?”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “That’s for his benefit and you know it. You two speak in code all of the time. Besides, some conversations are meant to only be between a husband and wife.”

Steve huffed, striding to stand beside Sam. Steve bit his tongue on the husband-and-wife comment. They weren’t married yet. There was still time for her to back out and leave Steve to do damage control. He knew Y/N. The part of her that was in charge may have been new, but the way she spoke or didn’t told him there was something she hadn’t told them.

“And?” Steve pressed.

And Bucky had managed to get Thor to help them, but he would need help escaping the prison Y/N wanted to say but she kept her cards close to her chest. She wouldn’t let anyone ruin her plan. It was on a need-to-know basis and Sam and Steve did not need to know. At least not yet.

“And nothing,” Y/N shrugged.

Sam waited with a bated breath as his friends faced off in an intense stare down. Y/N had trusted him enough to appoint him as second in command, but Steve had never steered him wrong. This was one battle he didn’t want to meddle in.

The sound of fast approaching footsteps ricocheted off of the walls. Steve was the first to break eye contact, spinning on his heels with a raised gun. Sam followed suit backing Steve up.

Bursting through the archway was a disheveled Peter. None of them could say they were surprised. Peter panted bent over with one hand resting on the door frame.

“Hey kid, breathe,” Sam called out, lowering his gun.

“What’s going on?” Steve asked, his gun lowered slightly.

Peter straightened glancing between Y/N and Steve. “Uh- there’s a guy at the front gate. He asked to speak with whoever is home.”

Steve’s grip on his gun tightened. “Did you find out who he is?”

Peter frowned. “Some guy who works for the court. He’s here about Bucky’s trial.”

Y/N jumped to her feet ready to charge outside. Without turning around, Steve held out his arm blocking her path.

“I’ll meet him down at the gate. See what he wants.”

Shoving Steve’s arm away Y/N barked, “I’m up to date with Bucky’s trial. I’ll go.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you both go.” Sam wasn’t asking.

Y/N huffed, “Fine. We’ll both go.”

The long walk to the gate was silent. Steve’s long legs carried him ahead of Y/N slightly faster. If it wasn’t for his hand hovering over his gun tucked into his waistband, Y/N would have thought he was being childish. She wouldn’t put it past him to want to beat her in some imaginary race.

Steve halted at the gate staring at the man on the other side. He made no move to open the gate, so Y/N opted to keep the barrier as well. Bucky hadn’t mentioned to expect someone. It could be a trap from Loki.

A tall ebony man in a dark suit pushed himself off of his sleek car. With two manilla folders in hand he approached the gate.

“Steve Rogers. Y/N Y/L/N. I’m pleased to see you both.”

Steve and Y/N shared a look silently asking the other if they knew him.

“I’m Michael. I’m here on behalf of the court.” He slipped a single folder through the gate. Steve caught it and Michael pursed his lips. “There’s eyewitnesses clocking you at the scene of the crime.” He eyed Steve. “That's a subpoena. You will testify at the Barnes trial.”

Y/N froze as Steve fumbled with the folder. He had to see it for himself. There were many cameras at the event. There were plenty of witnesses. Of course, someone recognized them. Y/N clenched her fist.

“This must be some kind of mistake,” Steve argued.

Michael shrugged, pushing his round glasses higher up the bridge of his crooked nose. “That is not my concern. My job is just to make sure these folders,” he smacked the manilla folder against the charcoal metal fence, “get in the hands of the people that are required to show up to court.” Then he pointed to the second folder at Y/N.

With a shaky hand, Y/N reached for the folder. Before she could touch it, Steve grabbed her hand, yanking her back. Michael’s eyes zeroed in on the engagement ring that decorated Y/N’s finger.

“I see,” Michael’s mouth set in a hard line. “According to public records, you and Barnes are no longer married, correct?”

Her mouth went dry. “Yes,” she wheezed.

“Then legally, I can serve you this.”

This time, Steve didn’t stop Y/N from accepting the folder. Time stood still between the two of them as Michael drove away. They both remained glued in front of the gate. Steve had expected the court to come for Y/N since she had been with Bucky before the fight, but he hoped they hadn’t been seen. He hadn’t expected the court to come for him. Most of the witnesses had been too panicked to remember his face.

“What now?” Steve asked. It was the first time he had been stunned. It was also the first time he accepted Y/N in charge.

Y/N’s wild eyes found Steve’s. “Do you remember how to officiate a wedding?”

