#but the concentration of it is so nauseating! its too much! its laid too bare! its giving me a headache!

[readymades2002]

they should make a movie that is good

[equestrianwritingsstuff]

Drowning 6 pretttttry please. Your writing is amazing, honest to god. Wish I had your talent. Keep writing!!!!

Thank you for the ask and lovely message ❤

Drowning Part 6

Masterlist

This one is a tad different that the other parts, some segments are in from Supervillain's POV which are very vague because they are meant have an altered state feel to them. You also learn a lot about Villain and Hero's past in this one.

@shydragonrider @asrasmysoulmate

Warnings: unreality, wheelchair, schizophrenia, elecric shocking, hallucinations, hate towards another, possessiveness, restraints, drugged whumpee, sick whumpee

~

Supervillain emerged from whatever fluid contraption held him in place. His body went numb, pins and needles filling every limb, every muscle like wildfire.

But, nearly as quick as he broke the surface, he fell back in...

Falling...

Falling...

Falling...

His body seized up, a ringing in his ears... then he hit solid ground, his body going slack. Nearly immediately, he felt conscious of the tubes and moniters embellishing him like ornaments and garland on a Christmas tree.

His lead-filled mouth yanked open on its own free will, trying to force a scream out, but his tongue only managed a hoarse whimper.

He jerked his head about, finding it laid nearly on a pillow, but another trap locked his head in. He clenched his hands, but his body was already falling back into the sea- all feeling washed away by the waves.

Sand. He felt sand in his body, dehydrating and numbing, as consciousness was snatched away from him once again. The tubes faded, as did the traps- leaving Supervillain with an empty void.

He had a sense, but couldn't remember what happened in brief moments of waking like this. He hardly recognized the difference between unconsciousness and consciousness and if he did, it wouldn't matter. He never could escape. Never could escape the agonizing water in and around his body.

All he could do was fall.

Fall back into the water.

《~~》

"Mistakes are always forgivable, if one has the courage to admit them," a voice spoke. Hero had given up on trying to tell apart the various differences between the countless heroes and doctors that spoke to her on a daily basis. Trying to just intoxicated her mind with a weird feeling of displeasure and annoyance that couldn't be placed. It was right in between her eyebrows, where she would have a unibrow if she didn't wax it all the time in highschool.

"Do you know who wrote that quote, Hero? Hmm?"

Hero didn't respond. Why would she? It gave her no clearance, no escape, no epic prison break that one may expect from such a person of stengths and wits. She just sat there, limbs tied to the ground by unrelenting steel, her head angled to watch the suffering man on the bed slowly fade away with persistent illness and everyday drugs.

"Bruce Lee," the speaker answered the question after quickly realizing that Hero wasn't going to.

Hero tuned out of the conversation, leaving it as background noise as she studied the scene in front of her. Supervillain was hooked up so many moniters, it was as if he was in a coma. Hero twitched her jaw. Maybe he was. The ventilation and feeding tube stuck all the way down his nose and mouth, opening it forcibly, definitely made that thought come alive.

Hero did this a lot, zoning out whenever someone tried to talk to her. Her once vibrant personality and optimism was dampered, replaced by a dull depression. Even Villain, who watched Hero daily, was getting nervous of this rapid decline in attitude- not that Hero knew of her betrayer's thoughts and emotions. To her, in this foggy hole of misery, Villain was an outcasted shadow, adding depth to the painting, but never a main topic. Heck, if she didn't concentrate, she didn't even see the light shade on the white surface.

There was only Supervillain.

But even that has changed, and not just in the extra moniters and tubes, but her whole aspect of him. He was the cause of her pain, he was the cause of the insufferable cloud that ascended over her.

There was no fondness in the way she viewed him anymore, just resentment. The deepest kind of resentment that could also be described as despising.

But even that was an understatement.

One day, a movement drew Hero out of her hate-filled thoughts and back into reality. It was Villain, playing with something by her wrist.

"Back off," she snarled, her voice sounding unnaturally deep and cracky.

"And so she speaks." The glint in his eyes revealed the sarcasm that his monotonous voice hid. "How are you Hero?"

Hero snarled, raising her lips in an animalistic manner, but didn't reply. Once her wrist was let go, the unused muscles allowed it to flop aimlessly against her equally thining thigh. She was fed yes, a vile piece of bland, moist garbage that gave her body its much needed vitamins, minerals, and nutrients, but lack of use degraded the once hefty muscle.

Villain worked on each of the restraints. Each arm fell limp as her legs splayed out, thankful for the break from the locked position they were kept in. When her head was let free, it flopped, her neck unable to keep it up.

Villain steadied her, putting his hand unceremoniously against the base of her neck. Hero squirmed, aware of her vulnerability.

"The door with the exit sign is unlocked," he whispered, so close to her ear that Hero cringed.

At first, her brain using its old habit, began to block out his words, but suddenly stopped and rewinded, shoving them back to the front of her mind.

Unlocked...

She could get out.

Villain helped her into a nearby wheelchair and was about to wheel her away when a strand of her empathetic nature fought against the newfound distant demeanor.

"What 'bout Supervillain?" She asked, her voice a weak whisper.

"This is for you," Villain replied casually grinning down at Hero, happy that she was back to somewhat normal.

Hero sunk into the plushy cushioning of the seat and looked at Supervillain's still figure and snarled. Ha, he didn't get to leave. She did. She got to escape the inhumane confines that kept her bound up like a trapped goat.

He didn't. He could now pay for his crimes.

Yet, as stubborn as this thoughts of retribution sounded, they weren't. That sympathizing portion of her protested against the new arrangement. And, being the stronger of the two opposites, it left her tongue in forms of coherent words.

"I won't leave him," she said, her heart bursting. Whether the internal explosion was due to anticipation or exaltation, it don't matter. It felt natural, like herself.

"You really don't have a choice."

"Why do you want me free?" Hero asked.

"This place is the definition of boring."

Hero was silent and contemplated Villain's statement. He really didn't care about her levels of bore and joy, never did. Any interaction or any relationship that the two once cherished was borne of platonic care of the other's well-being. Nothing too deep, and barely held any real intent. Are you alive? Are you dead? Were the only two questions that brought along any vowels of conversing.

It was weird, abnormal. Hero might've even went as far as to say suspicious.

But it was also promising. Very, very promising. It held the possibility of freedom that the chair did not.

But he was Villain. He did not have one ounce of good will or honesty in his cold veins. He was a liar, a cheat, and as much as she would've loved to call them friends, it was close to impossible. They couldn't build a relationship off of trickery as much as the two once wanted to.

This was a scheme, a lie, to get to Hero and make her mess up. Mess up and then she gets hurt.

Or worse, Supervillain does.

That thought stood out from the rush of others in her brain for it held an interesting style to it. As close as she was to the old Hero and away from the shadow that "choosing who gets hurt" made her into, she wasn't it yet.

Not yet.

"Boring, but I am alive," Hero retorted, rolling her eyes as well as the stiff rectus muscles in her eyes allowed.

"That is otherwise obvious." Villain placed a hand on the barred door that only purpose served as an aesthetic.

"Yeah, in a way I suppose, but Supervillain isn't."

"He's breathing."

"He sleeps all day and when he does manage to wake, he passes out almost immediately. I need to stay with him!"

"You do nothing but glare daggers at him. You are released dear."

"No, you are not helping me escape from this damn place!"

Villain was silent, paused in the motion of pushing the door open.

"Amidst your utter hate for him, you still have the decency to protect him; Hero there is nothing to protect. With one simple flick of a switch, he is dead," Villain pointed out, turning to Hero with tears in his icy blue eyes that Hero once found gloriously gorgeous. Ones that she used to gaze into as they fought, unable to tear herself away. She lost many fights that way by being too distracted to actually land a punch.

But the innocence of that gaze was really just hiding the fact that Villain was a scandalous bastard- only giving half-truths and fake emotions about everything.

"Then why do you give him the serum. You guys know that I won't hurt those civilians," Hero pointed out with a shrug.

Villaim remained silent and wheeled Hero out of the room.

《~~》

Supervillain seemed to always arouse when the nurses swarmed him to administer the vile liquid that plagued his veins with nauseating adrenaline. He felt the hot- not warm, but scorching hot- drug enter his veins.

But it wasn't the beginning, the actual pain of the procedure, that caused Supervillain his horrifying misery. It was afterwards and he wasn't thinking of the dizzying fatigue that usually pushed him into another deep sleep, but the memories it brought.

Some were nostalgic, others taut with grief. Others held regret while some even had remnants of agonizing torture he once endured.

Or gave.

But they were never happy, nor comforting to any degree.

So, when a reverie of kind touch swarmed Supervillain's sensations, his lethargic heart started to pump in rocket speed, motorizing the boat to accelerate...

"Go to sleep."

Hero's voice. One that brought him so much comfort. Hands scratched at his scalp and he felt his heavy eyelids drop.

"I'll be hear when you wake up," Hero lulled, humming softly as the sweet scent of vanilla hit Supervillain's scent receptors. He smiled, the tiniest of grins and nuzzled his nose into her warm, fleece sweater.

But, even delirous as he was, in the back of his head, Supervillain knew this was a vision. A hallucination. The model of schizophrenia that the drug brought upon his mind.

But it was just so real.

So he gave in, purposely allowing himself to be washed away by the unreality of the dream.

Because he loved it. He loved the touch as if it was actually real.

A warm figure slid next to his body wrapping its- her- arms around his shivering body. Phony yes, it gave stability as the fatigue pushed itself to its maximum.

As consciousness dripped away, Supervillain hummed slightly, happy with the feeling.

《~~》

Hero's hand buzzed over the door, considering the possibilities of opening it, but in the end, she blatantly refused.

"No," she said, her old self returning. "I am not going to leave Supervillain."

Villain's eyes widened, chin shaking.

"You care for him?" He asked, voice slightly elevated like a flute's pitch. Such a change from the droning audibles that usually slugged off his tongue. "Like actually."

Hero's brows crunched together as she read Villain's new face expressions. Blond hair draped down to his pointed eyebrows where it slightly curled. Tears seemed to well in his azure eyes.

