#claw accidentally kills him and he just haunts his apartment now

[metukika]

spirit teru

[alloftheimagines]

bucky barnes | nightmare

masterlist | submit a request

words: 1.9k

warnings: PTSD, Hydra!reader, nightmares, memories of non-consensual surgery and scars, blood, injury (broken nose), mentions of killing, reader accidentally hurts Bucky when coming out of a nightmare.

request: Could I request a Bucky imagine where the reader was also a part of hydra and has nightmares about her past. Reader and Bucky are dating and he comforts her after the nightmare. Maybe she accidentally attacks him when he wanted her up and she feels super guilty after realizing that she kinda hurt him. And ofc a lot of angst and some fluff at the end.

Bucky knows not to wake you from a nightmare. He knows because when the roles are reversed, he’s found himself with his metal hand around your neck, your eyes round and full of fear. With your shared history of being brainwashed, tortured, and made to kill for Hydra, he’s the only person in the world who knows how to handle you when the past comes back to haunt you.

And yet he forgets in this moment. You’re writhing and screaming beside him—it’s only been weeks since he’s even allowed himself to sleep in your bed and not on the couch. You sound…shattered. Your vocal cords rip and tear with every scream. “No! Nonononono!”

His heart clenches with pain. Because he knows how awful it is when your mind takes you back to the horrors you’ve faced. How the next day, it feels like you’re back at square one and have to start the recovery process from scratch. And you don’t deserve that. You deserve so much better than that.

“Baby,” he whispers, turning onto his side. It only seems to make you worse. You begin to thrash, the duvet torn off you both and tangling around your legs.

“Please,” you sob. “Please, don’t. Please. I don’t want to. Not again. Not again.” Your chest heaves like the waves of a tempest and he can’t stand it a moment longer. You’ve had nightmares before, ones that have made your screams tear through the apartment, but this is different. You’re not screaming anymore. You’re shuddering as though you’re trapped somewhere cold and unreachable, and he has to take the pain away. He has to.

“Y/N,” he whispers, nudging your shoulder as gently as possible. “Wake up, sweetheart.”

But you don’t. You curl into yourself, your hand clutching your stomach, and he knows it’s not just a dream. It’s a memory. Your worst day. You barely talk about it, but he finds you tracing across the jagged scar sometimes as though remembering what they took from you. The surgeries they inflicted on you to make you a better assassin. To prevent anything that might slow you down.

“Please.” Your voice is only a rasp now, full of exhaustion. “Make it stop.”

And Bucky knows he has to.

He shakes your shoulder harder, and when you begin to kick at him, he can only think to straddle you so that you can see him, know you’re safe. Sometimes being weighed down helps you. You have a weighted blanket, and you always let your dog sit on your stomach. Even he’s scuttled off somewhere now, though.

“Wake up,” Bucky says through clenched teeth, trying to pin down your wrists. “Please wake up.”

He loosens his grip when your eyes snap open, and realises a second later the mistake he’s made. Your pupils are wide and your irises full of hollow shadows. You’re still not here, still somewhere else, still trapped in the past.

“Baby…”

Your clammy hands curl around his neck, and you swing him onto his back so that you’re the one on top of him. And then you claw. You claw, because all you see is the face of the surgeon you woke up to on that day you’re dreaming of. Hatred floods you, white-hot as scalding water.

“Y/N!” Bucky shouts, trying desperately to grab your arms. When he finds your wrist, you elbow him in the nose, causing blood to rush from his nostrils. “Baby, it’s me. It’s Buck. You’re here. You’re safe. It’s over now. Look at me.”

You're hysterical, screaming, breathless, until the blood covers your hands and his voice penetrates the bubble you’ve been trapped in. Buck. Bucky. The face beneath you, spattered in blood, belongs to the man you love, not the one you despise.

“Oh, god.” You stare down at your trembling, bloody palms and then your gaze flits to him again. He’s breathing heavily, but his eyes are soft, full of concern.

“Oh, god,” you say again, crawling off him. Your legs don’t work, and you end up on the floor, still hauling yourself back until your spine hits the skirting board.

“It’s okay. Sweetheart, it’s okay.”

You shake your head. It’s not okay. You could have killed him, and he would have let you. “No.” You choke on the sob, bringing your hands to your lips. “No.”

He sits up slowly, his metal arm glinting in the moonlight and his dog tags clinking together on his bare chest. “It’s okay,” he repeats, slowly climbing off the bed. He walks slowly towards you and, when you don’t cower, crouches in front of you. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

“I’m sorry.” You want to reach out, wipe the blood away, but your muscles are frozen and your hands fisted at your side. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know where I was. I thought…”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“I hurt you.” Anger fills your voice now, not for him, but for yourself. For the people who did this to you. For the people who made you into a killer, so that every time you wake up, you have to take minutes, hours, to remember how to be a person again instead of a weapon.

“It’s already healing.” He sets his nose just to prove it, a harsh crack causing you to cringe. The blood congeals on his Cupid’s bow. “See? All better.”

“It doesn’t matter. It could have been so much worse.”

“It wasn’t.” He shuffles closer, tucks a sweat-matted strand of hair behind your ear. “It wasn’t. I’m okay. We’re both okay.”

You have no answer to that. With quivering fingers, you reach out slowly and swipe away the blood, his stubble bristling beneath the pad of your thumb. “I’m so sorry.”

He pulls you close, then, because he knows you need it, even if you’re not sure you deserve it. His hot, bare torso warms you up, the smell of his citrusy soap sharp and sweet in your nostrils. You cling on for dear life and sob, sob, sob, because it’s all you can do. You can still feel the throb in your stomach from the surgery you’d been dreaming about, still taste the foul shit they fed you after to get you “strong” again. You can feel the starchy linen around your calves and the needles in your arms. You can feel it all, and the only thing that assures you it’s not real is his hands drawing circles along your back, from your shoulder blades to your tailbone.

He doesn’t say anything, because he knows there’s nothing to say. You have to pull yourself out of this now. He can only hold you while you do.

You don’t know how long you sit like that. Somehow you end up in his lap, his back propped against the wall and your arms wrapped around his neck. Loosely, so he knows you’re not going to hurt him again. It feels wrong to be this close to him after what you’ve just done. You pull away, running your fingers through his hair as you gaze at him through bleary eyes.

“Maybe…” you gulp, your throat raw and gritty. “Maybe I should sleep on the couch for a while. Maybe we jumped into this too quickly.”

He shook his head, brushing his nose against yours lightly. “No.”

“Bucky…” you sigh, hollowed out. “Don’t make this harder. Please.”

“I’m not. I’m making it easier. We’re not going back to being too afraid to sleep in the same room.”

“I just tried to kill you. I’m not…safe.” The last word comes out small, cracking with guilt. You want so badly to be able to trust yourself again, trust you won’t hurt the man you love, but you can’t. And that’s the worst part. You can love the hell out of him, but it doesn’t change the instinct to destroy. The day Hydra took you, they made sure you’d always be a killer before anything else.

“I trust you,” he murmurs. “I shouldn't have woken you the way I did. I just didn’t know what to do. It was one of the worst ones you’ve had in a while.”

And it knocks you sick to your stomach. You want so badly to forget.

Hot tears roll down your cheeks. You make no effort to staunch them as you collapse beside him, tired eyes fluttering closed.

He laces his fingers through yours and squeezes. “It’s not the first time it’s happened. Not with either of us. It won’t be the last. But we need to learn to deal with it without a wall between us. It’s never gonna be easy, but we deserve to try. And if that means I get my nose broken every now and again, so be it.”

“It’s not funny,” you snap.

“I know. I’m not joking.” He turns to face you, his eyes glistening. “I love you, Y/N. All of you. You’ve stood by me when I’ve woken with my hand around your throat. When I’ve kicked and punched and shut myself off. It’s what we do, and it’s never going to go away—but neither am I. Neither are we. We have to stop feeling guilty for suffering. I don’t want to sleep without you again.” He places a kiss on your knuckles and then leaves your hand against his chest, where you can feel his heart beat steadily. “More importantly, I don’t want you to wake up alone when things get that bad. I want to be with you through every nightmare and every bad day. I want us to get through this together. Even the worst parts.”

A lump fills your throat. You swallow it down and lean into his chest again. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.” Or who you’d be. The only thing that brought you back from all that hatred, all those bloody battles, was him and his love. His belief in you.

“You don’t have to think about that,” he whispers into your hair. “Come on. Let’s go back to bed.”

He guides you up off the floor. You follow him tentatively, perching so far away from his side of the bed that you might fall off. But he pulls you closer by the waist, his hand curling protectively around your stomach. He kisses the scars along your shoulder blades then, each one a different story, a different kill.

“What if I hurt you again?” you worry, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

“Then we’ll deal with it,” he says, all gravel and softness, two things that shouldn’t go together but do. “Like we always do.”

His fingertip finds the thick scar tissue just below your belly button and traces along it lightly. It’s something you can never do. You can’t even stand to look at it most days, only finding the ugliness of what Hydra did to you, and what they made you do, too. But he touches it like it’s the most fragile of glass, like he’s memorising the shape of it, and you sink deeper into his chest as your eyelids grow heavy.

“Think about something good,” he says. “Your favourite place. I’ll chase away the bad dreams if they come to get you.”

You don’t have to think. You’re already in your favourite place now. All you have to do is keep counting your breaths and noticing every part of you he’s touching: your backside against his pelvis, his chest against your back, his fingers on your stomach, his legs nudging yours. You clutch on harder to him, just like before.

“You,” you murmur finally, already sinking back into a restless slumber. “You’re my favourite place.”

“And I’m not going anywhere.”

[border-spam]

Does troy really have a split jaw or is that fanon?

It's total fanon!

The design of the split lines across his cheekbones and chin coupled with the cheek clips and v shaped hinge outline next to his ears lead to a lot of people coming to that same outcome, that there is something up with his mouth from a prosthetic/mod standpoint.

So much of his design is never mentioned once or referenced in any way (hightech spinal rig with tattoos under it, neuro connector, mech arm that's much older and doesn't seem related to the spine and neuroport, implants on bicep, face mod etc) that like Tyreen's scars and possible lower body Siren markings, fandom took over when it came to coming up with logical explanations for 'em.

This actually touches ground with some Ao3 comments I wanted to share as they are all Leech Lord compliant, so I'll list them here alongside links to the fics they were related to (note warnings!)

You leave no avenue for characterization unexplored. Troy's facial prostheses finally receiving backstory is amazing

- Maw (Gore/Bodyhorror)

I LOVE the idea of it being not just decorative shit on his face, but my MO for any content I make is always based around asking why, over and over, and trying to make sense of what material I'm using in the first place. The modded mouth is a popular piece of fanon but you know... why? Why would he do that shit to himself. WHY would he want to be grotesque, why would he be chasing the reaction people would have to it when canonically he seems to really not be interested in fan attention the same way Tyreen is, what's the difference to him between being adored as his persona or being lusted after as a monster, etc. I just love deep-diving into the logic behind character and world building? It's what adds meat to the bone for me.

Big 'ol character and worldbuilding / lore responses list under the cut -

He could afford better robots but these ones UNDERSTAND Ty, don't you get it?

- Good night in (tooth rotting fluff)

Hey just because it's mangled and broken, and can't perform its intended function to a degree expected of it by everyone around it... and it's got rusty sharp bits it accidentally hurts you with sometimes... and it's cranky but it doesn't mean it... and sometimes it errors out in a way that's mildly disturbing in a way you can't place.. uh.. doesn't mean you should just GIVE UP ON IT you know? He can fix them :) They will be fine :) No one should just throw away something that's trying so hard just because it's damaged... haha... :')

It's so hard seeing how much they tear each other down when they're the only thing they have left. And what a poor self-image Tyreen has beyond all that glitter and bluster...

- Wolf in sheep's clothing

The twins function well enough as a unit till tensions rise, and I was trying to seed in The Leech's influence on them in earlier work like this too - towards anyone else Ty would become MORE aggressively confident, more assured in her complete and utter dominance of the situation, her flawlessness, but against Troy who see's her for what she is, it turns inwards and eats at her instead of lashing outwards. He switches from relatively submissive around her to almost surgical levels of dissection, he knows exactly how to go for the jugular with words, and doesn't hold back. She's The Leech's mouth but he's its eyes and it's only when they lose control emotionally enough for it to claw to the surface of their psyches that you get an idea of how much it really affects them individually. GB had an absolute goldmine on their hands here of cosmic/body horror and the concept of toxic family when all you have is each other, there's so much to work with, and I figure it's a factor in why some people still really enjoy messing around with Calypso content.

I like how you allow Troy to be a disabled character, how his congenital defects and prosthetics colour his outlook and appear in ways big and small in all these vignettes. It's easy, I think, to see him as largely untroubled by his health apart from when he needs a charge from Tyreen in the game, but you allow him to struggle with his weakness.