Next Chapter

Taglist: @vicmc624 @winterslove1917 @unaxv @hangmanscoming @globetrotter28 @athenabarnes @shara-ne @mal-adaptive-dreams @jvanilly @d3m0n8ch1ld @ppbhquinn @alysianc @firstcashheroathlete @malum-forev @missvelvetsstuff @animegirlgeeky @blue786sworld @blackwood-bodecker-housewife @alessandraavengers @ozwriterchick @nerdgirljen @emily-robert @pandabearrrrrrr @venting402 @barewithme02 @introverbatim @buckybarnessimpp @mega-kittyglitter-1 @a-poor-gryffindork @toriluvsfics @samahenoyrhye @motivation-idontknowher @pics-and-fanfics @po55um @devil1112 @keeperofsecrets6411 @natasha-died-4-our-sins @marvel-marauder16 @sugamilkteaxkookiesxcream @mcu21lover19 @imgaybutimstraight @buckysbarne @playboystark @sarge-and-caps-princess @eviltinkerbell14 @quethekillerqueen @barewithme02 @buuuuuuucky @reader-without-a-story @5lutty5arah

[vanrougemoons]

almost midnight break-in.

prompt: Person A breaking into Person B’s room through the window.

• Late Birthday Present for @seareefer ♥ • Word Count: 994

Perhaps this isn’t how you imagined your night going. Actually, it’s not something you wouldn’t expect but it absolutely is not something you imagined happening tonight.

. . .

You had been mindlessly scrolling through your magicam feed. You liked a post Cater made earlier, and oooh’d at a photoshoot preview Vil uploaded. Truly, you were living the best life instead of sleeping and being an example for other students to follow.

You snort and instantly DM a meme to the group chat you have with Ace and Deuce.

Then you hear a tap on your window. Common sense tells you to disregard it because you’re too dulled out from all the historical events you’ve lived through since finding yourself in this world. Common sense also decides that it might just be a tree or something.

You hear a tap again and look up from your phone- waiting for your eyes to adjust to the change in lighting so you can figure out what’s actually going on.

The window shakes, and sure it could just be the wind making your run-down windows shake, as they often do. But you swear that you saw a hand smack against the glass.

You grip your blanket closer to yourself as your window jiggles open and you spot the two beady eyes staring straight at your eyes. In the darkness of your room, you really can’t make out a face but… bright yellow and brown? There are only two answers as to who it could be, and you quite doubt that one of them would crawl into your room at midnight.

Actually, both would- but you don’t think one would do it unless absolutely necessary.

You reach over to the half working lamp next to your bed and turn it on with a click. In a flash, a grinning face stares back at you.

“Shrimpy!”

You sit up in disbelief, “Floyd- how did… actually,” you shake your head, “never mind. Why?”

You should probably know better than to ask this boy why he’s climbing up to your bedroom at eleven at night. But you asked anyways.

The eel-boy in question manages to push the window up enough that he can slide into your room easily. You’re suddenly grateful that Grim’s taking the couch tonight as you deadpan at him, “Floyd.”

He stands up to his full height while stretching upwards, “I was bored.” He replies as if it were the most normal thing ever, you narrow your eyes at him.

“Being bored doesn’t mean that you can scale your way up to a bedroom, y’know?” your voice muffled by your blanket. You’re used to his antics, in fact, you’re surprised at yourself for being surprised that he’s here.

Shaking your head, you resign yourself to your fate and decide that this will simply be an all-nighter as you now have to babysit a bored eel. “Never mind— Got something on your mind?” You pat the space on your bed next to you.

His grimace widens as he strides over to you and easily hangs himself off of you instead of sitting next to you like a normal person. His arms wrapping around your shoulders, his head easily resting on top of yours. “Mmmmmnoooope.”

Even with the extra weight on you, you find yourself comfy. Your phone lays nearby forgotten as you lean your own weight onto Floyd.

And it’s quiet, that’s rare. Very rare when it comes to him.

The wind blows a soft breeze through the open window, and you manage to pull the sheet over this boy on you. A yawn escapes you, and you think you can hear him snort.

He pulls back and stares down at your eyes mischievously, “mmm? Don’t tell me you’re already tired? I just got here- come onnnn. You gotta last a bit longer.”

“What are you even-“ you yawn again, “planning… Leech?”

He reaches for your discarded phone and stares at the time.

11:58p.m.

“Shhhhhh~ Trust me, just a bit more.”

You can’t believe the audacity of this eel-boy, boy-eel? You huff and make a grab for your phone; he laughs and easily pulls it out of your reach.