"Are you crying?" Hero asked, scoffing, but in reality, she cared.

Cared a whole bunch.

"It's just," Villain stepped forward, leaning down and resting his hand on Hero's shoulder. His other hand balanced delicately against the holster of whatever weapon he carried.

Suddenly, without warning, his hand shot up and an bolt of electricity flashed through her body. Hero fell forward, screaming and withering on the floor.

Villain leaned forward, breath warm against her sweaty cheek. "You are mine Hero. I won't ever let you hold, or care for Supervillain again," he growled, bringing thr taser back to Hero's neck. "Goodnight, my love."

The electric shock came again, and the world descended into blackness.

[thedreamsmith]

In Heat

@atc74​ @alleiradayne​ @arrowsandmixtapes​ @captain-s-rogers​

Warnings: Explicit smut, swearing, canon typical violence

Word count: 2706

Pairing: Dean x OFC

Summary:  Rhea has lived and hunted with the Winchesters for over a year, secretly pining after the elder brother, until she gets hit with a spiteful witch’s spell. It’s not subtle, either.

Dean’s POV

‘If you’re going to be a bitch,’ The sorceress snarled at Rhea as she raised her knife before her. ‘Then you can be a bitch in heat.’

Faster than any of them could anticipate, she hurled a bolt of golden light at the huntress, catching her directly in the chest.

‘That should keep you busy enough.’ The witch’s parting laugh was accompanied by a rustle of feathers and a raven rose from where she had just been standing.

Sam got off a couple of shots, but the bird escaped unharmed through an open skylight in the abandoned warehouse’s ceiling.

‘Rhea?’ The brothers rushed to her side, her gaze was unfocused as she got to her feet.

‘Where’d she go?’  Dean snapped at Sam. ‘Son of a bitch, we’ve been tracking her for a week.’

‘Uh, Dean?’ His brother’s voice held a hesitant note that drew his attention from the skylight. He followed his gaze to the third hunter with them. ‘I think we have a bigger problem.’

                                                                               ***

It had taken the combined effort of himself and Sam to get Rhea back to the bunker. Sam had had to drive, seeing as in her current condition, the huntress was making it very difficult for Dean to concentrate on anything.

‘What’s up with little Magpie?’ Crowley appeared beside Rowena without warning, head tipped to one side as he regarded Rhea mouthing at Dean’s collarbone. The sounds she was emitting were doing nothing to help the situation in his jeans.

‘Why do you care?’ Sam snapped at the demon, glowering at him from the opposite side of the table.

Crowley just shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Unlike the rest of you, she’s not a pain in my ass. She’s worked a few jobs for me in the past, mostly writing up contracts – she’s excellent with words. Must be all the research she’s done on the fae.’

Sam seemed to be gearing up for an argument when Rowena interrupted their bickering.

‘She got hit wi’ a spell. A powerful one.’ She was lent against a pillar, barely raising her eyes from the tome she was flipping through. ‘I don’t think I can undo this one, lads. Looks like you’re going to have to wait until it runs its course…or find another way to break it.’

The red-haired witch cast a meaningful look at him that he dutifully ignored. If it hadn’t been for the fraying grip on his self-control, he would’ve already hauled Rhea onto the table and fucked the magic out of her.

‘Cas, can’t you do something about this?’ Because Rhea was attempting to slip her hand beneath his shirt and her touch was everywhere…

‘I can try, but short of rendering her unconscious, I am not sure what else I can do.’ The angel laid a gentle hand on Rhea’s arm, trying to prise her from Dean’s person. ‘I need you to focus-‘

But he was cut off as Rhea whirled, pulling a knife and slamming him against the nearest pillar with the blade pressed to his jugular.

‘He’s mine.’ She snarled, eyes wild and teeth bared. ‘Don’t fucking touch him.’

For a moment no one moved, too taken aback at the normally easy-going hunter suddenly turning feral. Then everyone was in action, Sam moving into her line of sight, hands up and expression placating.

‘Rhea…’

‘Alright, that’s enough.’ Cas moved before she could react – touching two fingers two her brow and with a flash of white light she crumpled into his arms. ‘I will take her to her room and seal the door until we can figure out what to do.’

In a blink, both angel and hunter were gone, the only sign of their departure the fading echo of wingbeats.

‘Looks like things around here are finally getting a bit more interesting.’

Sam only spared the demon a sideways glance before turning on his brother.

‘Look, Dean, I don’t see why you won’t just-‘

‘I said no!’ He clenched his jaw so hard it felt his teeth would crack. ‘It’s not the same and you know it. What happens when the spell breaks and she wakes up having done something she didn’t want to? Why can’t you or Cas help her?’

‘Cause she hasn’t spent the last hour trying to get into our pants.’ Sam signed through his nose and glanced up at the ceiling. ‘Rhea wanting you isn’t a new thing – this spell just seems to have amplified her feelings.’

‘Sam is right.’ Dean started and whipped around as Cas’s gravelly voice sounded directly behind him. ‘Rhea has been radiating desire for months, all directed at you.’

‘It’s been nauseating, really.’ Crowley chipped in, grinning over the rim of a glass he’d somehow acquired.

‘Oh great. So everyone knew about this except me?’ He threw his hands up, nearly taking out a lamp in the process.

‘Pretty much.’ Rowena smirked, one side of her red-painted mouth drawn up.

‘If the feeling isn’t mutual, why don’t you love her and leave her, squirrel? And after you’ve broken her heart, maybe she’ll sell it to me; I’ve been trying to make her my right hand for years.’

The King of Hell only chuckled as Dean fisted his hand in his suit jacket and slammed him against the wall, one forearm pressed to his neck.

‘Shut your mouth, you son of a bitch.’ His voice was pitched low, but the promise of violence rippled like an undercurrent, dark and dangerous and just below the surface.

‘I’m right hear y’know!’ Rowena protested as Crowley spoke.

‘Oh look, the feeling is mutual. Looks like my work here is done. Bye, boys.’ With a final smirk, the demon vanished from his grip, leaving him clutching thin air.

‘Sonofabitch.’ Dean slapped his palm against the wall where Crowley’s head had just been.

‘Again, right here.’ The witch speared him with a glare that by all laws of physics should’ve set him on fire, no hoodoo required. ‘Now, you listen to me. You might be that lassie’s only chance for breaking this spell, so stop pretending like you haven’t been staring at her ass for the last year, get in there, and get busy.’

Momentarily lost for words, Dean gaped at the petite woman, then at his brother who was trying and failing to stifle his laughter. Asshat.

‘Fine. Fine.’ He rubbed a palm over his eyes. ‘Sammy, shut the hell up.’

With a final glare at the three of them, Dean stomped down the corridor with Sam’s laughter ringing in his ears.

                                                                       ****

He could hear her moans from outside her door - it seemed that Cas’s mojo hadn’t worked for very long. Letting out a long breath, Dean turned the handle and slipped into her room.

Soft lamplight illuminated the space, gleaming on the trinkets and blades that lined the shelves and walls. His heart almost stopped as his gaze found her. Holy fuck.

Her wine-red hair spilled around her head like a halo, her normally ivory skin flushed and turned to palest gold in the lamplight.

Her eyes were closed as she continued her ministrations – one slender hand worked at the apex of her thighs, back arching as her legs trembled.

His mouth went dry, and he was acutely, painfully aware of the aching press of his cock against the seam of his jeans. Rhea gasped as she buried a third finger inside herself, her thumb never ceasing in the pressure it applied to her clit. She was panting now, her cries coming at irregular intervals as she pushed herself closer and closer to the edge.

Dean could pinpoint the exact moment that she shattered, head thrown back and hand stilling momentarily as she chased her pleasure. His own hips jerked involuntarily and his grabbed onto a side table for balance, knocking over a picture frame in the process.

The noise alerted Rhea to his presence and she took him in with those crushing blue eyes as she rose from the bed on surprisingly steady legs. She stalked towards him like a predator, all lithe muscle beneath an hourglass figure like sweet sin.

Dean had seen plenty of naked women in his time – too many, probably – and this shouldn’t have been any different, but it was. This was Rhea, and she was looking at him in a way that had only happened in his dirtiest fantasies and he felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall by that cornflower gaze.

And then she was on him, pulling him down to cover his mouth with hers. The kiss was hot and hungry; the nip of her teeth on his bottom lip had him groaning into her mouth and fisting his hands at his sides.

‘Don’t you think we should talk about this, ah fuck, first, sweetheart?’ His head slammed back into the door as he tried to control his breathing. ‘You’re making this pretty damn, god, hard.’

‘That’s the plan, Winchester.’ She purred, smirking up at him from under her lashes and that snapped the final thread of his tattered self-control. ‘Please, Dean, I need this.’

One heartbeat, he had her in his arms, her long legs wrapped around his waist, vice-like.

Two heartbeats, he flipped their positions, pressing her against the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Three heartbeats, Rhea’s hands were under his Henley again, this time pushing it up and off to bare the lean muscles of his torso.

Four heartbeats, her lips were back on him; his mouth, his neck, his jaw, everywhere.  

Five heartbeats, he ground against her, the wetness between her legs already soaking the front of his jeans. He needed to be inside her. Yesterday.

He carried her back to the bed, setting her down and making quick work of the rest of his clothes. He hissed in a breath as the cool air brushed against his swollen cock, already leaking.

‘Turn over.’ He barely recognised his own voice, the rough way it caught in the back of his throat. ‘Just how much do you need me, darlin’?’

There was no hesitation as Rhea rolled onto her hands and knees, spreading her legs as she glanced back over her shoulder, eyes dark with unconcealed lust.

‘Please…’ He’d never heard her like this, never thought he would. On cases, around the bunker, she was teasing and kind, with a spine like stainless steel. But now she was melting in his hands as he grasped her waist, lining his cock up with her entrance. The spell had made her desperate, made her beg for him. ‘Dean, please. I need you.’

Rhea cried out as he pushed into her in one smooth thrust, seating himself fully in the warm, wet heat of her. She was already stretched from her solo-session earlier but she was still exquisitely tight around him as he filled her. Her whimpers became moans as he began to move, setting a rough pace from the beginning.