- Chronic (Drug use)

I'm really glad to hear that's coming through in the writing because it's something I noticed a lot too. Very often when Troy, or other characters canonically disabled / chronically unwell are written it's "told" and not "shown". Chronic pain, illness, it's not something that is just a little tickbox in a life or some descriptive terms added to a character synopsis, it's something you live and deal with. There are bad days. There are times it is a negative that has to be worked around or faced in ways that aren't pleasant. It doesn't make you lesser or weak to have times where illness does leave you unable to function to a level you want to, it's not a failure for you to be unable to perform tasks when a disability or flair up means it's not viable. I feel personally that by showing scenes like this where his health and body issues do have a very visceral and impossible to ignore the effect on his ability to function, and going through his mental processes of dealing with and managing them, it brings the character across as stronger than if he never seemed to be shown dealing with symptoms or weaknesses. People are more than their disabilities and conditions, those aren't just kinda taglines to add onto a character's description and then never address. I feel like doing that in a way undermines what people deal with who manage chronic illness, pain, and who have disabilities that affect their daily lives negatively. Appreciating the effort it takes to manage them is important.

What I really like about these is that you can really understand as a reader how their dynamic must have evolved. How even before Leda's death Tyreen would have felt demonized while Troy got the attention because of his condition, because he was less willful.

- Starlight, Moonbright

Ah man, absolutely - and that shit stayed with them. It wasn't his fault and he never wanted it, but of course their parents would have had their extremely ill child at the forefront of their thoughts, especially during weeks when he was.. bad. Tyreen by nature even without The Leech's influence is a little attention seeker, she'd be the life of any party and she BLOSSOMS if she's got the spotlight, but as a little kid who's got literally no one but her parents and her brother, and who all three of which can't give her nearly as much time as she deserved? That's rough. That's really unfair. That coupled with The Leech's warping effect on their egos as they grew up and the bitterness and resentment they harbored in different ways created a reverse dynamic. She'd never be out of the Galaxy's attention again, and he'd have no choice but to take his rightful place in her shadow.

I love how you illustrate both how much more, and yet how much less Troy is now. How the blameless child, full of potential, is inextricably linked to the brutal, larger-than-life avatar he fashions.

- DeLeon ( Graphic Violence / Gore / Hallucinations)

He's molded the monster he is now out of the bones of the man he should have been - there's no going back really. There's nothing left to go back to. He broke Troy DeLeon apart to build the persona that acts like an iron lung now, suffocating him breath by breath while forcing him to still take them. That life is over, he killed it before it had a chance, but the idea of it is still there in his subconscious. Somewhere in the absolute trainwreck of Troy's brain is the tiny, flickering belief that maaaaaybe one day this will all be over and he can shuck off the bracer and spines, peel off all the shit he's covered his skin with, and just go back to not being Calypso. DeLeon here isn't some aspect of his mental state or his sins haunting him - it's The Leech, spitting venom at a host it loathes in something that's not sound or comprehensible language. His subconscious has just translated it into something it can understand - his greatest regret.

On if Borderlands Humans originated on Earth -

There's a really tenuous link between BL verse and rEarth, but it's there and can't be ignored. The cultures, accents, terminologies, so many are Earth specific despite these people being spread across galaxies, so hell yes - Earth as an emergence point makes total sense. The next question then, is why is it never mentioned - and you can cover for that with a lot of things like say, tt was so long ago that it's not relevant to anything that would ever be discussed, or it could be a mass evacuation from a catastrophe there is little record of now. I like to go with something along those lines, that the first human Siren host emergence on earth just absolutely decimated the planet. Like, we were doing fine till this random woman somewhere in the ass-end of nowhere develops weird markings overnight, then goes apocalyptic. The first Leech maybe, not understanding her powers and having them rip across continents in a spread of crackling electric death that only left husked shells of plants and animals in its wake, or the first Firehawk who went nuclear and burned the sky, or the first Voidgrasp who lost control and began to collapse the planet's core - some extreme shit that had humans fleeing en masse with barely any preparation and HUGE swathes of history and knowledge left behind. That would cover so many social things surviving into the BL verse, cultures, accents, cooking, that shit comes with us regardless of what we were able to throw into escape ships. Like so much data would be stored on any tech and data arrays within the vessels people would use to leave a dying planet even in an insane rush, but that shit waters down over time - if you're farming barely edible plants on some planet that smells like farts, are you really gonna be that stressed about teaching your kids history from a lost planet when your current concerns are not being eaten by something with 19 legs and 4 buttholes? Don't think so.

On if the other Siren entities are as influential to their hosts as The Leech -

I touch on it a wee bit throughout LL, but the others are FAR more passive and meld more to their host's whims. The Firehawk Siren wouldn't.. like.. care? If the host was burning down a planet or fighting off an evil corporation? They are removed from any nonsense happening on this side, they might not even really be able to tell, it's like asking an amoeba or a collection of sentient atomic particles what its opinion is on Brexit. That's not really its priority. The Leech is so aggressive in its control of the twins and desperation to drive them towards an outcome it desires only cause it's split, broken, removed from the song, and completely lost. We're talking a caged, half-mad animal removed from its natural environment and left totally isolated from its own kind for millennia. It's in pain, it's confused, it wants to find its way back to the song and the others and where it belongs, but it's stopped by a barrier it can't comprehend ( the twins and being ripped between them), so in its impotent rage it feeds back that hatred onto them. It's not really sentient in the way we would describe functional intelligence, but it wants, and craves, and FEELS. And it feels very, very angry.

Big thanks to @undergoingcalibrations for talking through so much of this with me!

Asks are Open!

[poisonintopositivity]

(My Very Own) Top 20 Sterek Fics

Here is my very own Top 20 Sterek Fics (out of order)

For me, these fanfictions are a “MUST READ NOW!!!” kind of deal. These authors have so much talent, it’s incredible. These stories are just marvelous and deserve LOVE ! So, I decided to share them with you.

I’ve read most of these fics several times and some of them are even my bedside table books (with Harry Potter and the Prisonner of Azcaban and Jane Eyre)

So here we go!

1:  Enemy Lines by @qhuinn -  150k - Explicit - Dystopia - Enemies to friends to lovers - Action/adventure

This is the story of werewolf Derek Hale and human Stiles Stilinski: two people who grew up in the same town but completely different worlds, their realities split by the war between men and wolves.

Years later when Derek returns to Beacon Hills, he does it as Alpha of a military pack on a mission to capture those responsible for the region’s resistance. With his main objective, Sheriff Stilinski, out of sight, he settles for the next best thing: his son, Stiles.

Neither of them suspects they’ll need to trust each other if they want to make it out this alive.

2:  Actions Speak Louder than Words by @isthatbloodonhisshirt - 435k - Explicit - The BEST and slowest burn there is - Spark Stiles/Mute Derek - Friends to Lovers

“I apologize.” The cop finally looked back up at his face, seeming thrilled. “It’s just—it’s been so long. And we finally have you.”

That was a bad word. Not found.

Have.

Stiles wrenched his hand free and took a step back, but before he could even think up a gameplan, he felt a prick in his neck and jerked away, reaching up to slap one hand against it and twisting in the same moment.

One of the others had come up behind him while he hadn’t been paying attention, and his vision began to swim even as his eyes caught sight of the half-empty syringe the guy was holding.

3: Radio Tower by @hyperlittlenori - 130k - Explicit - Dystopia - Hope - Slow Burn/Build 

Everything was different. The world he knew was gone. It’d been a long time since he’d started thinking he was probably one of the last humans on earth, that out there the only sentient beings were those that would devour him whole. He wasn’t sure why he continued with the radio broadcasts, continued to talk into nothingness. The only explanation was that there was a spark of hope in him yet that he wasn’t alone. The lonely safety Stiles has built around an old radio tower in the middle of nowhere is about to be broken. Stiles isn’t sure if Derek is a harbinger of chaos or hope at the end of the world. 

4:  The Hollow Moon by @thepsychicclam - 180k - Explicit - Fix-It - Memory Loss - Slow Burn/Build

It's the summer after Stiles' first year of college, and he's working a crappy job and dealing with nightmares and anxiety - but he's okay, he swears. He makes it through most days without too much trouble. Then, a certain werewolf comes back into town. Which Stiles doesn't care about, nope, not at all.

After two and a half years, Derek returns to Beacon Hills with his small Pack. Though he tried to move on, something just kept drawing him back to Beacon Hills, he's just not sure what. Now, he figures he can start building something like a life - but he keeps getting distracted by Stiles Stilinski of all people.

5 :  Amor Fati by @alocalband  - 43k - Explicit - Consent is sexy - First Time - Fluff & Angst

When Stiles gets thrown into the bank vault about twenty minutes after him, Derek isn’t even surprised.As it turns out, neither is Stiles.

6 :  (not so) Pure Imagination by theroguesgambit - 33k - Explicit - Shared fantasies - Angst with a happy ending - hotdamn! 

"There is a world where whenever someone fantasizes about you, you can physically feel it, but you have no idea who is thinking it about you."

Stiles knows it's wrong, but he's been Fantasizing about Derek and he can't bring himself to stop. Derek doesn't know who's taken an interest in him, but he's enjoying it way more than he probably should.

7: What I Did On My Summer Vacation by grimm - 119k - Explicit - Wolf!Derek - Slow Burn/Build - Friends to Lovers

There's something weird about Beacon Hills that Stiles can't quite put his finger on. The way everyone in town knows his name the day he arrives. The way they insist the melancholic howling that echoes through the forest every night is just a dog. The way his dad denies getting a dog, even though Stiles comes home to find one sprawled across his bed, some big black thing whose eyes gleam red in the right light. The way that massive oak tree out in the woods vibrates under his touch, pulsing with sickly life.

There's something weird going on in this town, and Stiles is determined to get to the bottom of it.

8:  Stand Fast in Your Enchantments by @devildoll - 77k - Explicit - Captivity - Feral!Derek - Angst with a happy ending

"Stiles knew damn well what a pissed-off wolf sounded like, and every hair on the back of his neck was telling him that somewhere in this room was a very pissed-off werewolf." An AU in which Derek is feral, Stiles is magical, and they eat a lot of fast food.

9 :  What Fresh Twilight Bullshit Is This? by @isthatbloodonhisshirt - 196k - Explicit - Soulmate - Slow Burn - Misunderstandings 

“I am not Bella!” he insisted, shaking his fist angrily at Jackson, as if he’d been the one to suggest he was. “I am not Bella! I am, like, a Jacob, at least!”

Lydia made a noise of debate from his right and he whipped around to look at her.

“What?! What was that sound?!”

“You’re more of a Mike,” she insisted, shrugging neatly and flipping some curls over her shoulder.

“Wha—” Stiles had never been so offended in his life! “I am not! No way! I am a solid Jacob!”

“Mike,” she argued.

“Who’s Mike?” Scott asked.

“Shut up, Scott!” Stiles insisted, pointing a finger at him but still glaring at Lydia.

10 :  taste your beating heart by @cinematicnomad​ - 112k - Mature - Pack Dynamics - Slow Burn/Build - Stilinski Family Feels

Something was wrong in Beacon Hills. Derek was halfway across the country when he felt a call to return to his hometown, and somehow Stiles had been talked into letting the werewolf stay in his guest bedroom. This could lead to nothing good.

11 :  between the click of the light and the start of the dream by @thepsychicclam 105k - Explicit - Pack Dynamics - Getting Togheter - Fluff & Angst

A twig snaps, and then Stiles hears breathing and the rustle of leaves. He strains to get a better glimpse into the darkness, but it’s pointless. There’s nothing but a black void.

It's Stiles' senior year, and he's trying to concentrate on normal things - like the lacrosse championship, spring break, prom, graduation (and definitely not Derek) - when he starts having nightmares and waking up in the middle of nowhere. Oh yeah, and he's being haunted by a hag. Great.

12:  And You Say You're Alone by taelynhawker - 30k - Explicit - Pack Dynamincs - Bad Friend Scott - Romance

Between the kanima, the Argents, and Peter's untimely return from the dead, everything has fallen apart. Stiles and Derek try to put their lives back together once the crisis has passed. Stiles deals with the aftermath of being tortured, and the distance growing between he and Scott. Derek attempts to become a stronger alpha and keep his pack safe, and that includes Stiles.

13:  Trust Fall by Stoney - 144k - Explicit - Body Swap - Hurt/Confort - Slow Burn/Build

Stiles is fairly certain that a case could be made for every bad thing in his life coming back to Peter Hale. This time it's pissing off a powerful witch, who retaliated by swapping Stiles and Derek a la Freaky Friday, because sure. That makes sense. Um, there are GPAs on the line, not to mention the whole thing where his dad wants to shoot Derek on sight. Except who he sees as Derek is actually Stiles, and Stiles did not sign up for filicide.

Great. Wait...does this mean he's the Alpha until they figure this out? Holy. Shit.

****

Derek had stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a few minutes trying to control the panic as he saw himself as Stiles. As the loud mouthed human friend of the pack. He was going to kill Peter. He was going to kill the witch, then he was going to kill Peter. Maybe even resurrect him again just to kill him all over.