“Gimme my phone-“

“Nahhh, don’t feel like it.”

You groan and try to grab it again, “you stinky eel, I’ll fry you if you don’t give it here-“

Empty threats that make his laugh turn into cackles as he pulls it away from you again, except this time- He falls backwards with you in tow onto your bed.

His laughter doesn’t stop as you attempt to grab your small entertainment box to no avail. You’ve successfully amused the eel enough, congratulations!

You sigh in exasperation, “did you just come here to terrorize me? I’m gonna sick Jade on you- I swear-“

A wide grin spreads onto his face again, “nu-uh.”

Without missing a beat, you whip your head up to look at him straight in the eyes, “the fuck you mean nu-uh.”

Your phone lights up as it’s turned face-up in his hand.

12:00a.m.

He beams with joy and sits up so fast that he almost smacks his forehead against yours. You’re lucky you ducked to the side and rolled next to him, leaning back on your arms.

“FINALLY.”

You’re taken aback by his sudden, “wh-what?”

He’s practically shining, his grin spreading from ear to ear. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!”

. . .

You’re laughing. He’s there grinning at you like a dumbass, and you’re there laughing.

“Is this why you’re here?”

He nods so fast that it reminds you of a bobble-head figure. He looks so proud, and you’re here wiping tears from your eyes from how much you’re laughing.

“I told you I was going to be the first one to say it!”

You feel his weight crash onto you again, and you can’t help but think how much you don’t mind this.

. . .

Your phone stays on the floor forgotten, dinging every couple of minutes with notifications.

[dan-whoell]

happy

Word Count: 1162

Phil considers his life without Dan.

Read on AO3

“Do you ever think about what your life would be like without me?”

The question comes from out of nowhere, or at least that’s how it appears to Phil. He can usually sense these things coming, has watched Dan get quieter and quieter over the course of a week or two, has taken note of Dan being even more preoccupied by his phone or his laptop. Sleeping in later, a little less enthusiastic about dinners ordered in. It’s a formula Phil has become so familiar with over the last fifteen years, and he’s gotten better at counterbalancing an imminent breakdown.

Not this time though.

Things have been good lately, really good. When they were younger, when nearly every aspect of their relationship was a total secret, they had moments. Behind closed doors, under covers, in middle-of-the-night inky darkness, they found moments of complete bliss. All pretense fell away, every bit of armor they wore for the outside world gone. Stripped bare, both literally and figuratively. In these moments it felt less like two people sharing a space and more like one person split only a little. Separate organs in one body. Liver and pancreas, Dan and Phil.

And then doors would open, duvets would be drawn back, the sun would rise. The moment would end and they’d return to their regular life. Still happy enough, still content, but it wouldn’t be the same.

Slowly over the last five years the golden moments have not only grown in frequency, but they’ve gotten lighter too. Cracked doors, giggles in between sheet changes, love at dawn and dusk. The scales have tipped the other way, anxiety over being caught feeling more foreign with each passing day, while joy has become a given.

So Dan’s question is out of the goddamn blue.

It doesn’t shake him the way it used to, though. In the past there would be fear, a near certainty that a question like this meant Dan was pulling away, folding in on himself and disappearing to places Phil couldn’t reach. All he could do was peer into the darkness and wait for Dan’s return, hands wringing the entire time. This doesn’t feel quite like that. Today, he is confident in his ability to hold onto Dan through it all. It helps that Dan has asked with his head in Phil’s lap, that his eyes are half-lidded and sleepy, with none of the frantic intensity that used to accompany questions like this.

He rakes his fingers through Dan’s hair, careful not to catch his ring on any strands. It’s a plain silver thing, so there shouldn’t be much danger, but he’s still not used to wearing it. “Define without you, ” he says, thinking very specifically about the rings on their fingers. “Are you planning to divorce me?”

Dan turns his head enough so their eyes meet, and his gaze is so warm, so full of love it makes Phil’s breath catch a little. Despite it all, this still feels like a miracle. “I mean if we’d never met. Do you ever wonder if you’d be the same Phil even if you’d never met me?”

He considers it. There’s two questions there, all wrapped up in Dan’s casual sleepy tone. One, does Phil wonder? It’s easy enough to say no, he does not wonder about any version of his life that doesn’t include Dan. The concept itself seems impossible. Why would he ever sit around pondering the impossible?

But that doesn’t matter, really, because it’s not the question Dan actually wants an answer to. Would he be the same Phil without Dan?