There would be time enough in the future to go slow, to map each other’s bodies and strengthen the bond that he already felt shimmering between them – but right now he settled for what they both wanted, what they both needed.

The slap of skin on skin filled the room, mixing with their shared moans. Dean kept his voice low, still holding on to some inhibitions in an occupied bunker with thin walls but Rhea had no such reservations. She didn’t bother to muffle her screams as he reached around to find the bundle of nerves between her legs, clawing at the sheets as she trembled around him.

She tensed and he saw stars, his thrusts becoming erratic as he barrelled towards the edge.

‘Fuck, Rhea you feel so good…’ Dean hauled the whimpering hunter up against him so that her back was flush to his chest. ‘I’m close… come for me, sweetheart.’

His arm was a vice around her midriff as his other hand continued it’s work at the apex of her thighs. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hair spilling down his back, baring her throat to him.

‘Dean…’ His name was almost a sob on her lips as he pressed sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to the column of her neck. ‘I’m gonna…I need to…’

‘That’s it, come for me.’ His stubble was rough against her skin as he slammed into her over and over, her full breasts bouncing with the motion. ‘Now.’

As if following his growled command and not the cresting tide of pleasure within her, she came hard around him, pulling him over the edge. Her whole body trembled in his arms as he spilled into her.

With a trembling gasp, the strength left her body and he tightened his grip as she slumped to the mattress. Gold light danced along her skin, rising from her form in shimmering whorls.

It worked.

Dean’s heartbeat was still racing hell-for-leather as he set Rhea down on the bed, too intoxicated by the aftershocks of his own orgasm and the rising panic over the what now? to worry about the mess.

‘Rhea? You still with me?’ He brushed his fingers over the sharp line of her cheekbone and the sprinkling of freckles beneath her dark lashes.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, the dark lust replaced by bewilderment.

‘Dean?’ She pushed herself upright, hair spilling over her bare shoulders. Her jaw dropped as she took in his naked form, then her own state of post-sex disarray. ‘Oh my god… Did I…?’

‘Try to climb me like a tree?’ Dean offered her a lopsided grin. ‘Yeah, you did. It was pretty damn fun.’

Rhea groaned and buried her face in her palms and his stomach dropped.

‘Look, I’m sorry, really sorry. Just, we couldn’t find another way to break the spell and you seemed uh… interested in me so I lent a hand. I told Sammy that this was a bad idea. And why would you want me without a fucking hoodoo spell? You can do a hell of a lot better than my fucked-up ass.’

He pushed himself off the bed, scrambling for his discarded clothes. He wanted to be out of there as fast as possible, to find somewhere to hide with a bottle of whiskey and no one to bother him.

He’d just found his jeans when he felt a warm hand grab his wrist.

‘Dean.’ From her tone, it wasn’t the first time she’d tried to get his attention. ‘I don’t regret it. Any of it.’ Her voice was soft as she looked up at him.

He swallowed thickly, trying to keep the hope from showing on his face because god damn it he’d been through too much, let down far too many times, so why should this be any different?

‘I’ve wanted this, wanted you for months. Sam and Cas were right. I’m in love with you, you idiot. I’m only embarrassed that I tried to get in your pants in front of everyone.’

Dean was pretty sure he was doing a fantastic impression of a landed fish as he blinked at her. It took him a second to process her words. I’ve wanted you for months. I’m in love with you.

‘Come here.’ Her smile was gentle, but her eyes gleamed with mischief. ‘I reckon we have a good while before anyone comes looking for us.’

And there she was, back to her old self again as Dean let her pull him back down onto the memory foam mattress. Her movements were languid, yet just as compelling as before as she tucked herself against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her waist, still not sure whether this was just some angel-induced fever dream.

‘This is real.’ His voice caught in his throat as he pressed his lips to the top of her head.

‘It is.’ Rhea reached up to cup his jaw in her palm and kissed him softly.

‘I love you too, darlin’.’ Dean let his own eyes shut as he breathed in her gunmetal and moonlight scent. He’d never admitted to anyone his fear of dying, not even Sam. To everyone he was the fearless hunter – facing death and danger every day. But knowing that this was waiting for him in heaven? He could live with that.

[maladaptive-ninja-returns]

Kira (14)

CHAPTER 14: Even The Devil Has A Heart 

Loki x fem!Reader (Kira)

Series: Will contain fluff, smut, bloodshed, violence, anxiety, tears and the cries of my wilted soul.

Chapter content: I said there will be everything in this series, didn’t I

Warnings: yeah...brace yourselves. Just don’t curse me ‘cause I’m already a little cursed on the inside

Word count: My brothers and sister have been keeping me busy these past few days. So it has been nice as well as exhausting. I have changed my office for a few days. It’s...cool. Yeah, I mean for now, yeah. And I really need a drink. Hopefully this weekend.

MASTERLIST & Taglist in bio, my love

Ygritte has laid out the table for dinner. Loki's favourites wait for him. All things light. Soups and salads fit for a king. A bowl of glass noodles rests in the centre of the table. That one has been made specifically for Kira. It hasn't been often that she has told Ygritte what she prefers but when she did not stop complimenting the ramen Ygritte had made for her once, she made sure to keep something pan-Asian for her favourite kid on the table. To go with the food, fresh beer and iced tea in three flavours wait in glass jugs, making the woman proud of her arrangements. Content with the table, she goes to Loki and Kira's rooms to ready them before they arrive, turning on the geysers and lighting up a scented candle to help them ease them into sleep after the long journey. Of course, it wouldn't be easy ever since the incident with Robert, but she has to do everything in her power to make sure they rest well and have enough energy the next day to go to war with that cursed creature that did this to her fine boy.

With every last bit done and dusted in both rooms, she finally moves out to the hall to hear the same scratching noise echo through that she heard two hours ago. All she can do is sigh and walk towards the front door to find Fenrir whining and carving new patterns in the wood of the door.

"Fenrir! Stop ruining the door. They'll be here when they're here."

Fenrir outrightly ignores every word Ygritte says, carrying on with his mission of wood destruction.

"Do you really want your father to put you in time out?"

Now that seems to catch the wolf's ears as he puts his paws down, looks at the door, looks up at Ygritte, looks back at the door, scoffs and walks towards the back to go to the lounge, stops midway as his ears catch a moment, comes back in two huge steps and skids to a halt just as the lights from the SUV light up the walls in the entrance.

The door barely opens when Fenrir is lunging towards Loki, catching him in his own style of hug, licking him clean.

"Yes, yes! I missed you too. Now get off before I throw you out," Loki declares, hugging his wolf and petting him.

"Welcome back, Master Loki."

"Thank you, Ygritte."

Ygritte looks behind him to watch Heimdall standing and judging the wolf, who clearly isn't happy to see the Watcher either.

"Master Loki, where's Miss Kira?"

"She's coming home with Kol."

Ygritte smiles in acknowledgement, stepping aside to let the men in, looking at the night outside. The skies have gathered thunder clouds in a matter of minutes and the wind chimes around the estate are going off at every strong gust teasing them, alerting the grounds of the storm that is about to come. Even though she trusts what Loki says, her heart seems to be feeling a nauseating feeling, forcing her to close the door till about three inches are left, letting the soft lights from the driveway form a straight beam into the entrance hall. Doing that, she walks away to carry on with her work.

Heimdall notices this. When their ancestors had gone through the biblical famines in old history, a group of men had sought to find anything their families could live on. The women and children were left in protected shelters, where the women took to intricate- and impressive- measures to protect them and their children from the cold and the predators. But in order to let their men know they were alive and it was safe to enter the shelter, they would keep the entrance open with the fire on- the fire having to be fed after considerate intervals. And so began a tradition. Later on in the wars, the men and women would leave at least one door open when their partner was out and it was truly unknown if they would return. Heimdall can feel the same patience and anxiousness in Ygritte's actions. When he watches her leave, he turns on the porch light and walks away to his observatory.

.

Too loud.

Your heartbeat is too loud for you to make out anything that is going on around you.

Breathe.

Breathe, Kira, breathe.

Deep long breaths help a little, calming those thumping beats enough to make sense of the sounds around you. The sounds outside the walls where you've been kept sound thin. Heavy vehicles seem to hum around the huge hollow building. The walls and floor are cold and it smells like the outskirts of the city- the pungent smell of sulphur in the air too familiar to be breathed in this long; the only relief being the periodic wind forcing its way through whatever hole that you cannot see, bringing with it four seconds of freshness and the smell of rain.

Where the fuck am I?

From what you can recall, after being literally clad in darkness, you were forced up into a vehicle and brought to the outskirts on quite the bumpy road. The henchmen surrounding you had been hard at work, ignoring your anxious muffled cries yet keeping you in place whenever you tried to struggle with the zip ties keeping your hands tied in front.

There had been too much commotion wherever the vehicle had stopped. Sounds of heavy metal being thrown on thick concrete, wooden crates being opened, cries of moving the 'packages' away in local languages. The black fabric was no help in letting you make out the figures under the orange lights walking around the premise. You, amongst all the noise, were forced by your arm inside a building, the door- or whatever ominous frame closes with a metallic clang- shut behind you.

So, here you are, after taking careful steps towards the wall in God-knows-what direction, sitting on the cold floor, your hands limp inside your lap, your body realising the tiredness after the rush, your brain going into a shutdown.

What did I do to deserve this? Your sore muscles and bleeding scratches ask you.

You fell for the wrong man, a voice inside your head whispers. You try not to ignore it but it's like a demon attached to your back whose presence is heavy even though it's invisible.

The solitary confinement does give you a minute to gather yourself, mentally. How long have I gone missing? Someone ought to look for me, right?

You feel your body slide down the wall a little more, the cold touch of the wall on your neck dissipating the hotness gathering there. And before you know it, the basic instincts take over, instantly putting you to sleep.

You don't know how long it's been when you jerk at the clang of the door opening- five minutes, ten, an hour, the concept of time is not even a question anymore- and the sounds of multiple footsteps proceeding towards you.

You think it's bad to not know who these people are that are approaching you while keeping you in complete darkness till the footsteps stop a few feet away and no amount of concentration can help you concur what exactly is going on in this situation. And the accelerated thumping of your veins does not help.