They were going to have to play this cool. They would have to stay calm and focused. Which is of course why the universe threw him into this situation with someone who physically couldn't be calm and focused.

Of course.

14:  Gravity's Got Nothing on You by @zosofi - 84k - Explicit - Fake/Pretend Boyfriends - Humor - Romance

“Three weeks,” Derek says.

“Still don’t want to,” Stiles says.

“I’ll pay you,” Derek says, and that… that has Stiles interested. Alf’s Antique’s may be a great job, but it’s not a high-paying job, and half of Stiles’s tuition is coming from financial aid, so…

“How much,” Stiles asks, “are we talking here? Because I know your family, dude. And it’ll be kind of awkward after.“

“My family thinks you’re some sort of fucking gift to the world,” Derek seethes, like he’s jealous, “they’ll probably be pissed at me when we break it off, so don’t worry about that. Five hundred bucks.”

“A thousand,” Stiles says, because screw ethics. Also, the Hale family is loaded. Derek can deal.

15:  Every Step You Take by @nokomiss - 49k - Mature - Magic - UST - Secret Feelings

Stiles accidentally ends up magically bound to Derek. It’s super.

16:  Baking My Way Into Your Heart by theSilence - 179k - Mature - College AU/Coffee Shop AU - Slow Burn/Build - Friends to Lovers

Derek is an uptight college student, all work and no play. His carefully scheduled life is thrown kilter when his regular barista is replaced with someone new.

17:  Windows by @drgrlfriend - 83k - Explicit - Blind!Stiles - Friends to Lovers - Found Families 

Derek has a new neighbor who won't stop looking.

Excerpt:

“You’re blind,” Derek said flatly, the anger draining from him so suddenly he felt almost woozy. His vision cleared, his claws sliding back into blunt fingernails.

“Thanks for the memo, genius,” the kid said acidly. “I can still fucking defend myself, so don’t take another damn step.”

“Fuck, I...I’m sorry,” Derek stuttered.

“What?!” The kid’s brow crinkled. “I mean — what?! You’re fucking sorry!?” His lips thinned into a harsh line. “What, is this some kinda Hallmark movie where you’re discovering the error of your ways because you don’t want to rob a blind person?! That’s fucking condescending, man. I’ll have you know that —”

“Just, wait.” Derek interrupted what was apparently the start of a convincing argument as to why he should rob the kid after all, feeling his head start to spin. “This is — it’s a misunderstanding. I’m — I’m not robbing you. You’re — you’re safe, okay? I’m taking three steps back. Just — just let me explain.”

“Explain why you came busting into my apartment? Yeah, go right ahead, man, I can’t wait to hear this epic tale.”

18 :  Just to See You Again by MellytheHun (@loserchildhotpants​) - 15k - Explicit - Love Letters - Getting Together - College AU 

A sterek college!AU where writing student Stiles specializes in love letters, runs a blog about it and can be commissioned to write love letters on behalf of lovers who are at a loss for words.

He makes some cash, he’s good at what he does (especially when he gets to be a little more explicit in his letters), it pays for his textbooks and that’s all he’s really looking for and life is fine. That is, until someone anonymously commissions him to write a love letter to mathematics student, Derek Hale.

19:  Chasing Slumber by @hyperlittlenori - 21k - Explicit - Post-Nogitsune - Porn With Feelings - Fix it

Stiles finds solitude and a glimpse at recovering from his ordeal with the Nogitsune in a dingy motel far from Beacon Hills. Inhuman blue eyes follow his silent struggles in the darkness of the room and he can no longer pretend to sleep, pretend he hasn’t been profoundly changed by all that has happened. He can only let his fingers stretch out across threadbare but clean sheets and clench around them, in a failed attempt at not reaching for Derek.

20 :  the thread is ripping by @thepsychicclam - 36k - Explicit - Pinning - Angst with a happy ending - Flashbacks

Stiles is 27 now, with a master’s degree and a career and a house and a serious boyfriend and a life in San Francisco that doesn't include Derek. But then Stiles unexpectedly shows back up in Beacon Hills, and Derek would recognize that scent anywhere.

If you are interested, feel free to check out my Sterek Fic Recs Collections on A03.

On this lovely note, happy reading guys!

[speechlessxx]

extremely wicked.

[dark!Ransom Drysdale x Reader]

Summary: After abandoning your ex-fiancé during his murder trial, he seeks you out for revenge. 

Warnings: drug use (prescribed tho), language, i could’ve made ransom a little darker but i chicked out, shitty writing, mild violence, mistakes probably 

Word Count: ~1.6k, a bit on the shorter side. 

i originally planned for smut but i pussied out (as usual)

Buy me a Ko-Fi - donations are unnecessary but GREATLY appreciated. 

You were fear stricken as the harsh winds blew against the tree, causing the branches to scrape against your front window. The screeching of wood against glass accompanied by the shadows left you paralyzed with wide eyes.

The advice the FBI agent told you still hung in the air – advice you should’ve heeded to, but you were always stubborn. “It’s unsafe for you, miss,” he told you and now you cursed yourself for being so dismissive of his concern.

You pried your eyes away from the window after a few long moments, staring at the brightly lit television screen that burned your tired eyes. The mindless sitcom proved to be a short-lived distraction as the show abrupted ended to deliver news. The broadcast did nothing to ease your anxiety, but every time you’d change the channel, you were met with the same story:

Breaking News: Serial Killer, Hugh Ransom Drysdale, at Large.

His mugshot was front and center as the anchorman warned the public to not approach him. “It’s unknown if Drysdale is armed, but he’s most certainly dangerous”.

You felt the color drain from your face as you continued to stare at the photograph.

The same pair of blue eyes stared tauntingly back at you. They were colder than you remembered. The smirk on his face was as charming as the day you met. Charming yet cynical.

A loud snap! pulled you from your thoughts, causing you to let out a small yelp. Your eyes immediately searched your surroundings as your breathing picked up slightly. The branch that hung over your window had fallen. The shadow and its silhouette were gone, leaving you a clear view of the full moon in the grey night sky.

You pressed your hand against your chest as you tried to steady your breath. Inhale, exhale… you thought to yourself. Inhale… exhale. You felt your heartbeat against your sternum, thumping against the bone as if it wanted to escape like the man who once stole your heart.

Your fear wasn’t misplaced. You had every right to be afraid.

It was your fault he was imprisoned after all.

The images of the women’s bodies flashed through your mind ever so often. During the trial, photographs of the cadavers were shown to the jury and audience. The audible gasps that were heard throughout the entire courtroom was almost as haunting as the very images that burned through your skull. You dabbed away at the tears as Ransom and his team of lawyers – the “most elite” group that Linda could buy just before disowning her son – congregated in the small office, coming up with a strategy. Ransom looked over at you before dismissing his team to “comfort” you.

It was then you gave back the engagement ring, telling him you couldn’t do this anymore. Despite Ransom’s insistence on his innocence, the evidence was stacking up against him. He looked guiltier and guiltier each day – even you doubted him. No matter how much you loved him, you wanted no part of this trial.

It was then he grabbed you. With a hand to your throat, squeezing the life out of you, he shoved you against the wall.

It was then he seethed his threat that haunted your dreams a year later. ��

“If you leave me now, I swear to you… I will fucking kill you.”

He screamed it. Your ears were ringing as you begged him to let you go. When you managed to open the door and free yourself, you fell to the ground, coughing and wheezing. You were too caught up in your fear that you hadn’t realized Ransom’s outburst attracted a crowd.

It was that threat that put the final nail to his coffin.

You shook the memories out of your head. “It’s done, (Y/N).” You reminded yourself. “It happened. It’s over.” You took a deep breath as you turned off the television – it was doing you more harm than good anyway.

You walked over to your kitchen and frowned when the light refused to turn on. The wind whirled outside as you furiously flipped the switch but to no avail. The bulb was dead.

You groaned to yourself, thinking that this night could not go any worse. You poured yourself a glass of water before deciding to call it a night, reasoning you had an early shift.

The stairs creaked beneath your feet as you ascended the flight. As you prepared for bed, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The entire atmosphere of your house had shifted, placing you into an undesired horror film and leaving a strange feeling in your bones. You shuffled through your bedside drawer, in search for the orange Rx bottle containing the Ambien you were prescribed to help you sleep.

You flushed the pill down with big gulps of water, hoping that the sleeping aid would kick in faster. You snuggled into your comforter as a shiver ran down your spine. Your head whirled around the dark room and letting out a shrill shriek.

You swore a figure walked past your bedroom door and disappear down the hall. You blinked several times as if to adjust your eyes to the darkness – although with the power outage, they were already well adjusted.

“Nothing’s there.” You told yourself as you shoved the covers off. You poked your head out the door, examining the hallway. “You’re just paranoid… and tired.”  

Goosebumps rose on your skin as a familiar chuckle rang throughout the empty house. Menacing and wicked like a predator laughing at its prey.

“Oh, (Y/N)…” his voice echoed. Your breath hitched in your throat as you backed into your bedroom and locked the door; though, you knew it wouldn’t keep him out for long.

You fumbled with your cellphone, dialing 9-1-1. Within seconds the operator answered but you didn’t give him the chance to complete his script.

“I’m in trouble.” You whimpered. Your voice quivered and your hands – your entire body – was shaking. “Hugh Ransom Drysdale… he’s in my house. Please…”

“Ma’am,” the operator let out a long sigh. “Did you see him?”

“No, you don’t understand.” You rubbed at your eyes with frustration. “I’m his ex-fiancé. It was my testimony that put him in jail. I’m (Y/N) (Y/L).”

“Miss (Y/L), what’s your address?” He asked. The faint sound of typing could be heard on the other line. You recited it only for him to say, “you’re breaking up… Can you – “his voice began to break, muffled and robotic.

“No, no,” you begged as the line suddenly cut. Your mind slowly became fuzzier and fuzzier as the drug slowly began to take effect. You tried to redial, but the error message rang out throughout the phone’s speakers.

“(Y/N)…” he knocked three times.

“Ransom, please,” you cried. “Please, just go.” Tears rushed down your face as you tried to fight the drowsiness. “I won’t tell anyone you were here – “

The doorknob jiggled. “I just want to talk, my little dove.”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Like you didn’t believe me when I said I was innocent?” He tutted at you. “Open the door, little dove. Let’s talk.”

“No.” You shook your head although he couldn’t see you.

Ransom let out a sigh before a thud slammed against the wooden door. You whimpered before scampering beneath your bed. The slamming continued until you heard the door break. Your eyelids became heavier as heavy footsteps stomped around your room. You pressed your hand against to your mouth, muffling your breath, praying to whatever god or deity that was listening that he’d leave.

The footsteps suddenly stopped as Ransom exhaled. “My dumb, dumb little baby,” he tutted. Two large hands grabbed your ankles and you screamed as you clawed the floor in an attempt to anchor yourself.

Ransom straddled your waist, holding your thrashing legs in place as he grabbed your wrists and pinned them at the side of your head. He leaned over you – faces centimeters apart.

“Do you remember the last thing I told you?” Ransom asked you, ocean blue eyes bearing into yours. You shook your head at him, crying as meaningless strings of pleads escaped your lips. Ransom cooed, nudging your nose with his. “My dumb baby…”

“Ransom, please,” you cried. “Just go.”

“No, little dove,” he smirked. “I’m not letting you go.” He watched as your eyes slowly became a bit glazed over. “What did you take?” Ransom’s tone suddenly became concerned as he pulled away from you. His voice became distanced as Ransom’s face became blurrier and blurrier until you succumbed to the peaceful darkness – hoping that this was only a nightmare and that when you’d wake, this cold blooded murderer wouldn’t be looming over you.

Ransom slapped your cheek lightly at first, hoping that you’d regain consciousness. He called your name again before slapping you harder. He shook your shoulders but was met with no response.

“Well,” he huffed as he pulled your limp body from the floor, throwing you over his shoulder like a ragdoll. “Makes it easier for me, then.”

The stairs creaked louder beneath your combined weights. He hummed to himself as he opened the found your keys sitting at the dining table and waltzing over to the garage. He placed you at the passenger seat, wincing slightly when he accidentally knocked your head against the roof of the car.

Ransom made his way to the driver’s seat as the garage door slid open. He smirked to himself as he drove. He glanced over you, fast asleep with your head pressed against the window, jolting when the roads became uneven.

“Oh, what wicked things I have planned for you, my little dove.”

[yeongwvnhi]

A Vampire's Diary ☆ 내꺼 하자

"A Vampire's Diary" isn't all too important to the actual story of "내꺼 하자". It's simply Ravn's personal diary in which he writes about his past, feelings, thoughts, plans etc. It may be of help to figuring certain things out in the story.