Again, the easy answer is no. They’ve grown so much together. They’ve molded one another. Their lives are so enmeshed they’d have to involve the government in order to pull them apart.. So many of Phil’s experiences only exist with Dan at his side. To tell a history of Phil is impossible without sharing Dan’s too.

Nevertheless, he tries to picture it.

Continuing YouTube, gaining fame but less speculation. Still closeting himself, but with a  little less vigilance. He might have still ended up on the radio, might have even lasted longer, but with far less enthusiasm. Growing restless and bored as just another voice. Forcing himself to go out, meet people, chase that elusive thing called love that everyone is so desperate for. Failed dates reminiscent of the ones he went on at university. Maybe he would have met someone else, maybe there would be light and maybe he would almost relax and maybe there’d still be a ring on his finger. Maybe there’d be a house. He’s certain there would have been no debates about carpet, though. And it wouldn’t be this house, because even if his input was exactly the same, he wouldn’t have his other half to complete it. Maybe it wouldn’t matter, because maybe he wouldn’t know what he was missing.

Maybe maybe maybe, but maybe’s are bullshit. They don’t count for anything. And even if they did, none of them stack up to his reality. The man with his head in Phil’s lap, eyelids fluttering despite the weight of the conversation. His roommate. The love of his life. His partner. The person he spends the majority of his time with. His husband. If souls are real, theirs are not made of the same element, but they are hydrogen and oxygen. So intertwined they’ve created something new entirely, something vital for survival. Separated with great difficulty, but impossible to rid the world of completely.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, which is not at all an answer to the question posed. “I don’t like to think about not having you in my life.” That’s the truth. He might be able to picture an alternate life, but it lacks the sunshine of his life with Dan. Beige versus brilliant gold.

“So don’t,” Dan says, the words barely coming out from around a yawn.

“You asked the question.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t expect you to take it seriously.” Dan’s smile is soft but full of amusement. “I thought you’d say it would be an opportunity to become Striker or something.”

“I didn’t even think about that.” He can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of him. “That’s what I should have said.”

“Too late, Phil, you’ve shown genuine emotions. Can’t take it back now.”

“Maybe I’ll divorce you.”

“Good luck. I’m not signing shit.” He grins up at Phil. “You are stuck with me for forever.”

It might be well after two am, and the only lightsource in the room might be from the tv, and they might physically be in the darkest part of the house, but this moment feels like the sun, bright and fiery. Thinking of forever with Dan outshines every other golden moment. They are in love, and they are happy, and their life together is the most fun he can imagine. 

He will never know a life without Dan, and he’s so grateful for it.

[greetingfromthedead]

3. Shadows

Series: Mermaid!AU Depth of Despair

Pairing: Vash x GN!Reader

Word count: 2.1k

← Previous Chapter | Next Chapter →

I hope I'll see you again. I have so many questions for you. There's another bay down the shore; it is surrounded by difficult cliffs and filled with sharp reefs. Nobody goes there, as it's too dangerous compared to all the other places. I will wait for you there. I will leave the red coat at the top so you can see from afar if I am there. Please be safe; only come if you aren't putting yourself in danger. I understand, no matter what you choose.

Your head swims with his voice echoing in your mind. He spoke the words softly as he carried you back to the water. You spent a lot longer hiding in the meadow than you needed to. You let his voice wipe away your fear, leaving just curiosity and satisfaction. You think back to all the cautionary tales you have been told. It has been hammered into your head that letting a human capture you means death or a fate even worse than that. Your purpose in life should be to hunt his kind and never allow yourself to be caught—mutual enemies only there to advance themselves, but the man called Vash was nothing but kind and protective towards you. Perhaps you are just naive, but you can't bring yourself to think ill of him. It doesn't mean you trust him; you avoid showing your cards, letting him believe you are weak and mute when in reality you would have a fighting chance if push came to shove. You know how to play the game, even if you despise it.

Letting the waters push and pull, you find yourself deep, far out in the sea. You lay in a bed of sea grass, nestled between rocks that shelter you from the current. You look up like you did before, but instead of a light blue sky and fluffy white clouds, it's the rippling of water above you. The rays of light get filtered by the murk of the ocean until they're just a shimmer that can't warm your skin. You miss it already. The strong contrast of heat against your cool skin, both from the sun and Vash's embrace. A whole other world is out there, filled with experiences that are not meant for you. But you can't help but yearn for it, despite not fully understanding it. Your heart aches with a longing for something more. A purpose other than what you were born for.