You do not notice when your knees came up and close to your chest to wrap you in an invisible protective shield against the strangers in the room. But just as that happens, a lone pair of footsteps walk towards you, their echo a prick inside your just woken up brain. A low grunt follows the touch of strong arms grasping onto yours and picking you up without much effort before nearly dragging you away from the corner to stop dead somewhere; not before you find yourself bumping into what seems like a table. The same set of hands that brought you here undo the complex clasp at the back to take away the black fabric from over your head to reveal the gentle hollow eyes of Billy Russo smiling at you three feet away.

.

"I owe you my sincerest apologies for the way over the top charades to get you here. Though I'm not really sure if you'd have come with me if I'd asked you to."

You rub the bruises on your wrists where the ties were a minute ago, flashing a judgmental look at Billy for the comment he makes.

"You shot Robert."

"Well, I wasn't planning to," Billy states with a simple shrug and tilts his head at you with the look of sympathy in his eyes that is inciting all the wrong emotions inside you.

"Oh, so, you wanted me dead." The sharpness of your voice seems to add weight to the betrayal you're feeling right now.

Billy narrows his eyes in contemplation. "No, not really. No. I just wanted to-" he takes one step closer to you, visibly surprised when you don't flinch even a bit- "let the fact graze past your boss that I could've taken your life if I wanted to. Really simple strategy. Don't blame me for Robert tryna' be a hero, sweetheart."

The disgust your belly feels at his addressal leaves a sour taste in your mouth. "His security is tighter than before. I really don't get how you plan on getting past that and for what reason. Just because he didn't a business deal with you, Russo?"

"Aw, we'd just started on the first name basis!" He exclaims, taking another step towards you- forcing you to move back and away from him and his deceiving face. "And come on! You're smarter than you show the world, Kira. You know how a sturdy castle can crumble with the right blow at the right spot. It just so happens that you are the right spot when it comes to Loki Odinson, the Messiah of the third world countries!"

The distance is closed again. You do not hesitate to step back. "I'm just his assis-"

"Enough." His voice is low but the tremble it sends through the hollow building makes you second guess that slight smear of courage inside your heart. "I'm tired of hearing it. How aren't you? Have you seen the way that orphan looks at you? Like someone looks at their precious pet. Admiring them, showcasing them to the world and feeling proud when others stand in awe of their cute little slave-"

"You're going too far-"

"Glaring at the people with the stare of most violent death to anyone who looks at their pet with an intention they deem inappropriate. I mean-" he steps towards you, forcing you into the wall at the back- "I know he's killed me at least ten times in his mind since I've met you."

The perfect white smile is ominous at best, chilling your insides. His dark eyes gazing you with a haunted lust add to the dread.

"He does not-" you graze away his fingers trying to play with your stray hair- "like me. If that's what you're implying."

"Mm-hmm," Billy hums, not at all fazed by your hands trying to keep his away from you, "then how do you explain him not signing the deal with me? Hmm? Last I heard he and Solaris were this close to closing it on my name. Why does. A man. With such a powerful sway. Let his assistant make decisions for him?"

"Wha-"

"I know it was you who stopped him from closing on Anvil Corp, Kira."

The words should not hit as hard as they do in your gut but the shade of malice swimming in Billy's eyes seems to take control, wanting to reduce you to nothing. "I know you were the one who swung the deal from the Adachis in your favour."

"I had nothing t-"

"You had everything to do with this, Kira!" He shouts, failing his hands as he does a frustrated three-sixty. "Everything!"

"You had to go and be all sweet to their daughter, be the nicest person on the planet with them. The bonus? You and Loki being all heart-eyes in each other's presence. Ugh!"

He comes back to put his arms on the wall around you, trapping you in without so much as a window for a thought to escape. "You ruined our entire plan."

You want to be diffused into the wall for it sounds better than feeling the microscopic jolts of uneasiness from his stare lingering over your skin and hot breaths trying to tease your existence into withering away.

"And to think I nearly started questioning my motives in seducing you." His thumb grazes your jaw. His fingers plant themselves on your neck before you feel the force in his hand mercilessly turning your face to look at him while he presses himself against you. "I nearly started to think of you, Kira. I started to dream what it would be like to take you home. To wonder what it would be like to tie your hands and bend you on my table, ripping off your clothes one by one and fucking you till I made you cry. Ohhh...to force my cock in your mouth till you licked my orgasm clean. You really did a number on me, Kira."

The restraints are crumbling to the last bits when you feel his erection grinding against you. That's it. You cannot take it anymore.

"I'd rather die than let you fuck me," you hiss through your teeth.

Billy's eyes go wide. His face blank. Laughter roars through the room followed by his hand slapping the wall.

"Oh you never cease to amaze me, do you?"

Billy bites his lips through the smile still lingering on them. One hand goes away from the wall to gesture at the two men clad in black camo to walk away. And they do. Leaving you alone with this scum.

"You'd rather die than fuck me, hmm?" He whispers into your ear, inhaling the scent of fear coming out from you before kissing your forehead tenderly.

Your fists try to drive his chest away but his hand takes your wrists in them, letting his perfectly manicured nails dig into your skin to remind you of the dormant pain still lingering in there. The other hand has found its way into your trousers, fingers entering your folds to watching you grit your teeth and feel your muscles clench in rebellion at his touch.

"Ah!" He whispers, "let's see how you call upon death to get you out of this."

It is a split-second decision through the pain to find your knee making an impact with his balls, bringing him down groaning and pushing him back as his grip loosens on you. "You are a psychopath! No wonder your own mother hates you so much," your lungs shout.

The mention of his mother breaks something inside him; like a vial of toxins crushed under pressure to let them mingle in with the rest of the solution.

Even as you try in vain to run towards the door, he is catching you by the waist to throw you at the table.

All you can see is red in his eyes when you get up. All you see is the face of a mad man before his fist makes an impact with the side of your face.

.

"Aaah! It's so good to be back home!"

"Tell me about it."

"Friday! Put on something soothing, please. And get the fire started."

The hall livens up with soft jazz music as Pepper cocks her brow at the crackle of a fire in her fireplace before turning to Tony.

"Wow," she mentions, wetting her lips, "for someone who hosted a freaking convention, you seem not tired at all."

"No, you hosted the convention," Tony asserts as he fills two glass with champagne, "I just popped by to say hi to all the people I invited."

"Right," Pepper nods smirks, taking her glass from Tony and waiting for him to settle down next to her. Tony scooches as close to her as possible before putting his arm around the headrest of the couch and clinking his glass with hers.

"To Miss Potts and her work in making this expo the most successful thing yet." Tony smiles with his eyes.

"Why thank you, Mr Stark," Pepper mentions before raising her glass a little, "to Stark Industries. For having the most generous man running the company with the happiest employees."

Pepper rests her head on Tony's arm, making him smile his softest smile. He lets his arm embrace her, his fingers making patterns on her sleeve.

"So, Miss Potts," Tony coos into Pepper's ears, "are you dead tired or do you have enough energy for an entertaining shower?"

Pepper bites her lips to restrain the giggle. "Oh, I don't know Mr Stark. Are you really up for a round or do you plan on passing out midway to the bathroom like last time?"

"Ooh! Cocky much! You do have the energy."

Pepper giggles, giving Tony a long kiss on his lips.

"How about you turn on your favourite playlist while I warm up the water for you, Miss Potts."

"I'd like that very much, Mr Stark."

Giving another peck on his cheek, Pepper gets up to go towards the music system, undoing her hair bun on the way while Tony collects the champagne glasses to get up and walk towards the bathroom. 

"Fri-"

The words leave Pepper midway as she watches the screen in front of her, her eyes squinting in the gesture of finding out what exactly she was seeing. Two seconds later the very same blue eyes are going wide with a low gasp escaping her lungs.

"Oh, my G-TONY!"

.

The hot pressured water eases the muscles in Loki's back, lightly scarring the already decorated skin. Everything except his head gets this torture. The heat is turned off to be followed by the cold current that numbs his skull before disappearing at the turn of the handle. Towel wrapped around his waist, Loki walks out to the ring of his phone on the bed, his heartbeat quickening at the thought of watching your name on the screen, only to be disappointed to find the exact opposite energy calling him.

Loki accepts the call and puts it on the speaker at the very same moment Heimdall opens the door to his room.

"Stark," Loki greets the man, making Heimdall pause midway, preventing him from speaking.

"Where is she?"

Loki's heard Tony enough time to let his ears know which emotion Tony is pouring at that moment. And the amount of poisonous rage bubbling on speakerphone has been heard only once before- a time neither of them talks about. The voice carries rage and frustration. Not to mention a hidden pain that would drown thousands at any moment if Loki does not answer it correctly. The question, by this time, can only meant to be directed towards you. But how does Tony know about you so quickly? Has the news already been informed?

"Kira's fine. She's on her way home from her examina-"

"She is NOT fine, Loki!"

"Tony she's f-"

"Her heart rates' high, Loki! Her vitals are worse and her blood pressure is all kinds of abnormal!"

The confusion hits before the surprise. "What are you talking about?"

"YOU SON OF A-"

Loki can hear Pepper's voice trying to calm Tony down to retain an ounce of common sense to talk to him in a language that makes sense.

"Loki," Tony comes back, this time one breath cooler, "Kira is not fine right now. I just got an alert about her being in an emergency. So, tell me where she is."

The restraint in his voice is loud and clear. Loud enough to tell anyone listening that he would come out of the speakerphone and strangle someone right this very moment.

"Her phone's off. I can't locate her."

Loki turns around to find Heimdall looking down at his golden crystal balls and phone in either hand, suddenly clicking a switch inside Loki.

"The pendant I gave her," Tony calls out from the phone, "it has a beacon. But it'll take me two minutes to activate it. You guys better hurry because her vitals are not looking good."

"I'm on it," Heimdall states before turning to Loki, "you stay here in case-Loki? Loki?!"

All sounds feel like one streak of white noise being drowned out by shallow breaths increasing with every passing moment. The legs are on the edge of giving way any second while the neck burns like a firepit from hell, sweating and steaming away the stray water on the skin.