Taglist (send an ask if you want to be added): @twancingyunhoe @vickylamore @glxwingstar @se0--0ho @seohospepe

Pairing: none

Genre: angst

General Warnings for AVD: mentions of death and stalking, blood, assault, murder, witnessing death, drinking blood, violence, weapons, language

Warnings for this entry: stalking, assault, blood, drinking blood, violence, mention of murder

Word count: 803

》Masterlist 《

》><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><《

Date: 2220.09.09

I can not believe I am actually starting to write a diary, but here I am. I must be going crazy...

Regardless, this is not why I am writing this entry, but rather because I do not know where else I should keep this burden. This may sound incredibly weird and surreal but I guarantee, all I am stating here is, and will, be nothing but the pure, naked truth. 

It had all begun with a suspicious person following me around a few months prior - it started in May? June? I do not recall exactly when, but it has been a while. I have started to notice how there was a presence lurking just enough to be close to me. I did not pay much mind to it at that time, foolishly thinking it was just some weird person. How wrong I was. 

The first few weeks it was just noticeable while I was out in the open, whether that be during broad daylight or in the middle of the night. I always felt its presence near me, but it was always just out of eyesight. 

When the first month had passed, I noticed how also sometimes objects in my apartment would be moved to different locations or they were gone for a while before they appeared in a completely random spot again. It really threw me off, at first thinking I was the one who just simply misplaced them or accidentally knocked them over or out of place when I was passing by. You, whoever might be reading this whenever, might probably already have guessed that this was not the case. At all. 

Over the following next month it only grew more obvious that there was indeed a stranger with me wherever I went. I could not escape them. I found myself in rather often recurring confrontations with this stranger at night. 

It turned out to be one of my biggest mistakes yet, since that night will haunt me until eternity. 

It was a man, about my height and build, so I did not see him as much of a threat, but that was my initial mistake. 

That man was so, so strong. He lifted me off the ground by my neck without much effort as he told me the most haunting words I have ever heard… 

After that, I was glad to still be alive. I could not grasp the situation at all. My mind was all over the place when I came back home, but I found my living space completely thrashed. Clothes were thrown everywhere, furniture knocked over, plates and glasses smashed into bits and pieces and cables were cut. 

I remember having a breakdown and just running away. 

I ran to my closest friend I had at that time, begging to spend the night because I was terrified. He was kind enough to let me stay and helped me to clean up my apartment the following day. 

Another month flew by without another incident and I was so very grateful, but now that I reflect on it, I wish I would not have been so naive to believe it was over. 

That was just the calm before the storm. 

It happened last week and I still have not recovered. I am still in pain, I still can not leave my living space nor interact with others. 

I am changing. 

It happened while I was taking a stroll through the park close to my apartment building, admiring the view of the trees and wilting flowers with the bright light the moon provided. 

He was following, hidden by the shadows and watching me. 

At that time I did not pay much attention as it was dead quiet and nobody else was around… well I thought no one was. 

He sneaked up to me on such quiet feet that it still wonders me how he managed to do it. 

It all happened so fast, I can barely remember. 

He pulled me behind some bushes and tilted my head. I could feel him smelling the skin of my neck before something sharp pierced my skin. It hurt so much but I could not scream. All I could do was claw into his arms which held me so tight, but he was not bothered. 

I felt him draining the life out of me as he sucked my blood. 

After that I do not remember what happened, but I somehow ended up in my apartment, still dark. Everything hurt and my neck felt like it was alight. The pain was searing hot, like flames licking at the skin. 

I could not move without being in pain. I am not certain how much time passed then, but it must have been a week at minimum. 

내… 친구 

나

나는 그를 죽였다 

(My... friend, I, I killed him)

[jjdoggies-fanfics]

Day 5: Guilt

Link to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27396187

@fivevanya

Title: Little Do You Know, I’m Still Haunted By The Memories

She’d done it again. 

For a third time. 

Caused the apocalypse, or nearly did.

She was the reason Five spent nearly his entire life in the Apocalypse. She was the reason they had to flee to fucking Dallas, in the 60’s. She is the reason Ben died, and is replaced with this Other Ben. And she was the reason they came back, only to be kicked out of their own house.

Vanya honestly wished sometimes, that she could go back. To that blissfully oblivious month. When she believed she could live a normal life with Sissy and Harlan. Back when she didn’t have to deal with her family, or memories, or powers.

After they’d returned to 2019, being kicked out of their (former apparently) childhood home soon after, they splintered apart, again.

Allison made her way to Los Angeles, hoping Claire was still waiting for her; bringing Luther with her.

Diego similarly left, mentioning something about a friend of his and finding Lila. Klaus solemnly following behind him, wallowing in the loss of Ben. Their Ben. Because of Her.

While Five had stayed back, discussing something with their father, likely about not screwing up this timeline. About Her not ruining another timeline.

After everyone else splintered off, going their separate ways, again, Vanya alone, again. And somehow it hurt more being alone, being abandoned, forgotten, ignored, isolated, again. 

Perhaps, it is because, this time, it made sense. 

Because this time, she had done several things that likely caused her siblings to leave her. Namely, causing the apocalypse, for a second and third time, almost killing Allison, and actually killing Ben. Just to name a few.

Vanya silently wished she could return to The Academy, if only to use the basement. The bunker. The cell. Her prison. To lock herself away, like their father had, like Luther had, because, they were right. She was, is a monster. A bomb. A ticking time clock. The apocalypse.

She deserved to be locked up. Locked away. Kept away from everyone. From Allison. From Ben. Klaus. Diego. Luther. From Five.

She is a monster, and always will be.

She was destined to either end the world. Or, be killed, like a wild animal, by the people she grew up with.

She was never meant to be ordinary. She was never meant to be extraordinary. She never should have been born. Never been given the chance to live. To hurt. To kill. 

An itch had spread, from her wrist, up her arms, across her chest, around her neck, and down her back. Spreading all around. Infecting everywhere. Ruining everything.

Like she did.

Everything felt wrong.

It felt like Vanya didn’t belong in her own skin. In this body, despite it being her own. Or, at least she thought so. There was another thing. Another being. Personality. Alter ego. Living, residing inside her. One that had a thirst for blood, pain, revenge, murder. A constant voice in the back of her mind, telling her, pleading with her, begging her, to be freed. To hurt. To kill.

And for a while, Vanya had been able to silence the voice. For a month. In Dallas. She, It, was gone. And Vanya hadn’t noticed, until It came back. Bringing memories she’d rather have forgotten forever with It. Haunting her. Taunting her. Torturing her.

From the moment they touched down back in 2019, It was stronger than Vanya could ever remember. 

Whispering to her all the reasons that Diego hated her, wishing she was dead. Every secret moment they’d shared forever tainted by the blood she’d ever spilt, the invisible wounds she tore open and sold to the world, for a second of no longer being a nobody.

Taunting her with the memory of Luther rightfully squeezing the air from her lungs, when he should have waited for her heart to stop. As much as it burned, and hurt, at the moment, feeling as if the life was draining from her body, there had never been as much bliss that Vanya felt in her entire life than when she thought that the pain would stop. For good.

Reminding her as she looked at Other Ben, that it was her fault. It was always her fault. Every time. Because she wasn’t enough. She was never enough.

Ceaselessly filling her mind with images of accidentally slashing Allison’s throat, watching her sister bleed out on the floor, every time she glanced at her sister. Memories of hearing Allison and Klaus talking, and laughing, without her, as they did each other’s hair and nails. Bonding. Not needing, or wanting, their stupid ordinary sister hanging around. Never wanting her to be around. And still don’t.

Reliving every single time she had thought about how lucky Klaus was to have powers, ignoring all his complaints about the terrors that filled every waking moment and that clawed their ways into his dreams, because he had powers. He should be grateful to not be ordinary like she’d been. But, he didn’t end the world twice. Or kill his siblings.

Telling her that she was the reason Five was still in a teenage body. The reason that he suffered, for 45 years. Alone. Forced to join Them. Because of Her.

Hissing for her to stop Reginald’s heart again. To finally get revenge. For the imprisonment. The pills. The lies. The loneliness. The exile. The pain. The suffering. The hatred. The self-hatred.

But she couldn’t and never would.

For she was too much of a coward. Of a weakling. Too desperate for the attention. Or affection. The acknowledgment. To do anything to ruin it. But she already had.

She always did.

Always ruining everything. Because she never fit in. Never belonged. Not with Hargreeves. Not with her mother. Not with Leon- Harold, or with Sissy. Nowhere, with no one. Never had. Once had. Never will. Not again. As she was never meant to exist.

There was rain. Practically pouring around her.

She hadn’t noticed.

Too wrapped up in her own shit again to realize there was a world outside of her mind. Being selfish and self-centered again. Typical Vanya. Typical Number Seven. She hadn’t noticed the sky’s shift from partly sunny to being dark, cold rain pouring down. There was a reason she’d been given the lowest number. And it was very simple, she was the worst, at everything. 

She should probably move, stop sitting on the bench she hadn’t felt herself sit at in the first place, move somewhere dry, and safe. She didn’t deserve to be safe, not after what she’s done. What she could do. Maybe, if she sits in the freezing rain for long enough, sitting in her thoroughly soaked and now cold clothes, she will simply, die. As she’s meant to. Or, perhaps God, the little girl in the sky, will strike her down where she sits. Putting everyone out of their misery by removing her from existence.

She’s too much of a coward to do it herself.

She’s tried.

She’s tired. Too tired.

“Vanya?” Who was that? She felt like she’s supposed to remember this voice. “What the fuck are you doing? Are you an idiot?” The voice, attached to a boy. Five. Except, he wasn’t a boy. He looked older. Older than she could ever remember. He was pulling her from the bench, and in a flash, a flash of blue, she, they, were out of the rain. In some building. There was no one with them, only boxes. It was kind of dark. There were fingers in front of her face. Snapping. They were Five’s. “Vanya? You with me?”

Vanya nodded.

“What’s going on with you? I looked for you everywhere.” Five, he didn’t sound upset, or angry, like Vanya expected. He just sounded, “Are you okay?” concerned.

Vanya nodded. Again. Adding, “I’m fine. Sorry.”

He gave her a look. It wasn’t one she liked. But, it wasn’t a mean one either. Not like the one Five from the Brain Dinner had. “What are you sorry for? Just don’t wander off without me next time.”

“I’m sorry.” Vanya said, head dropping, eyes trained on the floor, feeling like she did every time she disappointed anyone, but especially their father, filled with shame, “Sorry for everything.”

There was silence. Vanya hated the silence, more that she hated It. The silence, left her alone with It.

“Vanya?” Five. There was a hand on her wrist, rain wasn’t hitting the metal roof anymore. “It’s okay.”

“How can it be okay? I did, horrible things.” Vanya asked, wishing she had the strength to pulled her wrist from Five’s grasp. But she simply didn’t.

Five took a hold of her other wrist. “If it makes anything better, I forgive you.” Her eyes met his. “I never blamed you, but I still forgive you.” Vanya gave him a weak smile, his forgiveness easing the weight on her chest and quieted Its voice for a bit. Five’s hands slid from her wrists to her shoulders, “Vanya.”

“Five.”

“There’s something very important that I need to tell you Vanya.” Five said, waiting for some confirmation from her, and when Vanya gave him a shy nod, Five told her. “I love you Vanya Hargreeves.”

Vanya knew that her face was completely flushed, feeling the heat spreading across her skin. Needless to say, that hadn’t been what she’d expected him to say. But, regardless, she told him that, “I love you too, Five Hargreeves.”

And just like that. Everything clicked. She fit. Vanya was home.

[inspirationdivine]

Ruthless || Lydia and Ariana

Timing: Now Parties: @letsbenditlikebennett @inspirationdivine Summary: Ariana confronts Lydia Warnings: domestic abuse discussion, reference to gun use

The only thing stronger than the crushing guilt was the fiery anger that seemed to roar anytime Ariana dared to think of Lydia. Every ounce of common sense she had was telling her this was a terrible idea, but she didn’t care. The worst had already happened, what more could Lydia possibly do to hurt her? A large part of her wanted to rip Lydia from limb to limb and make her pay for what she’d done to Ace. The only thing that was remotely holding her back was the promise she’d made to Ace when they first talked about all of this. She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she needed some sort of… Hell, she had no idea what she needed, but she’d figure it out when she got there. There was no sense of caution in her as she marched up Lydia’s driveway and banged loudly on her front door. 

Already, Lydia had construction workers downstairs, filling up the secret tunnel that had apparently been there decades without anyone noticing. Her nightmares had adopted a new quality, with teeth and glowing eyes. The death of Winn Woods was no longer on the news, but it had started haunting her this week and this week alone, thinking about that silver bullet piercing right through him. Wondering whether it had hurt, that split moment. Whether he had been afraid, or lonely. Maybe he had known, maybe he hadn’t, he had thought he could escape his past right until he hadn’t. He hadn’t been born a werewolf, but he had been one all the same. The thoughts went around and around in her head, like a spinning top. She didn’t just think about Winn Woods. 