Your daydream is cut short as a giant shadow passes over you. The sea serpent tail glides through the water, blocking off the sun. You don't see his scales glisten in the sunlight, but you know too well the dark onyx color of them. You pray he hasn't noticed you as you pull yourself behind a large rock, your hair swaying together with the fluffy algae covering it. A moment later, you realize the crown on your head, and you pull it off, pushing it under a smaller rock, crushing the delicate flowers Vash weaved together for you. A pang of guilt flashes through you as you destroy the precious gift, but you can't have anyone see it. It's better this way.

You keep your eyes on the figure moving away from you. He looks magnificent and monstrous, with long, sharp spikes running along his spine with ripped webbing in between. He scares you; he is a true soldier, leaning into who you are supposed to be. Powerful and dangerous. You wonder what he is doing this far from the den. Is he looking for you? Perhaps you have been away too long.

Going back is the last thing you want to do. You want to be free and live life on your own terms. You don't want to be pushed into becoming a deep-sea monster like so many of them. Your birthright is constantly held above your head, but giving in to that will only lead to a life of misery for you. Your world is cruel and strange. It's a looming shadow that follows you everywhere you go. The longer you spend away from that cannibalistic nest of your kin, the less you want to return to that life. The day you spent today only made you more determined to never go back. You should leave entirely. Let the stars and the currents guide you to waters unknown where others can never find you. It's a tempting thought, yet a lonely life. You could find a new shore to watch people live their little lives, but it is hard to turn your back on the beaches you have visited for years now, especially now that you know the man you saved is truly alive.

As the shadow of the monster disappears into the darkness of the water, you relax again, turning to lean your back against the slippery surface of the rock. One of your clawed hands keeps you from drifting away, grabbing hold of the algae. You lift the other one to your face. The fingers are long and webbed. From the fingertips grow lengthy and sturdy nails, sharp enough to rip flesh from bone. Your true nature is revealed under the surface of the water. You are not human after all. You are a mermaid, and that comes with its own truths. You are mostly covered by scales from your neck down, shimmering in the light like precious jewels. Even your tail is longer than on the surface, nearly triple the length of your torso. Fins, both sturdy and thin, grow out of your body, from your back all the way down to your tail. Some of them are ripped from before, when you got stuck in the fishnet. You're lucky you aren't bleeding, as otherwise you would have been discovered just now.

You're lost and hopeless. You don't know what to do or where to go from here. You don't want to follow the path traversed by everyone, but you know you are too weak to forge a new one on your own. Or rather, you're too weak to not be forced back onto the same well-worn path of your ancestors. Leave it all behind. You think again, but you already find yourself swimming back towards the shore.

You linger in the cave system you came across a while back. The entrance is hidden in deep waters, protected by the jagged reef that stretches out from the shore. The water is crystal clear, allowing you to see the fish darting in and out between the algae, they don't seem to be disturbed by you. The cave leads down before coming up again; a pocket of air separates one tunnel from the next. It's hard to stay still and get your thoughts in order; instead, you keep surfacing to look towards a narrow bay. It is surrounded on three sides by high cliffs, with some tall trees growing at the top. A red cloth appears tied to a branch each morning and only disappears before nightfall. It's the same crimson Vash wrapped you in, and you know he is waiting for you. The waves crash against the rocks, beckoning you to come closer, but the conflict in your chest acts as an anchor.

This continues until a gray morning, when rain pours from the sky. It's gloomy and dark. You need to swim closer to confirm that the red coat is not hanging from the tree, and suddenly you feel sad. Vash didn't come this time. He isn't waiting for you on the beach. It makes you feel alone, and that realization only makes you feel stranger. You return to your hideout, away from the stormy surface.

The water feels colder than usual; it makes your muscles rigid and your heart heavy. You spend the day in deep thought, considering your options, but somehow you always end up on the image of the red coat hanging from the branch and the loneliness you feel in your chest. You curse yourself for not having the heart to turn your back on everything you've known and start anew. Once again, you slink out of the cave and turn your eyes up towards the surface. It is no longer shrouded in darkness and seems calm. You notice something else. A tiny shadow drifts on top of the water, barely visible. It almost looks like a piece of sea grass, but you decide to go look anyway. As you get closer, you realize this isn't from the ocean at all. You pull it under water to examine it. It's a flower. You recognize it as one Vash used to weave the flower crown. It has a long stalk with a few small leaves attached to it, and the top bloom has a brilliant yellow center with skinny white petals radiating outwards from it. It's somewhat large, and from the stem, a few more offshoots carry flowers that are still closed.