"Ygritte!" Heimdall shouts out for the woman before coming back to Loki, "Hey, hey, hey. It's okay. You're okay. She'll be fine. Hey. Hey! Look at me! Look. At. Me. Kira will be fine. I'll bring her back. Okay?"

Loki, breathless on the floor by this moment nods halfway, pushing away Heimdall's hands from his arms, gesturing him to be out of the room.

"Loki..."

Tony calls out for the man- no poison this time.

This voice, Loki doesn't like.

"Stark," Loki's trying to breathe through his airless aching lungs, "Stark lis-listen-"

"I'm not going anywhere till you find yourself. Breathe before you speak. I can't hear you through your wheezing anyway."

Loki hates the voice that reminds of the father he did not have.

.

The handkerchief cleans up the blood sticking over the lean fingers in multiple strokes, having to make a little extra effort to get the fabric to wipe away the piece of skin caught under the nails; not to mention the dried blood resting in between the foreskin and those recently manicured pieces of french art. It really is a task. How did he ever make it through those old army days without caring for the perfection that was him is really surprising for Billy. The handkerchief is folded to bring the clean side over and wipe off the blood dripping from wounds made down his throat. A curse leaves his lips to having found his flawless skin marred by a lowely woman.

"The car is ready, sir."

Billy looks up at the soldier he has hired for a few green bucks, scoffing and smirking at him before throwing the handkerchief. "Clear the area. Leave that trash."

The soldier walks away along with five other men, leaving Billy to turn to the unconscious figure lying on the ground in its own blood.

He sits down next to it, takes out a little wildflower from his jacket pocket and puts it beside the hand that flinches a little at the closeness of the man.

"It’s a shame really. You choosing death, I mean. We really could’ve had it all if you wanted, Kira."

He tilts his head and sighs before giving a farewell smile.

"Because death was still going to knock on your door later."

Getting up with one long look, etching his artwork in his mind, he walks away with a giddy tune being whistled on his lips, leaving you on the edge of eternal unconsciousness, the violent pain waiting to tip you over any moment.

.

Second-last chapter of Kira

[anonthenullifier]

First I love all your stories, they are amazing! Second can you write something post iw? They won, everyone is back except vision and Wanda isn't doing great (nightmares and grief) so tony and Shuri decide to bring him back somehow and yeah, happy ending, pretty please?

Thank you :D 

Sure thing! I hope this fulfills your request and meets your idea of how this could happen. Also, it ended up much longer than planned, so I hope that’s okay. 

AO3 Link

All is Right Once More

Wanda swore to the Avengers she would never touch their minds again, without permission anyway, and she has held to that promise as best she can, but sometimes their thoughts are too loud. Which is one of the numerous downfalls to having telepathic powers–incidentally picking up on thoughts and emotions, typically ones that are either particularly strong or directed towards her (sometimes both). If only her teammates understood how easily their misguided concern and silent judgment of her behavior morphed into an invasive species, overtaking her own mind, and crowding out all other avenues of escape. Currently every single mind in the compound is focused on her and it is overwhelming, her fingers cramping as she grips the pillow, folding the soft object around her head to muffle the sound of their cognitions.

The nexus of their concern is easily discernible, she had another nightmare, the same one as the night before, and the one before that, and really it has been recurring since she came back, since her body was forced from the welcome relief of death and thrust back into the bleakness of living. How can they expect her to be grateful, to accept this, to not scream at night at the memories of Vision’s face, at his gentle reassurances, at the feel of decimating the love of her life, and then at watching him be brought back and killed? The residue of his existence is stitched into her palms, itching incessantly, flaring up at every memory, every memento, every whispered mention of him. It has been so bad Wanda can’t even sleep in her room, his smell somehow clinging to every surface, her eyes always drawn to the walls, anticipation building at his head popping through, his face concerned and embarrassed when she reminds him to knock. But he won’t be coming through the wall, the soft lilt of his voice as he says her name forever silenced, his  I love you  haunting her because she was never able to return it.  

The ripples of her teammates’ conversations lap in and out of her awareness  We need to talk to her ,  She needs help ,  What if she breaks?  They are clearly concerned, perhaps they should be. Stark once called her a weapon, a source of terrifying power and destruction, one strong enough to hold off Thanos and destroy an infinity stone simultaneously. Everyone in the movies knows how dangerous it is to cross wires, make a wrong move while in the presence of a ticking bomb, and she can feel the power stirring in her, the barely contained fury writhing just under her skin.  They are worried if they say something wrong, if they aren’t gentle enough she might explode.  I think we need to tell her about him.  Wanda freezes at the thought, eyes shuttering as she concentrates on the source, pinpointing the hesitant suggestion to one of the labs. An equally tentative response reaches her,  Yeah but what if it doesn’t work?

Wanda sits up in her borrowed bed, her scarlet tinged hands brushing the sweat-dampened strands from her face. Slowly she places her feet on the ground, mind honed in to the lab, desperately seeking any other information without prying and breaking her promise. When nothing transmits beyond a slight flutter of what might be hope or could be terror, she stands, arms crossing over her chest as she grips herself, her feet carrying her along the hallways until she reaches the dimly lit research quarter of the compound. There is one light on, the same one that has been on since they all returned after Thanos was thoroughly destroyed. Wanda swallows down her panic, cinches her arms tighter to tamper the tremble forming in her body as she inches forward, mind preparing to see the gray, lifeless color of Vision’s skin, his body kept in a temperature controlled cradle, the team never reaching a decision on what, precisely, to do with his corpse. After at least a dozen failed simulations of how to bring him back, Wanda offered the suggestion of a proper burial, desiring and needing closure, yet there was strong pushback from the sciency types, reassurance that they shouldn’t be too hasty, just in case.

“What are you doing?” Wanda’s hands lift, scarlet erupting around her knuckles as she takes in Tony and Shuri standing near Vision.

Stark turns towards her first, his mouth morphing into a cocky grin, one that is expected but hollow, the dark bags under his eyes betraying his own lack of sleep, though his is a combination of nightmares, guilt, and the newborn baby that refuses to sleep. Wanda still isn’t sure why fate allowed Stark to procreate, but that is beyond the scope of her current situation. “Wanda, fancy seeing you here.”

She raises her hands a bit higher, spreading them out as the power grows between them. “What are you doing?”

“We,” Shuri nods towards Tony, a quick reassuring smile flashing across her face, begging Wanda to lower her hands, “think we figured out how to bring Vision back.”

The information shouldn’t be a surprise, it has been their goal, an impossible task the team clings to as a means of rectifying the losses they all accrued, yet it still shocks her, the admission freezes her blood, turns her stomach over, hope a nauseating enemy after all they’ve been through. “Will you ever let me just move on?”

Her words seem to impact Tony the most, his facade of fashionable indifference tumbling into a deep, sorrowful frown, his hands wringing anxiously as he stares directly at the scarlet still protruding from Wanda’s hands. “If we fail this time, then you can bury him.” His tone is laced with grave sincerity one that continues to permeate the silence as they wait for her to either acquiesce or deny their request.

Wanda pushes between them, stopping once her toes meet the resistance of the cradle and her hand can descend onto the clear glass, a harsh mimicry of the first time she was in Vision’s presence, when his mind and body were brimming with life and possibilities, while now there is nothing to sense with her powers no matter how hard she tries to reach him. “How?”

“I’ve been analyzing the neurological data from,” Shuri pauses, the same pause all of them (except for Drax, before the Guardians left) use when referring to the pre-snap time, “Wakanda. I believe there is enough there to help me map the majority of his neural networks and Helen has offered to reconstruct both his frontal lobe and forehead.”

“Plus we have the Mindstone,” Tony adds the information though it is unnecessary given it rests in a guarded and locked safe in the compound.

Shuri steps up next to Wanda, studying Vision’s still face before placing her hand on Wanda’s shoulder, “I’ll need you too.”

This tactic is new, the plans for the reconstruction of Vision long germinating, but never before did they approach her or imply that she might be useful in bringing him back. “I don’t know anything about this stuff.”

“Nope,” the woman smiles and it’s surprisingly playful, gentle yet also resolute, a victory forming in her eyes, telling Wanda that there is an endgame and Shuri knows exactly what it is. “But you know his mind better than anyone, you can help us fill in any gaps.”

For a brief, fleeting millisecond, Wanda allows some hope to blossom in her chest, and it is just long enough to utter an, “Okay.”

It’s been ten days, each one Wanda has spent sitting in a chair against the wall of the lab, the balls of her feet flat on the seat while her arms clutch her knees. Her eyes rarely leave the table where they’ve laid Vision’s body, the discoloration of his skin causing him to blend in with the metal slab, but with each passing session the concave profile of his forehead is built up, a process punctuated by sparks from the soldering of the synthetic axons and the inevitable cussing, both in English and Wakandan, as Shuri shoos Tony away every time something seemingly goes wrong. It’s when Helen joins them, squeezing Wanda in a heartfelt hug upon entering the lab, that a jitteriness develops in Wanda’s limbs, one that makes her incapable of continuing her silent vigil against the wall. She observes with interest as Helen passes the newly improved portable cradle back and forth over Vision’s forehead, his skin reforming into a patch of crimson, one that looks so out of place against the rest of his body that it pricks at Wanda’s eyes, the normalcy of seeing his true skintone almost too much to handle.

Once the synthesizing stops and the Mindstone is returned to him, Wanda finds her arm moving on its own, her hand running along the new patch of skin, savoring the unique, familiar texture against her fingertips. “Wanda,” her name is whispered, as if anything louder would somehow trigger a switch and eradicate the world. “It’s your turn.”

Unlike the rest of the process, there is no well-defined protocol or order of operations for Wanda’s portion, just a hypothesis that Wanda will know what she’s looking for once she is inside his brain. Wanda nods while removing her hand from his skin, leaving it to hover just over the Mindstone. Scarlet cascades from her fingers, pouring into his forehead as her eyes close and her head tilts to the side. “There’s,” she searches deeper, eyelids tightening as desperation builds in her chest, her lungs beginning to spasm at the sheer emptiness of his mind. Aggravation and anger replaces the desperation, her fingers clamping shut as she turns her ire towards the others in the room, “there’s nothing there.”