Mushroom season would peak this year on a full moon. Wasn’t there something ironic in that?Every day, the pollen called on her a little harder, enticing her closer and closer to the local fairy rings. It tickled her skin, bounced her legs. Just yesterday, she’d promise bound three young men to do the macarena until their legs fell off. She was frenetic, and furious. Lydia stared at the email she had been writing for the past two hours listlessly. Jeremiah and Mohammed had quit their security positions as soon as they had smelled what had happened, so two new guards had come in. Pushing the thought away, Lydia tried to return to describing her in-depth paint analysis services, to confirm authenticity. She’d barely written another word when someone banged on the door. Lydia reached for her phone, checking the camera. Ariana, the young werewolf. Her stomach soured as she put on her best, cruelest smile and went to answer. “Ariana, darling, why don’t you come in!” The little girl was a thief after all.

Whatever this was, Ariana didn’t understand it and practically spat out, “Don’t call me darling.” Already, she could feel the hum of a low growl threaten to rise its way up to her throat. Her claws were practically screaming under her skin to come out and spill Lydia’s blood the way she had spilled Ace’s. Only a small part of her could register 

that going in was a bad idea, but she needed Lydia to pay for this. The only one more at blame for what happened to Ace was her and she couldn’t just get away with this. Her arms were crossed over her chest as she huffed out, “Fine.” There was no reluctance as she followed her in. This wasn’t a conversation meant for the neighbors to overhear. There was no holding back the anger that was brewing under the surface and she demanded, “What’d you do with him?” She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know the answer outside of the gun wounds, but her own actions had led to this. She should have just told Athena about Lydia then none of this would have had the chance to happen. 

This explained it, then. Why Ariana had been sneaking about, who had bitten Sammy. All of it made sense now. Which meant they’d been conspiring against her much longer than Lydia had ever realised. She wanted to wring Chloe’s neck for this, for ever even having put them in this situation, but she needed Chloe until at the very least she could secure a full house once more, so the woman would have to stay. For now. Lydia caught O’s eye as she walked past them, tilting her head so that the zombie would follow. It was still close to the full moon, after all. Lydia led the both of them through to her office, where she promptly sat back at her desk, scrutinising the girl. “I won’t be shouted at in my own home,” Lydia said, with a lightness that didn’t match the situation, as if they were arguing about where Lydia left her bins, rather than murder. Killing a human, Lydia quickly corrected herself. “I think the question is rather, what did you do to him?” 

“I’m hardly shouting at you,” Ariana huffed with her arms crossed squarely over her chest. This wasn’t even close to loud for her. Lydia didn’t want to see loud or stare down the face of a transformed wolf. Every instinct in her wanted to just rip her to shreds, but that wasn’t the way to go about this. She rolled her eyes at the fae’s question. “Seriously? What did I do to him? You kept him in your basement and murdered him and you’re asking what I did to him?” How could she possibly be thinking what Ari had done to him was wrong? He wanted to be a wolf. He wanted a life outside her fucking basement. She’d been trying to help him when all Lydia wanted to do was keep her meals around for far too fucking long. Her blood was boiling under her skin and she answered, “I bit him because he was my friend and he wanted me to.”  

What a petulant child. It was the only thought Lydia could muster inside her, all that rage and betrayal fizzing right under her skin. Lydia had been deprived here more than anyone else, and this girl was rolling her eyes at her?Lydia tapped her acrylic nails against the mahogany desk impatiently. That Ariana was a werewolf at all was the only reason she received even a modicum of Lydia’s patience, although it was already wearing thin. “What, exactly, did you think would happen after?” Lydia asked quietly. “What was your grand plan? Did you expect me to starve myself after you removed my sustenance? Did you think he would stay with you once he’d used you to escape? I’m ever so curious.” 

The question Lydia asked next felt like a dagger sinking into her gut. What did Ariana think would happen? The guilt of that question had tormented her for days now and she still didn’t have an answer, but she refused to let Lydia see her cry. To give her any indication that she’d get the upper hand here. She wouldn’t. She’d pay for this somehow even if she had to go down the route of getting Athena involved. “That you wouldn’t eat or kill a werewolf and that oh, I don’t know, he was of course welcome to stay with me. I could introduce you to someone new if I had to,” she grumbled with her fists clenched at her side, “I’m sure as shit not giving you her name now though.” That much was true though the implication that she ever would had been stretching the truth. She had only spoken to Kelly a handful of times since that open mic night, but she still knew she’d feel like shit if she were to send her to her death. “I find it really hard to believe you have to keep your food long term hostage in your home instead of I don’t know, just eating them and being done with it. Seems kind of excessive to play with your food.” 

Lydia glared at her. She hadn’t killed a werewolf. He’d had the bite, it meant nothing, as little as killing someone bitten by a zombie. He hadn’t yet turned. He’d been a threat, he’d- Lydia wasn’t letting this rug rat get to her. “If you had asked for a trade, we wouldn’t be in this situation, my dear. I’m not unreasonable.” Now it was Lydia’s turn to roll her eyes.  “That isn’t how it works, sweet pea. You’re all the same, lecturing me on my diet without any understanding of it. You couldn’t eat an elephant all at once, could you? And yet once you start, well, the elephant is fucked.” Lydia pursed her lips, her false smile an icy sneer. “I hardly have to justify myself to you, do I? I have no doubt you’ve already cast me as an irredeemable villain, simply for having a different diet to yours. Then again, perhaps you have never accidentally snacked on a hiker, so you have all the moral high ground.”

Ariana felt her breath catch in her throat again. She’d wanted so badly for there to be another way that she let herself believe her half-assed plan could work. That there would be an answer to this where no one else got hurt. Who the hell was she to think she could accomplish something like that? Celeste hadn’t been able to and Celeste had been way smarter than she’d ever be. Her lungs felt like they were on fire, but she refused to falter. Not here. Not now. Not in front of her. “Right, because you were so receptive when I showed up here before and not at all full of it,” she remarked. Lashing out felt better than admitting Lydia was right. She should have just brought Kelly here or worse. Athena was still sitting in the second spot on her speed dial. “Don’t call me that,” she spat, “I’m not-- I don’t care that you have to eat people to live. That’s hardly your fault. You just don’t have to be all Silence of the fucking Lambs about it. And no, actually, I haven’t accidentally snacked on a hiker. I’m careful about that shit. I mean… I ate the hunter that killed my sister, but that was on purpose and not the point.” The last part slipped out and she internally groaned. This wasn’t going well, but what did she think would happen? They weren’t alone here and she doubted she could just rip Lydia apart like she so badly wanted to do. 

“You mean when you were trespassing on my property? You weren’t there to bargain, girl, you were there to spy. I should never have been so gentle in the first place,” Lydia retorted sceptically. “Don’t lie. It’s bad enough you’ve caused this mess, don’t make it worse.” Which would sting to hear, wouldn’t it? If Ariana hadn’t interfered, Sammy would be happy. He was content here. As he had told Lydia all the time, what he felt was more than just devotion. She had been his world, and everything had been better that way. “Silence of the lambs?” Lydia scoffed, crossing her arms. “That is a tad dramatic, don’t you think? That said, I’m ever so young for a fae. I’m fascinated to hear what a child has to advise me about how to best prepare my meals.” I’m careful about that shit. Some individuals were so proud of how little danger they were to humans. As if they were living their lives ready to defend themselves to the courts of a Hunter’s ego. It was a great, pathetic source of pride for Ariana, clearly. There was a cheap shot to make there, lined up so well that Lydia opened her mouth to make it searingly, before thinking better of herself. Fury didn’t need to make her cruel. “I am sorry about your sister. I do know what that feels like.”

“Fine, I was spying which was how I figured out what kind of fae you were and went to that stupid open mic night in the first place,” Ariana said as she crossed her arms over her chest for what felt like the millionth time. Why was she here? What was this possibly going to accomplish? This had been another bad idea in her long series of dumbass decisions. Then all of a sudden she couldn’t tell who she was more angry at-- Lydia or herself. “I may have bitten him, but you didn’t have to shoot him,” she retorted though she still felt her stomach doing flips inside of her as she did. She should have gotten better help. She should have done literally anything else, but Lydia could have also just chosen not to kill him, too. “Uh, not really. I don’t know, think you’re old enough to figure out how to find a less serial killer Netflix documentary way of preparing your dinner, Vicky.” Her words were sharp, especially as she emphasized the name she’d found on Lydia’s subreddit. She shifted uncomfortably as Lydia apologized about her sister. It felt all wrong. “Oh,” she started, unsure if this was a trick or something, “No one should have to know what that feels like.” Had Lydia’s sister been as terrible as she was? “That doesn’t make this better. Did you at least bury him or do something?” 

“He would never have survived as a wolf. He didn’t have the constitution for it. He wouldn’t have been happy as one, and he would have grown to resent you in the end. His family are hunters, after all,” Lydia replied, her words as barbed as icicles where Ariana had struck a nerve, “Do you really think he would have been happy, long term, when he spent his whole life learning how wrong we were. All you offered was a flightful fantasy, enough for the moment and no more.” She raised her eyebrows at the reference to a different name. It should be mildly concerning that Ariana had found it, or had even bother to in the first place, but it was laughable the way the girl threw it as an insult when it had been a name Lydia had chosen for herself. The tone sombered, dead siblings lingering in the air. “I took care of his body.”

Her resolve struggled as Lydia threw the very fears she had this entire time right back in her face. Even if Ariana had managed to save him, what if Alcher and Lydia were both right and he just ended up hating her for it? He probably hated her now too and the realization made her feel sick. “You don’t know that,” she responded weakly, not even believing herself at this point. What was she supposed to do now? Her heart felt ready to burst and it was becoming harder to breathe again. No, she wasn’t doing this here. She did her best to maintain a half-assed glare that likely didn’t do much to convince Lydia that she was mad at anyone but herself. “You took care of it,” Her breath hitched in her throat for what felt like the millionth time and she swallowed it back down, “How?” 

“I know him better than you ever would have,” Lydia replied with a poignant shrug. “You could only have met him a handful of times. I felt everything he felt, for more than a year. How could you possibly compare?” Misguided and terrible as this all was, Lydia did feel for the young wolf, naive and deflating under the weight of her actions. Of course, Lydia would have to take precautions, she was still infuriated, but she did feel a twinge of guilt at tearing a child down so effortlessly. Then she remembered that Chloe was refusing to speak because of the situation Ariana had caused, and her mood soured all over. “Why? Do you want to pay your respects?” 

Another surge of anger went through her as Lydia spoke. She didn’t know Ace better, not when she was influencing his emotions and actions. Then again, didn’t Ariana only know the version of him that had been under Lydia’s direction? Suddenly, she felt deflated again. “Yeah, fine. You knew him so well and still,” her voice cracked as she spoke and her mouth felt entirely too dry, “Maybe not as well, but I knew and cared about him, okay? I didn’t-- I just wanted… Fuck.” She could feel her heart thudding heavily against her chest and her clenched fist ready to crash into the next thing she saw. She needed to breathe. She needed to keep control of herself. There were other people here that she didn’t want to hurt. Hell, she didn’t want to hurt Lydia either. Not really as much as she envisioned how good it would feel to rip her to shreds. Her next question drew her out of the rabbit hole she was letting herself fall into. “I-- would you let me?” She asked even though she was almost sure of the answer. 

“You were just spoiled. You tried to take something that wasn’t yours, you don’t get to cry now you broke it. I’m sure you cared, but you were selfish,” Lydia replied harshly, cocking her head back to sneer at Ariana down her nose, looking down on the girl even though she was the one sitting, not Ariana. Lydia sighed, brushing invisible crumbs from her skirt, brushing the entire affair away. Ariana already knew what her answer would be. So that Lydia could let the girl lead someone to incriminating evidence. If she was so soft on a human to deliberately bite him, she would be soft on the wrong kinds of humans too. “I wish things were different, Ariana. I had no desire to take a human you liked away from you. If you wanted to make him your pet so badly, all you had to do was make the trade. I’m already taking more risks than I can afford just trying to pacify you.”

Ariana knew it wouldn’t matter to her that a person couldn’t belong to anyone but themselves. Nothing she said or did mattered anymore. Ace was already dead. Lydia already knew it was her who bit him in the first place. She grumbled, “Yeah, whatever you say Lydia. I don’t know why I bothered coming to talk to you about this.” She’d been so heated, she’d needed some kind of answer, but what she found only confirmed what she already knew. Her actions had essentially sped up the timeline for Ace’s inevitable death. The familiar feeling of lead in her lungs was catching back up to her. The air in here felt too thick and she needed out. “He’s not a-- you know, whatever fine. I don’t see why it’s a risk, but I shouldn’t have even bothered coming here.” 

“I hope you got what you were looking for.” Lydia replied. All of that righteous passion extinguished. Lydia almost felt bad. The girl was friends with Deirdre, perhaps she might find some solace there. Deirdre was good at being kind. Although that would be inconvenient, bringing Morgan into this all too. Morgan was far too human to understand this either, and unlike the welp in front of her, Lydia cared what Morgan thought. “Hmmm, perhaps not, but you have saved me some work in coming, however much trouble you’ve caused.” Lydia narrowed her eyes, sitting forward. Under her desk, her legs jittered. The spores were thick in the air today. “I see that we still don’t see eye to eye. Oh, sweet Ariana, you’ve forgotten you owe me a gratitude.”