You hold the plant close to your chest as you surface and look around. You have to strain your eyes to notice a few other foreign things floating towards the open sea. As you swim closer, you pick up a few more flowers. The next one you find reminds you a lot of the first, but the skinny petals are a light purple shade, and the whole thing is smaller. There are multiple blossoms on one stalk, and it has many skinny leaves. You hold on to it as you come across the next one. It has a short stem, and it has leaves that grow from a stalk in groups of three. The blossom itself is like a small white ball; the petals are tiny and look green as they get to the top. You decide to add it to your collection as well. You find a few more of the first flower and the second and third before you come across a fourth kind. It is tall, tiny blue blooms appearing along the stalk in an orderly fashion. It reminds you a bit of the tails of cats and dogs. Below there are quite wide, dark green leaves. You admire the flowers all together. Only then do you realize just how far into the bay you have strayed.

The water has gotten somewhat shallow; the bottom is covered by sharp rocks that reach for the sky and occasionally break the surface. You even notice a few rotting boats that have wrecked themselves on the reef. You slowly surface again, hidden from view. You immediately look upward to see the red coat flapping in the wind. Vash is here. He must have dropped these flowers in the water, but why? Curiosity takes hold of you, and you swim closer to investigate. Climbing onto a rock gives you the vantage point needed to see the familiar man standing a few steps from the water's edge. His boots lay on the dry sand, and his pants are turned up to his knees. The water reaches about halfway up his calf, and the wind plays with the ruffles of his pillowy white shirt. You see more flowers on the surface of the water close to him and a few more in his hand that he carefully places on the surface as the waves retreat to carry the blooms out to the open water. As if sensing your presence, he straightens up again to look out, and his eyes meet yours. His face lights up with a wide smile, and he raises his arm to give you a big wave of greeting. You can't help it as you feel your lips curl upward into a grin before you jump back into the water.

With the help of the powerful tail, you glide through the shallow water. You keep the flowers you picked close, covering them with your hand to keep them from getting too bruised. The momentum helps you pull yourself onto a slanted rock near Vash, and you're glad for the seaweed in your hair as it hides your face just long enough for it to take on a more human form. You hear his approach, and you turn to smile at him, uncovering the flowers tucked against your chest.

"My poor memory can never do justice to your beauty," he says, smiling widely. "I see you got my flowers. I hoped they would bring you some joy; I didn't expect them to bring you here."

You see the same flowers in one of his hands—just a few remaining that haven't been sent off to sea. You look around the beach area, but you don't see any of these flowers growing here.

"I brought them from my garden." Vash answers your wordless question. "I grew them myself."

He told you he lived in the forest; it was quite a way away from here. So to think he brought these flowers from so far, and he had no way of knowing you would ever come across them at all. Your gaze moves back to him, and his expression is soft as he hands you the remaining flowers. You take them and put them with the ones you picked up along the way. Yours look battered and sad—nothing like the perky, fresh ones he gave you.

"This is a daisy." Vash says as he gently touches the delicate petals of the white flower with a golden center. "And that's clover." He continues, brushing his fingers over the other white flower. "This one is salvia." He says this, indicating the blue flower that reminded you of a bushy tail. "And the last one is an aster."

You look at each of the flowers in your hand, gently tracing their petals with your fingertips, feeling the delicate softness now that you have some dry specimens. His fingers still linger by the daisy, as if he forgot them there. He only pulls away once your fingers brush against his. Vash gives you a smile, his blue eyes narrowing with happiness as he gazes at you.

"The blue and purple reminded me a bit of your pretty scales shimmering in the sunlight." Vash says with a slight blush reddening his cheeks.

← Previous Chapter | Next Chapter →

You can check out the Depth of Despair Masterlist for more info.

Did you like this? Go check out my MASTERLIST and drop a follow for any and all future projects!

[no1frogfan]

Kaiju give me your number

Iwaizumi x gn reader

Word count: ~700

Tags & warnings: None

Notes: I was struck by a deeply silly idea tonight (don’t worry, it gets sillier!), so this is my first entry for the spooky sports collab hosted by the one and only @koushuwu! Check out the collab masterlist here! (Please forgive me, Mica! My original entry will be arriving some time in the future!)

The only warning you get is a muffled I’ll get it! before the door swings open. Standing inside is a shadowy figure, its vague spiky shape barely illuminated by the streetlights behind you, looking particularly ominous in contrast to the decidedly un-spooky R&B now thumping out into the quiet night.