“I- um,” Tony’s confidence wavers, choosing a fine time to be flummoxed and stuttering for the first time in his existence, “I- Shuri?”

The young royal’s response is far more measured, an impressive stillness of her aura as she concentrates on solving the problem. “When you touched his mind in the cradle,” a story she kindly asked Wanda to tell her multiple times in great detail, “there was an outside power source, correct?”

“Yes, he was in the cradle.”

Shuri grins, a snap of her fingers kickstarting her body as she hooks the cradle back up to the lab generator (they had removed it so they could channel the electricity to their other tools).  “We can’t expect the same results without replicating the original experiment.” The woman stares at them expectedly, eyes wide and a grin on her face as she waits for them. “We need to put him,” Shuri gesticulates while she talks, an interpretive dance informing them of what she’s asking them to do, “back in there.”

Together they move Vision from the table into the cradle, Wanda’s powers would be more than enough to complete the task but she allows the others to feel like they are helping. Her heart almost stops beating when they close the door, the shroud of glass closing him in his casket once more. Shuri walks around the cradle, flipping switches and pushing buttons, and then there is a beep, followed by another and then another and for the first time since Wanda returned from being dust, there is actual data streaming from Vision’s body instead of the grim, dark screen of an inactive monitor. “Try now.”

Wanda inhales as she approaches the cradle, elbows bent and hands placed on the glass. The first time she felt this there was a sense of wonderment, a surreal awe at being the first to touch a mind, now there is a similar flutter in her chest though not one due to connecting with a brand new consciousness, but with feeling him again, the soothing, golden, gorgeous waves of Vision. “I can feel him.”

“Okay,” the word vibrates with enthusiasm as Shuri activates the kimoyo bead at her wrist, pulling up a hologram of Vision’s mind, “tell me if anything feels off.”

A first scan reveals nothing alarming, but Wanda isn’t willing to reach conclusions based on one sweep and so she explores his mind, each time going just a bit deeper. “Here,” on the hologram there is a blotch of red where Wanda is concentrating her powers, “it needs to go to the left.”

“Got it,” Shuri inserts her finger into the image, pinching and then expanding her fingers to zoom in until she sees what Wanda has found, and then she inches the neuron just a bit to the left and Wanda nods.

“That’s better.”  Twenty three more sweeps reveal only three other areas of concern, though the last is more than simply an askew neuron. “There’s,” Wanda inserts her powers deeper, head cocking right and then left as she searches the area,”there’s a whole section that’s,” it’s not missing nor slightly off, it’s as if his neurons are mangled and unrecognizable. They exist but not in any pattern Wanda has felt before, “Off.”

Wanda turns towards Shuri and watches as the image zooms in to the location of her powers. “It’s part of what Thanos destroyed, in the frontal lobe. I-,” for the first time in the process Shuri seems uncertain of what to do next, and Wanda’s body reacts immediately, her heart racing and the hairs on her arm standing on end, unwilling to get this close just to fail again. “I didn’t have the data for it so we simply had to put something there.”

“What does this area do?”

Stark has been oddly silent during the entire thing, his fingers usually gleefully dipping into every project without asking but for this he’s simply been watching, which is why his voice causes Wanda to flinch. “Lots of things, problem solving, logic, personality, language, motor functions, sex drive,” when Wanda glares at him he gives her a half hearted shrug, “hey, that’s an important function too.”

Everything in the list seems vital to bringing Vision back as himself, which is incredible, that such a small portion could affect so much. If it was any other situation, Wanda would allow herself to be amazed at the intricacies of the human body, currently, however, she can feel a seething despair consuming her mind. “If it stays like this?”

The response is slow, evenly paced and the words are chosen very diplomatically as Shuri watches Wanda through the golden hologram. “He could be quite different.”

Wanda’s mouth settles into a serious scowl at the words, all tiredness leaving her body as she stares through the glass separating her from Vision. Bringing him back is only worth doing if she can have Vision, not some other person who happens to have his body. “I guess we need to sort this out then.”

A broad, determined toothy grin forms on Shuri’s face, “I’ve got no other plans.” 

Being in the lab means time has no meaning, the only windows lead to hallways which also aren’t connected to the outside world. It may have only been an hour since they started the process or it could have been two days, two weeks even, the only marker of passing time is Stark leaving and coming back, muttering about poopy diapers and spit up (though he smiles as he complains, fatherhood suiting him surprisingly better than anyone thought, not great, three pairs of his designer glasses already broken, but well nonetheless). Painstakingly Wanda and Shuri sort through the bundle of connections deep within Vision’s synthetic gray matter, crossing some neurons while disconnecting others and redirecting them. Eventually it feels familiar, the puzzle of Vision’s mind finally complete. Even though he hasn’t done much, it’s Stark that declares the victory, drawing a thick, black line through Wanda’s name on the list they’d compiled at the onset of their experiment, “So we get Thor now?”

Ideally they need to recreate the entire process of Vision’s original creation, but they’ve already diverged from it, among other things there was no Ultron, no Pietro, Shuri did more work than Tony, and Wanda has been far more involved in manipulating Vision’s mind. “I think,” Wanda concludes all of these novel additions means it’s fine to keep changing things, “I can do it.”

“Last I checked you’re not a thunder god.” 

Shuri rolls her eyes at Tony’s asinine observation, “No shit, Sherlock.”

Wanda ignores them both, her stare never leaving Vision’s face while her fingers brush over the cradle, palms recalling the way it felt to take his life and longing to give it back to him. “I can do it, the Mindstone knows me.”

The only argument to her decision is a flailed hand from Tony, one that says  Fine, do whatever you want.  It seems he’s actually learned enough to not always verbalize his disagreements and so he steps back, pulling Shuri with him. Wanda collects her powers, pooling the scarlet from her limbs so that it congregates in her chest, from there she splits it, one half traveling down her right arm and the other her left. In her mind she can hear him whisper,  You can never hurt me Wanda , and she sends the first two tendrils through the glass, hooking them around the Mindstone as an anchor for the rest of her powers.  It’s alright . A low groan escapes her lips as she shoves her palms forward, scarlet streaming in thick, crackling waves into the Mindstone,  It’s alright . There’s little change as she pushes herself harder, directing every ounce of power into the Mindstone, tears tumbling down her cheeks at how tired she is, not having slept in days, possibly even a week, but she can’t stop, somehow finds another reservoir of energy and pushes harder. I love you .   Another pulse of power and there is a shift, infinitesimal and almost imperceptible but she focuses on it, sends another thread of scarlet to the active area in the stone and grimaces as she feels her knees beginning to give out, but then there is a subtle glow, the Mindstone awakening and Wanda shoves the final tide of power at Vision, thrusting the last of her strength, short circuiting the machinery and lights in the lab, and then collapses against the glass.

Her eyes crack open, the flickering lights work in tandem with her tears to discombobulate her senses. It may be a hallucination, it might even be a dream, maybe she finally fell asleep, but she thinks the patch of crimson on his forehead has spread, that it continues to spread as the Mindstone flickers like an ember. Suddenly a hand rams into the glass, causing Wanda to yell and fall back, another thud and Tony rushes to the cradle, calling out to Shuri to help him open the door. Wanda can’t see what’s happening, her view blocked by the two bodies at the cradle.

“Wanda?” This has to be a nightmare, she reasons, because that voice hasn’t existed in reality in what feels like an eon. “Where’s Wanda?”

It’s only when she hears Stark’s voice, takes in the surprise and unbridled joy of his, “Vision!” that she realizes what’s happening, that even if this is somehow a dream, it is at least not a nightmare. Her hands and feet frantically work to help her stand and it’s then that she sees him, his torso and head sticking straight up out of the cradle, his movements uncharacteristically wild until his cerulean eyes lock on to her and she can count the slow whirling of his irises.

“Wanda.” The intonation of her name, the rounded w and well-enunciated d have been seared into her memory for so long it allows her to confirm instantly it is him, yet she still reaches for his mind, rediscovers its vibrancy and elegance, though she also feels the confusion and anxiety billowing up from the depths of his brain.

Wanda hopes to quell his nerves, “Vizh.” Saying his name is difficult, the syllables of his identity having been silent on her tongue since she yelled out to him, yet once she says it, it sloughs the weight of sorrow from her shoulders, frees her to feel a wavering, hesitant joy. “Vision!”  Her feet carry her towards him, eyes locked on his body phasing from the cradle, his uniform still singed but its color returning with each passing second, and when they meet her arms cling to his waist and his engulf her, pulling her to his chest while he kisses her head. Wanda eases her hold on him, backing up enough to tilt her head up, stare into his swirling eyes, memorizes and gets lost in the adoring smile that curves his lips up. “Vision,” she lifts onto the tips of her toes, giddy at how he responds, bending at the waist as he brings his face closer to hers, death unable to remove the deeply ingrained, automatic way their bodies move together. “Vizh.”

A tingle forms along her scalp as his fingers run through her hair, “Wanda.”

“I love you, too.” The smile on his face broadens, irises twisting faster before his eyelids close and he presses his lips to hers, and all, finally, is right with the world once more.

[mrslittletall]

Title: Keeping it together (Chapter 12) Fandom: Dark Souls Characters: Dragon Slayer Ornstein, Dusk of Oolacile, Elizabeth Word Count: 2.245 AO3-Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16328084/chapters/40622222 Previous chapter: https://mrslittletall.tumblr.com/post/181462833169/title-keeping-it-together-chapter-11 Summary: Ornstein has a talk with Dusk.

While Ornstein just used a wet cloth to clean his armour from any blood or goop, Sif had been bathing completely in the water. Orstein still saw that she needed some help and helped her wash her fur out. He watched as the blood got carried away by the splashing of the waterfall.

It was far too late now for Ornstein to be continuing being out. He had to go back to the mansion and work on the speech now. Enough distraction. He escorted Sif back to the arena or it felt more like Sif escorted him back to the arena, said his good nights to Ciaran and Gough and made his way back.