Ariana hadn’t been sure what she was looking for, but this certainly wasn’t it. She’d already known Ace was dead. She’d heard the gunshot and smelled his blood. It wasn’t as if Lydia was going to provide any insightful answers or let her properly say goodbye. So she bit her tongue and said nothing. It seemed only now she was reminded of just how dangerous Lydia could be. Athena and Kaden had both warned her of this yet she still stomped over here fueled by grief and rage without any sort of a plan. She felt defeated, but a small spark in her still fired back. “Oh yes, I’m so glad I could save you some work,” she said sarcastically even though her glare was softer now. She’d been ready to walk out the door when she froze. A gratitude was owed. She remembered Kaden mentioning “thank you” could be a dangerous thing to say to a fae, but it had already been too late and she’d been hopeful it hadn’t been something Lydia was actually able to turn into a promise. Her heart felt as is if it was caught in her throat as she looked to Lydia. “What do you want?” 

“For you to get off your moral high horse. For you to pay the price for what you made me do. The danger you put me in.” Lydia paused, her eyes flicking off into the distance as a small smile curled her lips. “You know what? I have had the most amazing idea. It’s ever so fitting. Let the punishment fit the crime, and all that. If you’re so eager to dilute your species by making humans into werewolves, then you should do that. Spend the next full moon in the Common. Or at the very least, start it there. Of course, I expect you not to talk about this situation with anyone.” Lydia shrugged, spinning her chair back and forth, and as another idea struck her, her smile grew. “If you like, once you’ve secured a few humans to fill Sammy’s place in your life, we can talk again, settle our differences and all that.” If they ever got to that. It was the kind of thing that would change Ariana the same way eating her own mother had changed Lydia. She would understand just how cheap human lives were once she’d had a taste of her own. And if she didn’t? That guilt eating her up right now would only magnify, suffocating her until she left, unable to cope. Lydia was fine with both of those options, honestly.

“I didn’t make you do anything,” Ariana snarled as she took a few steps back. She already hated where this was going. Lydia wanted to punish her on top of killing Ace. Seriously? Was she not already struggling enough? Horror crossed her face as Lydia continued. Did she really have to do this? She supposed she wouldn’t really be able to test the waters until then, but she already felt sick. There was no way she could shift in the Common under the full moon and maintain her control. Outside of the moon was one albeit still very difficult thing, but during. Shit. Then she was mentioning settling differences once someone filled Sammy’s place in her life? Something struck her with hearing his name for the first time and so cruelly from her lips. She wanted to rip into her and make all of her promises fucking meaningless, but something was pulling her back. It’d be so easy, to just shift right here and have this be done with, but she couldn’t. Instead, she let her anger simmer inside her and decided she needed to leave before she caused even more damage. “Oh, fuck you,” she said with a newfound ferocity before storming out of the place. She was sure to slam the door behind her, hopefully hard enough to cause some sort of damage. 

[hogwarts-riddle]

Eternalism: Chapter II

The trip back to Gryffindor Tower was just as rushed as the trip from. Hermione couldn’t help but glance back every now and then, halfway convinced that death eaters were going to appear out of nowhere. Deep down, she knew that she was most likely being paranoid as there had yet to be any real signs that the school was under attack. The warning bell would have surely gone off if it was.

While Professor Slughorn hurried her off to the Hospital Wing, which was where they had decided to prepare to send her off, Professor McGonagall went off to fetch Harry and Ron as per her request. She wasn’t about to leave them behind without at least saying goodbye.

If she was going to leave this time behind to correct Dumbledore’s mistake and save the world, she wanted to at least say goodbye to her best friends. Dumbledore had said it himself. She wouldn’t be coming back. And if, by some chance she did get to see them again, she would likely be old and grey.

Madam Pomfrey was waiting for them when they got there, looking rather worn and tired. It was almost as if the medi-witch had aged ten years since the last time she saw her. Clearly she too was suffering under the effects of the school’s lock-down.

“Is everything ready?” Pomfrey asked.

Slughorn nodded. “Minerva will be arriving soon with the time turner. She just went to collect a few things for Miss Granger.”

The nurse nodded her head, casting a sympathetic look at Hermione before moving past them into her office.

As Slughorn escorted her over to sit down on one of the beds, Hermione couldn’t help but note how his usually big rosy cheeks had lost all color, and how his eyes held a slightly haunted look to them. He was worried, and she honestly couldn’t blame him.

“You, my girl, might just be one of the bravest student’s I’ve ever known,” Slughorn broke the silence that had washed over them. “I don’t know many who would have been willing to take on such a task as this.”

She managed to give him a weak smile. Despite his propensity to show favoritism, she couldn’t say that he was a bad man. He certainly made a better Potions Master than Snape. Unlike Snape, he actually cared about the well being of his students.

“Do you really think I can do this? Do you think I can save Vol- er, Tom?”

Professor Slughorn got a far off look in his eyes, as if remembering something from a long time ago. No doubt it had something to do with Tom.

“I believe that there is hope for him, especially with you in his life,” he explained. “Tom never had any real friends. Those he surrounded himself with were only there because he was powerful and charismatic. He was good at getting what he wanted and they knew that.

“It might not be easy, but if anyone can save him, I reckon it’s you.”

She thought about her potions master and how he must feel. This was one of his favorite students, or so she had been told, that she was going back to try and save. And if it worked out as she hoped it would, she might be able to save Harry’s mother, Lily, as well. He too was counting on her to succeed.

“I’ll do my best for all our sake's, sir.”

He smiled over at her appreciatively.

They sat there, returning to a comfortable silence as they waited.

Just then, the door slammed open and in came Harry and Ron, followed shortly after by McGonagall. Scanning the room quickly, it didn’t take long for their eyes to find her and hurry towards her.

“Hermione!”

“Please tell us it’s not true,” Ron pleaded.

“Read for yourself,” Hermione told them, handing them the scroll.

The boys read through Dumbledore’s last words with increasingly widening eyes. By the time they were finished, they both looked as though they were ready to resurrect Dumbledore just to kill him again with their bare hands.

“He’s mad if he thought for one second that we were gonna let you go off and do this on your own,” Harry declared, his fists curling up into fists.

“I mean, it’s Voldemort for Merlin’s sake!” Ron exclaimed. “He’ll rip you to pieces as soon as he finds out you’re muggle-born!”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off before she could do so.

“How dare you dishonor Dumbledore’s noble sacrifice!” McGonagall snapped. “His greatest concern was the well-being and safety of everyone in this school! I highly doubt he would ask this if he thought we had any other choice.”

As much as Hermione wanted to take sides with McGonagall in defending the late headmaster, she found herself unable to do so. After everything that Dumbledore had put her and her friends through over the last six years, all for the so-called greater good, she couldn’t help but doubt the nobility of his actions.

“Come on Mione, surely you can see how dangerous this task is?”

She nodded her head. “I know exactly what it is he’s asking of me, and honestly, had it been just for his sake, I probably would have refused it, but think of all the good I could do if I succeed. All the lives I could save.”

She forced herself to look away, fearing that she might change her mind if she looked at their faces for even a minute longer.

“I’ve always wanted to make a difference, to make the wizarding world a better place for everyone. This is my chance to do that. Please, let me take the burden of saving the world off your shoulders for once, Harry.”

She waited for one of them to continue arguing with her, to make another excuse as to why she shouldn’t go. Moments passed yet no one spoke. She lifted her head back up just in time to see Harry step forward and pull her into a tight hug.

“You truly are the best friend I have ever had.”

Tears welled up in her eyes as she hugged him back. It definitely made it a bit harder to go, knowing that she might never see him again, yet at the same time it also gave her a new source of determination. She had to go, not because anyone was forcing her to, but because people like Harry deserved more than what life in this broken war-torn world had given them.

Pulling away, he reached out to wipe away her tears with his fingers before he stepped back to Ron’s side.

“I’m going to miss you Hermione,” he said with a sad smile.

Meanwhile, Ron was staring at the two of them as if they were speaking some sort of foreign language. “Are you serious? You’re just going to let her go?”

He nodded his head, “It’s her choice.”

She couldn’t fight the tears that continued to come. “Thank you for understanding.”

With that out of the way, preparations for her journey began.

While McGonagall filled everyone in on what was going on outside of the castle and the death eaters that had been spotted marching towards the school, Madam Pomfrey returned from her office with a set of vintage looking children’s clothes and a letter, setting them down on the bed beside Hermione. Slughorn pulled out a vial filled with what looked like murky green water from the lake, handing it to her.

It was then that McGonagall stepped forward to explain the plan.

“The potion before you is something of an aging potion, rather with the opposite effect. With this potion, you will be aged back down to that of a child, around the age of ten we’re thinking.”

“Why would you turn her back into a child?” Ron interrupted. “Wouldn’t it be easier to save the world as she is?”

McGonagall glared at the red-headed boy, causing him to shrink back.

“I assure you, Mr. Weasley, we are doing this for a reason,” she told him before turning to face Hermione again, reaching into her pocket and holding up the silver time turner. “For you see, this time turner is set to place you just outside of Wool’s Orphanage in London on the date of June 15th, 1937.”

Hermione’s eyes widened as the realization dawned on her as to what they were planning. “You want me to meet Tom Riddle before he comes to Hogwarts?” she assumed.

McGonagall and Slughorn nodded their heads.

“The potion has been charmed to be more permanent, making it so that you will age alongside him,” Slughorn added.

She had to admit that it wasn’t a bad plan. The idea of meeting a child version of Voldemort was a lot less intimidating than meeting him as a sixteen-year-old, who had probably already made at least two horcruxes. Though, she couldn’t say that she was particularly eager to go through puberty a second time.

McGonagall explained a bit more. Once at Hogwarts, she was to try and remain as close to Tom as possible in the hopes that her friendship might be enough to lead him down a different path, hopefully a better one.

“Let’s get on with it then.”

Shooing the men away from the bed, Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall put up dividers all around her bed as they urged her to undress before taking the potion. As grateful as she was for the dividers, she still felt rather embarrassed about stripping naked in front of the medi-witch and transfiguration professor. Though, she supposed that she had no real reason to be.

“I warn you, the transformation might hurt a bit,” Pomfrey warned her as she handed her the vial.

Shutting her eyes tight and pinching her nose, she brought the vial up to her lips and downed the murky liquid as fast as she could, willing herself not to think about it or the fact that it tasted vaguely like seaweed. After a few moments, she managed to swallow it down.

Madam Pomfrey plucked the vial from her grasp. “Brace yourself!”

No sooner had the medi-witch spoken, then she felt herself begin to change. Pain shot through her whole body, forcing her to collapse back onto the bed. Her bones felt as though they were slowly breaking apart one by one. Her skin felt as if it was on fire, melting clean off of her.

As her brain became overwhelmed by panic, she couldn’t think of anything to compare the sensation to. Only that it was ten times worse than the time she accidentally turned herself into a cat.

In her agony, she couldn’t help the scream that tore out of her lungs.

“Hermione!”

The two older witches had to hold her down as she thrashed about, clawing at her skin. They tried to comfort her as best they could, reassuring her that it would be over soon and apologizing for making her go through this in the first place.

Gradually the pain began to dullen to a manageable ache. Flooded by relief, she began to breathe deeply in and out to calm herself.

“It’s over now.” She felt the older witches release their hold on her.

She delayed in doing so for a few moments as she waited for the pain to pass completely, a feeling of numbness taking its place. Pulling herself up into a sitting position, she slowly opened her eyes, starting with one and then the other.

The first thing she noticed was that both McGonagall and Pomfrey seemed to have grown. She was about to question it when she remembered the reason for the pain. Her eyes snapped down to look herself over.

To say that it was weird seeing her body reverted back to that of a child was… weird, to say the least. Her legs were short and not as slim as they were, same with her arms. The weirdest part was probably the fact that her breasts were gone. They had never been that big to begin with, but it was a bit frustrating as she had been just starting to get over her body insecurities.

Opening her mouth, she could feel that her two front teeth were back to being several sizes bigger than they ought to be. “I don't suppose you could…”

Madam Pomfrey nodded her head, understanding immediately what she meant. With a wave of her wand, she cast a shrinking spell on her teeth. It felt a bit weird, but not nearly as bad as the de-aging process itself. The next time she reached in to touch her teeth, she could feel that they were back to being the same size as all the others.

“Thank you,” she gave the medi-witch a small smile.

With a sigh, she got up and started to change into the child sized clothes she had been provided with; a pair of simple black buckle shoes, a pair of white socks and a floral print dress with a sash fastened around the waist and a bit of lace trim around the collar and sleeves.

Then McGonagall took on the seemingly impossible task of styling her hair. With some time and no small amount of effort, McGonagall managed to tame her wild curls, tying it back with a ribbon to keep it out of her face.