You squint into the darkness. “Um…hello? I’ve got a delivery for-”

Suddenly, the shadow lunges forward.

You let out a scream, almost losing your balance as you lurch back a few steps. A hand (too leathery to be human) reaches out and…

…flicks on the porch light, almost blinding you.

“Hey! Turn it down I can't hear!”

You’re still blinking away the stars in your eyes when you see it — him. Them. Two of the firmest, cushiest pecs you have ever seen casting an actual shadow over a set of gorgeous abs, the skin smooth and soft, especially against the rough black scales covering his legs and arms.

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the music. What did you say?”

Despite the absolutely stunning man in front of you, your brain somehow manages to make sense of what he’s saying.

“Um…I have a delivery for-” you glance down at the receipt “-for Hajime?”

“Wait, aren’t you…?”

He does a double take. Holy shit, it's actually you. You’re wearing the same helmet (black and covered in stickers) and — he checks behind you — that's the same bike! A sleek green one with bright yellow panniers.

“I’m looking for Hajime. Am I at the right place?”

You check the receipt again, leaning back to squint at the house number above the door. It’s partly to actually check if you’re at the right address, but mostly to calm down by looking at something other than a stranger dressed as the world’s most attractive lizard man. You didn’t even know you were into lizard men.

“That’s me. I’m Hajime.”

He reaches up and you track the flex of his biceps as he lifts the lizard mask off his head. Oh fuck. His face is handsome too, and a little bit familiar — maybe from around campus.

You must have been standing slack-jawed for too long because he glances down at his bare chest and blushes. “Sorry, I’m- my friends thought sexy Godzilla would be funny...”

Ah, that would explain the dorsal spines.

(It’s actually a little annoying how apologetic he seems, as if looking like that was something to be embarrassed about.)

Almost on cue, two more huge men crowd into the doorway. You guess these must be the friends he’s referring to because they’re dressed as what can only be described as sexy pieces of bread, one slathered with peanut butter and the other slathered with jelly.

“Sweet, food’s here!” Yells the sexy jelly man, reaching out to grab the bags from your hands.

The sexy peanut butter man pauses and looks suspiciously between both your embarrassed faces, scrutinizing you closely before something seems to dawn on him.

“Wait a minute…isn’t this that biker you crashed into?” He whirls on you. “Are you that biker?”

“Mattsun…” Iwaizumi warns.

He — Mattsun — gestures at Hajime. “Do you remember him? Last month? He wasn’t looking and walked right in front of you?”

Recognition flashes across your face and a cheeky grin grows on Mattsun’s. “I knew it.” He leans in conspiratorially. “You know, he won’t shut up about you, wants to take you home to really apologize if you know what I mean.”

Your eyes dart to Hajime. He wants to what? With you?

“Enough!”

Iwaizumi hurriedly shoves the other man back and stuffs the signed receipt into your hands.

“Sorry about him.”

A few excruciating seconds pass while you both stand awkwardly in the doorway. Right. Guess not. His friend was probably just messing with you…

“Well, thanks.”

You sneak one last furtive glance at that sexy Godzilla chest before turning to leave.

“Wait! Do you want to…come in for a drink? Or something?”

“Oh! I can’t…I’m working.”

You gesture vaguely to your left, toward the restaurant.

“Right, obviously, right, sorry. That was stupid.”

Another beat of silence, though this time it's probably more excruciating for him than for you.

"God you're hopeless." Mattsun’s head pops up over Hajime's shoulder. “What he means is can he get your number?”

[astra-galaxie]

Răzvan and Santiano Headcanons

@sereno-world-sky requested these headcanons on a previous ask they sent me for a couple’s headcanon prompt list I did. They requested Răzvan and Santiano and asked if I could make another post with headcanons about them, so here it is!

Now, on to some headcanons for Argo’s adoptive fathers!

Răzvan Headcaons:

He doesn't have parents since fairies are not usually born the same way humans are. Sure, two fairies can have a child together naturally, but fairies are traditionally born through magical means when a baby laughs for the first time. Fairy godparents are created the same way, so until Răzvan was made Argo’s godfather and later met Santiano, he had no family to call his own

While he can absorb his wings into his body, keeping them hidden for long periods is unhealthy. He suffers from severe back pain when he hides them for too long, to the point where he can’t move because it hurts too badly. So, he tries to let his wings out as often as possible, but when the pain gets too bad, Santiano has a special cream he developed to help soothe Răzvan’s muscles