Back at his room, he saw that everything was still like he left. Even the breakfast was still there. He picked it up, took a bite, but promptly put it down again, after having left out in the open for the whole day, the taste had drastically decreased. He sat down on the table and stared at the words he had already written.

“What would Artorias do?”, Ornstein murmured to himself. The words on the paper felt wrong and foreign to him. As if he hadn't even been himself when he wrote it. How should he be able to get into Artorias mind when he couldn't even understand his own? Ornstein picked the quill up and tapped with it on the table, still not knowing where to go with this.

Also, Ornstein realized that he needed to go and that he was hungry. Oh well, he could take care of the first quickly and then get some food. He couldn't concentrate like this anyway. Ornstein made a quick trip to the outhouse and then got some food that he ate at his room. After he was done and laid down his silverware, there wasn't any reason for him anymore to not write that speech. He picked up the quill again, determined to finally do this, but...

Ten minutes passed where he just sat there deadpan. A deep sigh escaped his lips. He just needed to write a speech to honour Artorias. Why was this so difficult for him? He would put this quill on the parchment right now and just write it!

Moments later Ornstein was walking back and forth through the garden in full armour, repeating “Keeping it together” to himself again and again. His stomach felt upset, he was shivering, he felt close to puking and he didn't want to, not again, not after he barely had kept any food in himself... That was when he heard the sniffling of someone. He turned his head and approached the sound to see Princess Dusk sitting there, the same spot as the last time, tears freely flowing down her face, her long hair unbraided and falling over her back, glittering in the moonshine. When she heard Ornstein's footsteps approaching, she shot around, quickly dried her tears and put on that forced smile.

“...Oh, Sir Ornstein, my apologies, I haven't noticed you...”, she said.

Ornstein just stared at her. “Please don't.”, he said.

Dusk stared at him with eyes wide from confusion. “What do you mean?”, she asked.

“That smile. It's fake. It...”, he stopped for a brief moment, taking some deep breathes, this conversation wasn't the best for his already upset stomach. “It reminds me to much of... someone.”

“I am...sorry.”, Dusk said. The tears started to well up in her eyes again. “My kingdom is in shambles. My people are dead or transformed into hideous creatures. The knight who saved me paid with his very own life.” She put her face in her hands, sobbing. “And nobody can see me cry, cause I am their princess and someone has to stay strong. For them!” She took some deep breathes, sniffling: “And there is no one who can understand how this feels.”

Ornstein sat down next to her: “Princess, let me tell you a story.”, he said. “Once there had been a boy who wanted to become a knight. And he did it, he was known as one of the strongest, brave knights and got handed a specialized armour. Whenever he wore that armour, he was the symbol of the people. They knew they could rely on him, they knew he would be there for them, they knew he would shine for them if hope was low. But they didn't knew, that below this armour, the boy just wanted to cry, to break down, to seek comfort at someone for all the terrible things that happened to him, but he wasn't allowed to. The symbol couldn't falter. He just had to... keep it together...”

Ornstein fell silent, feeling the gaze of Princess Dusk at him. At least she seemed to have stopped crying, he couldn't hear her sobs anymore. She gasped in realization: “The boy in the story...it is you.”

“Yes...”, Ornstein said. “So, um, you are not alone with this feeling, Princess.”

“Thank you... this actually makes me feel a little bit better.”, Dusk said. There wasn't a smile on her face anymore. “It makes me feel... less alone.” They both set next to each other in silence when Princess Dusk suddenly asked: “Can I tell you something?”

“I will listen to you.”, Ornstein simply answered.

“When I was in the abyss, snatched by that best... my faculties were far from lucid but I quite clearly sensed certain emotions.”, the princess started. “A wrenching nostalgia, a lost joy, an object of obsession and a sincere hope to reclaim it... Could these thoughts belong to the beast from the abyss, I wonder?”

“Are you trying to tell me that the beast that killed my friend has just been some misunderstood being?”, Ornstein said. “It shows your empathy, princess, for being able to try to see beyond this but for me, that thing killed my friend and almost wiped a whole city off the ground. I don't need anymore reason to be glad over its death.”

“Of course. I am sorry to having bothered you with this.”, Dusk said. “The blame is to put on Oolacile, if we had never awakened it, none of this would have been happened. I know it isn't enough, but I only can owe my sincerest apologies to you.” The tears started to well up in Dusk's eyes again.

Ornstein waited a few more minutes, but the princess had felt silent and eventually he got up and returned to his room, staring at the parchment which still had no useable speech on it. It was already so late and Ornstein had to groan only thinking about sitting down at this table another time. He decided to get more comfortable, stripped out of his armour, put some more comfortable clothes on and went into his bed, using a book to support the parchment, writing utensils moved to his night stand. Now he just needed to write that thing.

When Ornstein awoke his face had crumpled the parchment and bright line was shining into the room through the windows. He blinked, one time, two times, then jerked up. It was morning already! Oh no, that was bad, really bad. He uncrumpled the parchment to see how far he had come with the speech before he had fallen asleep to see that he didn't add a single word. He got up and sat down on the desk. He needed to write this speech now!

Moments later the dragon slayer was in the outhouse puking out all what was leftover from his dinner. It was no use. How should he finish to write this speech or attend the burial in that state? He needed to take some medicine now.

After asking around a bit Ornstein found Princess Dusk deeper in the forest, where she was overseeing the work on the grave. They were already pretty far, what was to be expected, the ceremony was set for this afternoon after all. The gravestone had already been finished constructed and was in the process of being erected and Ornstein could see some golems with shovels which probably were there to dig out the actual grave. He approched Dusk carefully and cleared his throat to get her attention.

“Oh, Sir Ornstein.”, she said after noticing him. “Have you come to get an overview over the grave for Sir Artorias?”

He shook his head. “No, that isn't it... it is lovely though, I am sure Artorias will like it.”, he said. “Actually, I have come here to ask you for that medicine you have offered me.”

“Of course.”, Dusk said. “I am glad you are finally asking for it. It must be awfully difficult to be sick on top of all of this. Would you please follow me?”

While following Dusk, Ornstein noticed, that Dusk, while keeping a friendly and polite tone, hadn't smiled once to him. It made him smile under his helmet unconsciously. She remembered that it had made him feel uncomfortable. Dusk led him to the area he remembered from a few days ago, near the sanctuary guardian. They stopped in front of a wall where some giant mushroom grew and Dusk said: “May I introduce you to my godmother? This is Elizabeth.”

That was when Ornstein realized that his mushroom actually had eyes. Elizabeth must have been the weirdest being Ornstein had ever seen. She was literally a giant, talking mushroom growing out of the wall. “How...nice to meet you.”, Ornstein said.

“My, my, Dusk, you have brought some famous company with you.”, Elizabeth said.

“Actually, Elizabeth, I am here to ask for your help.”, Dusk said, smiling, and this time it was a genuine smile. She must have felt mostly secure around Elizabeth.

While Dusk talked to her, Ornstein's thoughts wandered to how she procreated, how her offspring would look like and how much Artorias would have loved to see little mushroom kids running around, so he didn't notice when the conversation was directed at him and he had to apologize: "I am so sorry, I didn't listen. Could you repeat that?"

"I was asking which are your afflictions.", Elizabeth said in her calm voice.

"Since a few days I am having nauseating stomach aches.", Ornstein answered.

"Nauseating. Did you need to vomit?", the mushroom lady inquired.

Ornstein first looked down on the ground, pawing it with his foot a bit before raising his head again and answering: "Yes. Quite a few times..."

"I see. Please wait a moment." A short while later Elizabeth handed him an item with a squishy texture that looked like it came straight out of her body.

He stared at it for a while: "I don't know how to feel about this..." Eating something that could very well be a part of Elizabeth's body felt so weird.

"Don't worry, it is absolute safe to eat. And it doesn't affect me badly at all. And you don't need to feel bad about your reaction, I am a mushroom after all.", Elizabeth ended the sentence with a chuckle.

"I am really sorry, I didn't mean to be rude. It's just...", the absurdity of this situation. Ornstein didn't finish the sentence. He heard Dusk chuckle beside him.

“Oh, I know, it can be really off putting the first time, but believe me, Elizabeth's mushrooms are working every time. I assure you. I have taken them myself quite a few times already.”, she reassured him.

After hearing this words, Ornstein did open the visor part of his helmet to eat the mushroom he had been handed. It didn't even taste bad or weird, it actually was quite tasty. And soon after eating the medicine the pain started to dissolve and the nausea instantly got better. "That is amazing.", Ornstein exclaimed. He had never had seen a medicine that worked so quickly. Even Gwyndolin's medicine would take a while to take effect and they often would have some heavy side effects.

"I am quite a good healer.", Elizabeth said. "You can always come back should you need some more. Although they are very much part of my body. I can't make them infinitely without needing to rest."

"I owe you my thanks. This should suffice.", Ornstein bowed before the mushroom. "I can now continue with my work." He and Princess Dusk bid their goodbyes to her and walked back to the mansion together.

“I am sorry that I have interrupted your work, Princess.”, Ornstein said.

“Don't worry about it, Sir Ornstein.”, Dusk said. “I am just glad that you finally came and asked for help. You don't have to endure it alone when you are feeling sick... I am looking forward to hear your speech at the burial later.”

“The speech, yes..”, Ornstein said. They had arrived at the mansion and Ornstein bid his goodbye to Dusk who returned to oversee the ceremonial preparations.

Ornstein sat down at the desk again and stared at the parchment and the words he had scribbled on it already. The speech he was so unsatisfied with. He was letting Gough's and Ciaran's word wandering through his mind. “What would Artorias do?” and “I thought you knew Artorias better than that.” So.. what would have Artorias done? If he would have been still around? Probably having hold Ornstein's hair when he puked... Oh... Oooh, that is what they meant. He took up the quill and started to write. (Author's note: I used some of Dusk's canon dialogue in this chapter.) Next chapter: https://mrslittletall.tumblr.com/post/182168559039/title-keeping-it-together-chapter-13

[old-long-john]

Gross Pirate Disgustoids for #3 please (I don't want your pity, I want your absence) 🙃🙃🙃

So this idea started out truly horrible, then became something a bit horrible, and then somehow morphed into something quite soft and only moderately sad. Turns out my brain didn’t want to cooperate with the idea of angst, despite this prompt begging for it, so you’re saved. ;)

3. ‘I don’t want your pity, I want your absence.’