By the time she was handed a mirror to look herself over, she barely recognized herself. She looked like one of the old dolls she had as a child, which she supposed wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. The goal was to make her fit in with the time period, and as far as she could see, they had done a good job.

Pleased with her appearance, the dividers were pulled away, revealing her new appearance to the men waiting on the other side.

Slughorn smiled at her, nodding his head in approval while Harry and Ron just stood there staring at her with their mouths gaping open.

“Bloody hell…” Ron muttered.

She rolled her eyes at them. “It’s not polite to stare, you know.”

It took them a few moments to recover and shut their mouths, and even longer to find their tongue’s.

“You look great, Mione.”

Her cheeks flushed pink at Harry’s compliment. Even she had to admit that she wasn’t completely hideous. Although, it still felt rather weird for them to look so much taller and more grown up than her.

“Now, we shall go over the cover story we have come up with for you,” McGonagall said, carefully slipping the time turner around Hermione’s small neck. It was a bit big on her child sized body, but she didn’t worry about it too much. “Your name is still to be Hermione Granger and you are a muggle-born whose parents have recently died in a car accident. With no other family to take you in, your neighbours brought you to the orphanage and gave you this note to give to the Matron.”

Madam Pomfrey held the letter out to Hermione.

Reaching out, she took the letter and turned it over in her hands to examine it. It was written in an elegant spidery handwriting that she didn’t recognize. She assumed that it was Madam Pomfrey’s.

“Is that agreeable to you?”

Hermione nodded her head. It was simple enough, without deviating too far from the truth.

“You will not have your wand with you, so I would advise that you head straight towards the Orphanage upon your arrival, but before you do so, we must ask that you destroy the time turner. No one must know the truth of how you came to be in that time. From this moment forward you belong to that time. The future you come from will be no more.”

She gulped at that piece of information. Deep down she had known that would be the case all along, but now that she was hearing the exact words coming from McGonagall’s mouth, she couldn’t help but be hit by the full reality of it. This was not just some dream that she would be able to wake up from and find herself safe in the Gryffindor Tower with Harry and Ron. This was all too real.

Still, she was determined to go through with it. She had come too far to chicken out now. There was no turning back.

“I understand.”

Everyone stepped back to give her space as she took one last look at those with her.

She wasn’t sure if Madam Pomfrey or Professor McGonagall would still be at Hogwarts the next time she entered it’s gates. The only one whose presence she knew for certain was Professor Slughorn, and of course, Dumbledore would be there as well. It wasn’t much, but it gave her a small amount of comfort to know that there would be a couple of familiar faces.

Then she turned to Harry and Ron, taking in every inch of their appearance as if to memorize what they looked like. They had been through a lot together and though she wouldn’t wish such dangers on anyone, she had to admit that it had created an unbreakable bond between the three of them. She would always remember how they risked their lives to save her from that Mountain Troll in first year and though she might never see them again, she vowed to keep them alive in her heart.

“I’ll miss you all… so much.”

With nothing left to do, she reached down and started the time turner, watching as it began to turn rapidly.

The world around her vanished into nothing as she felt herself being sucked into a void of nothing but empty blackness. It felt kind of like apparating and yet, at the same time it also felt kind of like that time when she had port-keyed to the Quidditch World Cup. Either way, it made her feel like she was going to throw up.

She was left floating in the empty void for what felt like an eternity before she felt herself being sucked back out and she soon felt her feet land once more on solid ground.

The next thing she knew, she was standing at the end of a darkened city street, a row of identical looking Victorian townhouses on either side of her, and standing straight ahead at the other end of the street was a tall imposing building with a sign above the gates that read ‘Wool’s Orphanage’.

She had made it…

[aquaticalay]

Centurion .Chapter Nine.

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Sequel to For Something Greater

Summary: (Y/n) is an active duty Navy SEAL Commander, the first and only woman to ever become a SEAL. After successfully stopping a genocide with the help of the Avengers, she becomes a bridge between the military and the earth's mightiest heroes. But even as her relationship with Bucky grows, she decides not to tell him about the nightmares and trauma that haunt her. Both their secrets begin to unravel when Bucky accidentally stumbles upon a piece of dangerous information about (Y/n) that she must never find out about.

Genre: Action, Drama, Romance

Warning/s for the series: cursing, violence, death, eventual smut, PTSD

Warning/s for the chapter: violence, a little blood

Word count: 2.6k

Note: The plot is heavily inspired by the song 'in the dark' by Bring Me The Horizon, and 'Mercy' by Muse. So yeah, go listen to it if you want to :)))  I'll post a new chapter every two days.

Let me know if you want to be in the taglist!

(Taglist will be reblogged)

THIS IS A SEQUEL TO 'FOR SOMETHING GREATER.' IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THAT, THE MASTERLIST IS IN MY BIO.

TRIGGER WARNING! THIS SERIES REVOLVES AROUND POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER. (Including, but not limited to: anxiety/panic attacks, extreme mood swings , nightmares, intrusive thoughts, insomnia, irritability, hypervigilance, and hyperarousal)

When Bucky told to you go to the second floor, you did not complain. You did as you were told. This lab that belonged to the Winter Soldier’s former handler, after all. You trust that he knows better than you did on this one.

You ascended up the flight of stairs, every step seemingly colder than the one before. Upstairs wasn’t much different from what you saw at the lower level. Stainless steel equipments and pyrex test tubes covered in translucent white cloth decorated the tables. The windows were boarded up so not much light was allowed in. The only things there that were not downstairs were two big empty tubes that extended from a table all the way up to the ceiling, almost like pods. You stop to wonder what those are for, but only for a second.

If the Navy SEAL wanted to come here for a rescue mission, they would come home empty handed. There was nothing important here. Hell, you didn’t even see any signs of life at all. This building was almost falling apart. It must’ve been abandoned for at least half a decade. 

You scanned the room for Sam, or for any signs of Petrov, even under the tables and behind doors, but your effort found no results. 

You sweeped for clues one more time, then two more times just to be sure, but it was the same. You found absolutely nothing. As you were just about to down you hear a tiny squeak from a cupboard on the far corner of the room. The sound was small, but not too small for you. Your enhanced hearing had no problem picking it up. You looked back, eyeing the cupboard.

Stupid! You thought to yourself. How could you now have checked there before?

The cupboard was tall and wide enough to hide a human body. If Sam was anywhere in this rusting lab, he’d be there. 

“Sam?” You whispered loudly, pointing your flashlight and walking towards the slightly opened cupboard. Your eyebrows furrowed when the door that was open slowly shut closed. Someone was inside.

Was someone hiding?

You tried to open the door, but it felt like someone was holding it back. 

Flashlight in hand, you took a deep breath before ripping the door open with your full strength, trying to catch whoever was hiding inside by surprise.

Inside the cupboard was a hooded figure, a black bandana covering half of their face. With an advantage, you grabbed their neck before they could get a hold of their gun.

You hit your flashlight to their head to cause a concussion, but they anticipated your move and blocked your hit with their forearm.

The flashlight slipped off your hand and in front of your feet. Thinking quickly, you kicked the flashlight away. With your super soldier sight, you were able to see the outline of the hooded figure clearly under the slight glow to the moon shine that slipped into the small gaps of the covered window, but the hooded figure, if they were human, would not have the same advantage. They would only see shadows, which means they’d be left in the near complete dark.

You kicked the gut of the hooded figure, but before you could press your feet to their chest, they scrambled up and got hold of their gun.

Your eyes widened when they started shooting blindly. A bullet ricocheted off a bulletproof steel surface and through one of the pods, and another went straight out the window. 

You saw the outline of their arm and grabbed their wrist, kneeing their stomach, making them cough.

You forced the gun out of their hand, and you felt the figure’s fist hit your cheekbones harshly, then smash a short metal pole on your head. You felt a good amount of blood trickle from your forehead and into your mouth. The red liquid tasted metallic. You were dizzy because of the impact, the room spinning from your view as you try to grasp reality. The figure took advantage of your disorientation and put you in a chokehold between their arm.

“(Y/n)!” Bucky called, his voice coming from downstairs, accompanied by fast and loud footsteps heading up. He must’ve heard the gunshots.

“(Y/n)?” Said the figure, their distraught voice muffled under the bandana mask. Feeling their grip loosen, claw your way out, yanking their hand violently away from your throat, slightly rolling forward, forcing the figure's back to hit the floor. The figure groaned in pain.

You quickly stood and grabbed your gun, pointing it to the figure just as Bucky arrived. He pointed his flashlight at the same direction. “You okay, doll?” He breathed out heavily.

“M’fine,” you managed to say, wiping the blood from the side of your head. "Stand up, hands in the air!" you shouted to the figure, and they complied.

The figure froze, hands on the sides of their head. Something was familiar about them. What was it?

“Who are you?” Bucky demanded. You narrowed your eyes. “Wait,” you said.

The figure pulled their bandana mask down. Her small eyes, long nose, and thin lips were clearer now, as well as the diamond face she had.

Wait a minute. It was… Naomi Tanaka. What was she doing here?”

“Naomi?” You asked, coming closer. There was a trace of blood on the corners of her mouth, probably because of you. “Yeah,” she answered, pulling down her hood to reveal her medium raven black hair, “It’s me.”

Bucky tilted his head inquisitively, as if asking whether or not you really know this person. You nod approvingly, sheathing back your gun in your holster.

You moved closer to her, shook her hand and hugged her, “Don’t do that again, okay?” You managed to let out a chuckle, and she mirrored your gestures. “Then don’t punch me first, sister,” She said to you, the endearing term was one she had used on you since bootcamp, one you had particularly missed. 

It was hard to believe the two of you nearly killed each other blindly.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, pulling away from her embrace. She shook her head, “I could ask the same to the two of you.”

You raised an eyebrow slightly, “You came here against orders, too?”

She nodded, “I won’t tell if you don’t,” she told you, “A favor for a favor.”

A small smile curled on your mouth, “Fair enough.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” Bucky quipped, his posture easing. Naomi held out a hand for Bucky to shake. “Naomi Tanaka,” she introduced herself, “I met (Y/n) in the Navy bootcamp. Now I work for SOCOM.”

“Right,” Bucky said, “I’m Bucky Barnes.”

Tanaka gave the lightest laugh, “I know that, but I didn’t know the two of you were…” her gaze averted between the two of you, and she didn’t have to finish her sentence for you to know what she meant. She probably heard him call you ‘doll,’ and that’s how she knew. 

“Yeah, it’s like that,” you shrugged, trying to change the topic. “What are you here for?” You asked.

“Project Mercy,” she said shortly and without thinking. you knew she was telling the truth. She didn’t have to lie to you. She trusted you that much. She continued, “There’s something they’re not telling me about the body you brought in from Ukraine. And you? Why are you here?”

You opened your mouth to say that you were looking for the exact same thing, but Bucky’s words were faster. “We’re searching for Sam Wilson,” he told Naomi.

Oh, you realized. He’s protecting the Avengers. Project Mercy was the military’s problems, not the Avenger’s. He doesn’t trust Naomi enough to tell her, and you respected that decision. You nodded at his words.

“He’s not here,” Naomi shook her head confidently, “I checked everywhere. Now if you excuse me—" she walked passed you and descended down the stairs, “-I’m going to search the cabinet files for ‘Mercy.’ 

“Right behind you, sister,” you announced, following her footsteps. Bucky was left upstairs in a state of panic. He froze in his steps.

Bucky had managed to tidy his mess on the filing cabinets, including putting the key back into the cabinet. If Naomi Tanaka find the key and the box, she’s going to know that someone recently took it. The signs were clear, and it all pointed to him. 

They couldn’t know. You couldn’t find out.

He looked around the room, and a medium-sized sack labeled ‘N2H4O3’ caught his eye.

Ammonium Nitrate. A highly explosive chemical, used as an oxidizer.

He grabbed the bag and ripped it open, small salt-like particles pouring out. It was enough to make a decent explosion and start a fire. He spilled it all on the floor.

Now he needed fuel.

He saw a bottle of zinc dust somewhere. He remembered it, and grabbed it from the corner of rack on the middle table, mixing some of the silver zinc power to the ammonium nitrate. He also grabbed ammonium chloride to mix in the pile.

“You okay up there, Buck?” You shouted to him. 

Bucky was trying to move as fast as he could, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. “I’m on my way down,” Bucky lied.

The chemicals aren’t combusting. Not yet, because they’re not mixing properly. They needed a liquid to react.

Water. He needed water.

Bucky grabbed a small glass and filled it with running water from the dirty sink. The water came out slowly, but he only needed a little, at least enough to spark a combustion. He got enough.

He poured the water on the pile of chemicals on the floor, and soon after, it started to sizzle. The water made it easier for the ions to hit each other and start an explosive chemical reaction.

Soon enough, gas filled the room. It would be a matter of seconds before it exploded.

Just as the makeshift chemical pile was about to combust, Bucky started to second guess his actions. Had he made too much?