He takes very good care of his hair. While he doesn't often take them out of their braids (since it takes forever to unbraid and braid them), when he does, it's to give his hair a hair care day. (Sidenote: Răzvan’s hair style is based on Asha’s from Disney’s Wish.) Likewise, he also takes very good care of his feathers

Since Răzvan is a fairy godfather and transfiguration spells are his specialty, he can trade his wings for a tail to join Santiano and Argo in their world under the sea. His tail has black scales with gold details and gold fins

Santiano Headcanons:

He’s surprisingly vain. Or maybe it's not so surprising, given that he was cast out because of his looks for over twenty years… Every blemish or mark he deems as “imperfect” on him has to go, and he’s lost count of the number of spells and potions he’s used to keep his skin clear and as perfect as porcelain. Likewise for his hair and figure; Santiano can’t stand when his hair is unkempt, and he’s terrified of “letting himself go” and gaining too much weight to the point that he meticulously monitors what he eats. Santiano is terrified that if he gets any uglier (even though he wasn’t ugly to begin with), he’ll be abandoned again

He has siblings, three older and three younger. It's another reason his abandonment by his parents hurts so much. Knowing they gave him up because of his “cursed” appearance when they already had children they loved was terrible enough, but finding out they had THREE MORE KIDS after discarding him like a piece of trash broke Santiano. His siblings tried to get to know him after learning of his existence, but Santiano couldn’t see them as family even though he knew they weren't responsible for their parents’ decision to abandon him. His parents told everyone that Santiano was stillborn to cover up the truth, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept the fact that they sent him away to save their family’s image

When he adopted Argo, they moved into an underwater cave below Canto del Mare. It has some dry caverns to make separate rooms for them to sleep in, and after some redecorating, it became their home/Santiano’s new lair. The cave is only accessible by swimming to it, and the entrance is deep enough that only people who can breathe underwater can reach it

He wasn’t raised by merfolk and instead grew up with other sea life. Think like an underwater Tarzan. Merfolk always swam away when they saw him, even when Santiano was a child, so he lacked a lot of social understanding as he got older. This was an issue when he moved to Canto del Mare as he had no idea how to act around people, human or not, but it helped him understand Argo better since the child was behind in his mental development because of the abuse he had endured, so the two learned together through the islanders

Shared Headcanons:

Building on the HC that Santiano is vain, Răzvan is one of few people who can successfully remind Santiano how beautiful he is and that he’s allowed to have “imperfections.” When Santiano got his first wrinkle, Răzvan was the one who showed them that it's alright to have wrinkles, that they tell the story of your life and how far you’ve come. Of course, Santiano still does his best to maintain his youthful skin, but there are definitely more wrinkles (as few as they may be) than he ever would have allowed to grace his skin if he’d never met Răzvan

When Răzvan discovered that Santiano had made himself barren, it didn’t make him love the Sea Warlock any less. The Zână never really thought about having children, given his job as a fairy godfather, and while he wouldn't trade Argo for anything, he had no desire to have a biological child. He loves Argo wholeheartedly and feels his family is complete, which is exactly what Răzvan told Santiano. Of course, that didn’t entirely convince Santiano that he didn’t need to change for Răzvan to love him, so Răzvan got Argo to help him prove to Santiano that he was loved for who he was. When Santiano was sleeping (he wasn’t, and Răzvan knew that), Răzvan was helping Argo get ready for bed and asked the siren what he loved most about his Papi. Of course, Argo immediately launched into a long ramble about how amazing Santiano was, and he also got Răzvan to add his thoughts in. Needless to say, Santiano was a crying mess by the time Răzvan put Argo to bed and did his best not to wake his son with his sobs as Răzvan comforted his lover

The first time Argo called them “Papi” and “Tată,” Santiano and Răzvan were honored, but they couldn’t help feeling guilty for taking Moray and Moana’s place in Argo’s life. They know they could never (nor would they want to) replace Argo’s father and mother, but it still hurts to know their child will grow up never knowing his birth parents. While Răzvan and the islanders can tell Argo stories about Moray and Moana, it's sadly not the same…

While they cannot legally marry, they are married in all but paperwork. They had a ceremony on Canto del Mare where they pledged their love and devotion to each other before their son and the islanders. They even have wedding rings: Santiano wears a gold ring with feathers and stars engraved on it, and Răzvan has a silver one featuring an octopus and small waves

Here you go, Sereno! I hope you and others enjoyed the headcanons. I always look forward to writing about these two, and I have a few surprises planned for them in my series, so stay tuned for more!

Thanks for the request!🦢🐙✨