He wasn’t sure what time it was. Late, perhaps. Or very early. The room was dark, at least, but then he thought he might have asked Madi to draw the curtains at some point. Or was that yesterday? It was so difficult to be sure. His skull felt as though it had been crammed with cotton until his skin strained at the seams and his temples throbbed. It made it impossible to hold onto his thoughts for long, losing his grip on them if he forgot to concentrate and finding that groping blindly into the dark recesses of his brain only chased them further out of reach. It was infuriating, whenever he suddenly remembered he ought to be infuriated, which was roughly every half an hour or so.

He was by turns hot and cold, and sometimes both at once, shivering and sweating and unable to do anything about either. Every once in awhile he would throw the blankets off, only to have to drag them back up around his ears when his damp skin puckered into painful goosebumps at the touch of the cool air. And again and again, ad nauseam. It was agonising and irritating and he wondered dimly whether it had been this bad that time in the maroon camp, when Madi had first held his hand and he had ranted and rambled about weakness and his men and one James Flint. At least this fever seemed to be a passing winter sickness, rather than the burning tendrils of infection creeping upwards from his leg.

Madi had been caring for him this time too, patient and calm, but his discomfort made him agitated and snappish, and there were limits to the unpredictable outbursts she was willing to endure. She was soft when he would tolerate it, but at each fit of ungrateful grousing she simply ensured that he was comfortable and left him to bark at himself. Once or twice the thought had occurred to him that he was yet again testing the bounds of her love and willingness to forgive, though in fairness not this time entirely by choice, and that when he recovered he would have to make it up to her in any way that she would allow. However, as with most of his other thoughts in recent days, each time he managed to pull it into focus he quickly found it drifting away to be forgotten again.

“That woman is a saint, you know,” said a voice somewhere nearby on his left. “I would suggest buying her a book when you’re feeling better, to apologise. That was usually my go to solution with Miranda, though I couldn’t say for sure how effective it ever was.”

Silver peeled his eyes open, his lids heavy and his eyelashes sticky. The room was darker than he had thought; it was certainly full nighttime then. There was just one candle lit, burned low, and the light it gave off was muted and golden and did not stretch more than a few scant feet. It was enough though to illuminate the soft orange hairs on the face of the man to whom the voice belonged.

“Hello,” Flint said, as Silver’s gaze focused on him.

“Hmm,” Silver replied. He tried to smile, but he wasn’t sure his mouth had cooperated in realising his intention.  

Flint smiled back at him anyway, so perhaps the intention had been enough. He pulled up a chair and sat close by Silver’s side, one knee pressing against the blankets, forearms resting on his thighs. It put his face very near, and Silver wasn’t sure he could hold his focus on it. The shadows were close and deep and shifting, and it made him feel a little dizzy to look at. At least, he thought the dizziness was the fault of the low light, but being this close to Flint had always made him feel a little off-kilter even when he was in full health. Flint’s shirt sleeves were rolled up above his elbows and his collar was gaping wide. He looked relaxed and open, and it was a strangely comforting thing. If Flint was relaxed then everything must be alright. Silver was happy to take his cues from his captain; that much had not changed.

“What time is it?” Silver managed to croak out. His throat hurt. He needed water.

As though reading his mind, Flint poured him a glass from the jug by the bed and helped him to take a sip. “I’m not sure,” he said, placing the glass back on the table. “It’s after midnight though, I think.”

“Hmm,” Silver said again.

Flint smiled at his ineloquence. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

Silver scrunched up his face in response. “Not good,” he mumbled. “Can you move the blankets off my foot? It’s too hot. Did you know it’s harder to cool down with a leg missing? Less skin to lose heat through, I suppose.”

“I didn’t know that,” Flint said. He leaned down to lift the blankets up towards Silver’s calf, and Silver jumped at the brush of cool skin against his leg.

“Your hands are cold,” he said, and he jumped again when Flint wrapped his cool palm around Silver’s foot, fingers resting neatly under his arch. He shivered, but it felt oddly pleasant.

“I always had cold hands in London,” Flint said, eyes watching the point where their skin met. His thumb was rubbing Silver’s ankle just a little, the pressure barely there. “Before London, even. I think I told you once. My grandfather used to say ‘cold hands, warm heart’, but I was never sure how literally that saying was meant to be taken.”

“I’ve always had warm hands,” Silver said. “Does that mean I’m cold-hearted?”

“I don’t think so,” Flint said, with a small smile. “No matter how hard you might have tried to make it so, once upon a time.”

Silver hummed, and said, “Once upon a time. That’s a good idea. Will you tell me a story, Captain?”

Flint laughed softly. “How old are you?” he said, the pressure of his stroking thumb increasing slightly.

“Nobody’s too old for stories,” Silver said. “Can you use the voice?”

“Which voice is that?” Flint said.

“You know, the voice. The one you always used to tell your stories until you had people, right there in your pocket. That voice had me so many times,” Silver said.

“Is that right? And you’d like me to have you again?” Flint teased, sliding his hand a little higher on Silver’s foot to cool more skin.

Silver shivered. “Stop flirting. My brain’s too foggy to join in. Just tell me a story,” he said.

“Alright. Do you remember the last time you were laid out like this and I was trying to take care of you? In the cabin of that Man-of-War,” Flint said.

“Mm,” said Silver, his eyes slipping shut as he pictured the scene. “The fucking warship.”

“You were so young then. So naive in a lot of ways. Innocent, almost,” Flint said, and Silver couldn’t tell whether or not he was joking from the sound of his voice alone.

“Hardly innocent,” Silver whispered.

“Mm, hardly,” Flint agreed, his voice a soft rumble, “but all things are relative. There were a few moments while we were anchored at Tortuga, days before you finally awoke properly and lied your way out of my good graces, when you briefly came round and we spoke. In one of those moments I gave you some watered down rum, which you drank, but the bread that had been bought for you fresh from a bakery, you refused to take. You railed against any attempt on my part to show you kindness. In several languages you refused it, and in several more you cursed me and all of my ancestors, before finally you fixed your eyes on mine, focused and fervent, and said, ‘I don’t want your pity, I want your absence’. You hadn’t been making much sense up until then, even when your words were coherent, and I wasn’t certain you didn’t think I was someone else entirely, though who I could not say. But in that moment you seemed sure and clear headed, before your eyes slipped shut again and did not reopen until we were south of Inagua. 

“For a long while those words echoed inside my head whenever I looked at you or you looked at me. ‘I don’t want your pity, I want your absence.’ I felt them too. We were both of us drowning in our own ways, both of us railing against the idea of being pitied as we struggled to breathe, seen only by each other as we floundered in the depths of our own despairs. And then suddenly we were partners, two halves of some unquantifiable whole, and I started to think we’d never seek to be absent from one another again. How could anything drive us apart when we had seen all of each other in that way? I never wanted to be absent from you. And yet we were riven back in two, in a way that felt like self-mutilation and a defiance of all the natural laws of the world. There was deep pity, and there was long absence, and they were all the worse for having been so unthinkable for so long.”

“I don’t like this story,” Silver said softly. “I don’t remember saying those words. I don’t think. I don’t know. I just remember the way it felt as the ship rocked beneath me in that cabin, when I was so frightened and confused. God, I can feel it now.”

He opened his eyes again, one hand reaching out to touch the bedside table, trying to ground himself and settle the nauseating pitch and shift he could feel right down to his bone marrow. The candle had guttered out while his eyes were closed, and in the pressing dark he could not find a single point on which to focus his gaze; a horizon by which to distinguish up from down, or an anchor to fix him in place. But then he felt a hand on his face, cool palm pressed to his cheek and gentle fingers brushing strands of hair from his temple. It was comforting, and settling, and its weight slowed the rocking to almost nothing as he closed his eyes again.

“You don’t hate me, do you?” he said quietly to the dark. “For separating us in that way.”

“How could I ever hate you?” Flint replied, forefinger smoothing across Silver’s eyelid. “Do you hate me?”

Silver said nothing, but pulled his hand back from the table, sliding his fingers up Flint’s forearm, stroking the soft hairs there and needing no light to see their colour or that of the infinite freckles from which they grew. Two fingertips slipped round to touch the inside of Flint’s wrist, the softest of all, and Silver could’ve sworn he felt him shudder with it.

He stayed there like that for a long while, fingers pressed to Flint’s pulse, feeling it chime with the gentle throbbing that still pushed from inside his own temples, until he felt himself slipping away into sleep once more.

The door opened, and Silver jumped awake, eyes squinting against the bright intrusion of the candle being carried across the room.

“Captain?” he said.

“It’s me, John,” said Madi, pouring him a fresh glass of water.

“Where’s James?” Silver said, blinking hard.

Madi looked confused, frowning as she said, “He’s in Savannah, John. You remember? Did you dream about him?”

It was strange sometimes, how some emotions were simply too big to be felt all at once, and so they came out muted and difficult to identify, with the sharp edges cut off. This was panic, Silver thought. Dull panic, but panic nonetheless. Perhaps mingled with some despair, and horror, and regret. But most of all it was that feeling of panic that comes with the idea of time running out, and the need to make something right, quickly and at any cost.

“We need to go and find him,” said Silver, trying to keep his breathing calm as he pushed himself up to sitting. He needed to sound reasonable and rational, not delirious, because he needed Madi to agree with him. “It’s been too long. It’s been far too long. We need to go and get him back. Him and Thomas. I don’t know where they’ll be, I didn’t…I never thought for a moment he would be contained by that place, but it’s where we should start looking.”

Silver grasped Madi’s hand, eyes imploring, but she was smiling before he had even finished speaking.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said. “I quite agree. As it happens, I was beginning to get itchy feet myself. Once you are well enough, we will find a ship and we will go to Savannah and we will not stop looking until we have found them.”

“Do you promise?” Silver said, sagging back against the pillows.

“I promise,” Madi replied, tucking the blankets back around him and combing her fingers through his hair. “We will have our captain back, John Silver. However long it takes, we will have him back.”