He ran down the stairs, genuine worry in his voice.

“I accidentally tripped an alarm!” He shouted a convincing lie. By the time he got to you, the smoke did, too. “What?” You tried to process his words, eyes widened when you smelled smoke.

Naomi was about to get to the Mercy file, Bucky’s panicked declaration and the spreading explosive scent stopped her.

“I accidentally tripped an alarm,” he repeated, “I think I triggered a chemical combustion trap!”

Naomi let out a long string of curses, “Let’s get out of here!”

“The file!” You shouted, but Naomi knew that your lives were more important than any sort of information, “We’ll come back for them later!” 

“Let’s go,” Bucky urged, and you nodded. 

You and Bucky headed for the door that lead to the sewers, the door that was your entry point. Tanaka was only a few steps behind you. At you opened the door, a loud boom was heard, and the impact of the explosion pushed you and Bucky tumbling harshly down the stairs. 

You getting up. "Naomi!" You shouted, "where is she?"

"She—," Buck coughed, smoke filling the air. "She was behind us."

Without hesitation, you raced up the stairs, and you saw Tanaka struggling, her feet stuck in the door.

Thee explosion caused the wall of fire to rage in the lab, and a flame was creeping behind her. She had to be freed quickly unless she wanted to be swallowed by the heat.

The door was stuck, but you were able to pry it open with your super soldier strength. 

"Can you walk?" You asked.

"No," she cried, wincing in pain, "My ankle is broken."

You wasted no time and draped her arm over your shoulders. You carried her down, where Bucky was anxiously waiting. When he saw you carrying Tanaka, he helped you by draping her other arm across his own shoulders, and both of you managed to carry her all the way to the quinjet.

Bucky opened the hatch, and you lead Tanaka inside. You laid her on the med table. You gave her a shot of lidocaine, a local anaesthetic, to numb the pain of her broken joint. Quickly, you elevated her leg and treated her ankle. It was bad enough that she couldn't walk, but not too bad. It didn't need surgery, and she would need a few weeks to heal completely.

"Is it okay?" She asked while you put a cast around it.

"Not that bad," you told her, "But you still need a crutch. We have one here."

You let her rest for sometime. While she laid down, you changed and so did Bucky.

After handing Tanaka her crutches, you lended some of your clothes to her, and she accepted. It was a little too tight on her, but not by a lot. 

She changed into a jacket and you got a trench coat. Bucky, on the other hand, wore a hoodie. Bucky tended to your wounds soon after, especially the nasty wound from Tanaka's punch. He managed to stop the blood from streaming and bandaged it up properly with a first aid kit.

After you were done, the three of you went into town through the streets, back to Petrov's address to see if you could salvage anything from the lab. You walked slower than you usually would, slowing down for Tanaka. She was still getting used to the crutches.

When you arrived, it was too late. Petrov’s lab has already been reduced to ashes. You watched from the corner of the street, trying to pass as regular civilians.

There was no point in going back, as there was nothing to come back to, nothing you could salvage.

The fire fighters was just finishing up, the flame almost completely gone. There were no casualties, but everything was gone. All the files were burnt, and the glasses were broken. You considered this a complete failure. 

If only you had been faster.

Bucky looked at you from the corner of his eye, his metal arm covered in his pocket. His human arm held yours, fingers tightly linking together.

You were okay, and that was all he needed to know. The files that he had taken were left inside the quinjet, hidden inside his tactical uniform. He didn’t know where he was going to put it, but he will find a way, somehow. He has to.

He pulled you closer to him, until his arm was circled around your waist. Your head nestled on his shoulder, leaning your body on him. He didn’t care that Naomi Tanaka was just a few feet away, he needed to reassure you that you were going to be okay.

“I should’ve been faster. I could’ve gotten the files,” you said, voice laced with guilt.

Bucky frowned. “I tripped the alarm, babydoll,” he tried to maintain the lie, “It was my fault.”

“No,” you shook your head, “You couldn’t have known about the bomb.”

Bucky frowned again, this time it was because of the guilt you felt that was rightfully his. He had hurt Tanaka, after all, who was innocent in all this.

You felt Bucky’s thumb rubbing comforting circles to your side. “We’re safe, okay?” He reassured, “That’s all that matters.”

“Let’s get to the jet,” Tanaka interrupted your moment, oblivious that it was even happening. You raised your eyebrows,”What’s going on?”

“We need to get to Madrid," said Tanaka urgently, "I promised to meet an informant there in—" she checked her watch— "four hours. He claims to know where Sam wilson is."

~

[gaasaku-fanfests]

Dream Eater

Title: Dream Eater Author: Darquedeath4444 Rating: T Word Count: 8420 Summary: Sakura merely exists as a devour of dreams. She eats for fuel and lives each day just as she had the day before. Gaara had an abusive father. Even when he is gone, nightmares of raining fists continue to haunt him. As the darkness continues to try and welcome him, the boy desperately holding on meets the girl who had long lost herself. DreamEater!AU Warnings: N/A (I'm not sure what to put here. People are killed, but they're not really killed?) Author's Note(s): This story is based on the myth of the Baku (獏), or the Dream Eater. They are Japanese mythological creatures that eat dreams and nightmares. I wanted to explore stories past that of the Gods and whatnot, so yeah. Some facts and stories about these creatures have been altered to fit this story.

Trope: Mythology AU

Her lungs burned. The corridor appeared to last forever, which was strange because she could see the light coming from the far end of the path, which had to be the exit.

It had to be.

Rapid footsteps, much swifter and lighter than her own heavy ones, could be heard from behind. She didn't dare turn around, though, because every time she did, the creatures seemed to come closer and closer.

She could hear the animalistic growls of the creatures chasing her. She had thought they were dogs, but their long, sharp claws and jagged teeth had her thinking otherwise. What they were did not matter, though, because if they caught up, they would rip her apart, dogs or not.

The burst of fear allowed her to force her feet to move faster. Suddenly, the corridor opened up into a large room. On the other side was a door. One step ago, the end of the corridor had seemed ages away, but she did not question it as she ran towards it. She grasped the handle of the metal door. She gave it a sharp tug, and despair filled her when the door did not budge. There was no keyhole, no nothing, and she hoped that the thing was just jammed, and tried again.

The rapid steps following her suddenly skidded to a halt and she froze. Slowly, she looked back.

The dogs, the creatures, stood at the mouth of the corridor. There were four of them, all red-eyed and bared sharp teeth. She turned around and pulled at the hand one more time, but it did not open. The creatures appeared to be waiting for something, and the moment the tears she had been trying so hard to suppress began flowing, the first of the four creatures crouched, then lunged.

She screamed.

Then, in the next second, the sight of the creature before her was replaced by the back of a slender figure. All that registered in her mind was the scythe in the person's hand and the strands of pink hair. The newcomer, a girl from what she could see, deftly spun her weapon, and while she couldn't see what happened, the growl, then whimper, was abruptly cut short as the weapon was brought down.

There was a heavy thud of something roughly hitting the floor, and she watched the girl step daintily over the limp body of the creature. She could also see the rest of the creatures, and when the girl took another step they turned and ran back into the corridor.

She felt her knees give way and she sunk down onto the ground. The creature the girl had killed suddenly burst into smoke, and as she watched, the smoke swirled and shifted, transforming into a small stone. There was a burst of purple light, and the black stone floated in the air where the body had been.

The girl slowly reached for the glowing crystal. She grasped it, then raised it almost to inspect it, opened her mouth, and swallowed it whole.

She gasped.

The girl licked her fingers, like she had just eaten a piece of chocolate, then turned around.

Their eyes met. She stared at the bright green eyes visible from behind her bangs. The girl took a step forward, and she realized with a start that her saviour hadn't lowered her scythe yet.

The dread returned.

"You-You saved me," she stammered. "I-"

The girl appeared not to hear, or perhaps she was ignoring her. The scythe glinted threateningly in the dim light, and she could see her own reflection on the blade.

"No-no, wait, please-"

The girl tensed, the blade swung down, and she woke up.

The dread and disappointment, flavoured with a hint of relief, flooded through her. The new emotions washed away the fear, terror, and confusion the creature had brought, and she relished in the feeling for a moment.

Around her, the ground began to shake. From the corner of her eyes, she could see the bricks making up the room's walls crumbling. Behind it, there was an endless blackness.

"Sakura-chan!"

Sakura looked up towards the mouth of the corridor. A blond boy, Naruto, darted over towards her. "We got three,” he said. He jerked his head towards a raven male who appeared behind him. "Sasuke says there are no more."

Sakura nodded.

"Did you get the dreamer?" Sasuke asked. "I'm assuming you did; the world is crumbling."

Sakura nodded. "I did," she added, just in case. "Let’s get out of here."

---

"So," Naruto drawled. "What did she taste like?"

Sakura eyed the blond for a while. She paused. "Me?" She asked.

Naruto rolled his eyes. "Of course," he said. "You got the girl, remember?"

Sakura paused, frowning. "She tasted…relieved?" She said. "Then dreadful and disappointed?"

"Did you kill her after you killed the nightmare?" Sasuke asked.

Sakura nodded. "The thing tasted of fear and confusion," she told them.

"That sounds about right." Naruto balanced his scythe on his shoulders. He spun around. "How'd you kill the girl?"

Sakura closed her eyes, trying to picture the scene. "I walked up to her," she said. "Raised my scythe, then slashed her clean." She raised a hand and ran a finger from her left shoulder down to the right side of her hip.

"From behind?" Sasuke asked.

Sakura shook her head.

Naruto laughed. "That's probably where the dread came from," he said. "She was relieved you killed the nightmare, and then she despaired because she realized you weren't necessarily there to save her."

"You should have told her some sugar-coated lie, like 'It's okay now', then killed her when her back was turned," Sasuke added. "Sometimes, I put some extra effort into granting their wish. That way, maybe she'd have had a hint of gratitude, maybe even happiness?"

Sakura blinked. "Oh." She tried to wrap her mind around the things her companions were saying, but she decided she did not understand. "It's okay," she said instead. "I'm fine with what I get."

Naruto smiled sadly. "Trust me, Sakura-chan," he said. "Happiness is so much better."

Sakura eyed the blond for a while. Naruto would know, she reasoned. He was a rare case of Dream Eater that remembered bits of his human past; he probably remembered what it felt like to be happy.

She tried to remember herself, but her mind spread out into black nothingness no matter how far back she tried to reach. Dream Eaters experienced bursts of emotions dreams brought upon the dreamer by eating their cores. Younger Dream Eaters consumed dream after dream to try and retain human emotions, but she had been like this for so long she had lost track, and these days she wasn't even bothered to go out hunting. The emptiness within her was now a familiar feeling.

Still, she decided she was a little curious. "What does it taste like?" She asked.

Sasuke shrugged. "Hard to explain," he said. The raven was a long-time partner of hers. They had been together ever since she had accidentally fished him out of the river of the dead. He had stuck around, and Sakura appreciated that he was calm and collected, most of the time.

"Warm, comforting," Naruto said. The blond was the youngest of the three, and he had pulled himself out of the river just as they had been passing by. Retaining emotions from human life in a very unusual condition and he often told them he had seen the dead look in their eyes and had taken it upon himself to try and help them retain their humanity. Sakura had long forgotten the concept of time, but he had been around long enough that it felt like she knew him forever.

"What does that feel like?" She asked.

Naruto and Sasuke shared a look. "Next time, I'll feed you some," Naruto declared. "Once you try it, maybe you'll remember."

Sakura highly doubted it, but she did not say anything. Once maybe she had cared, but time had eroded away at most of the humanity within her.

It was a while later when Naruto declared he had found a good dream for them. "Sasuke's watching it for us," he told her as he tugged her along. "Didn't want the others to steal it."

Sakura allowed him to drag her out from their realm, and out into the human world. They floated over the sleeping city beneath them, and she sensed Sasuke's presence coming from a house located near a large park. He raised a hand in greeting as they floated down to his side.

"I had to chase off Sai," he complained. "Be grateful."

Sakura eyed him. "I’m grateful," she told him and frowned when he rolled his eyes.

"It doesn't mean anything coming from you," he said, though not unkindly.

Naruto cut in between them. "C'mon, Sakura-chan." He touched the red roof of the house and slipped right through. Sakura glanced at Sasuke, then followed their blond companion. She appeared inside the house, and Naruto waved her over to where he was standing over a curled-up form, asleep on a bed.

Sakura stared at him for a while. "He...has red hair," she said.

Sasuke appeared beside her. "You have pink hair," he pointed out drily.

"I’m dead," Sakura replied without missing a beat.

"Fair enough." Sasuke leaned over the sleeping boy's form. He took a deep breath. "Oh."

Naruto shoved him aside. "Well, Sakura-chan," he said. "Get going."

Sakura paused. "I am going alone?"

Naruto huffed. "Of course," he said. "We've got to slowly remind you of things, and we'll just be a distraction. Sasuke might steal the juicy parts."

Sasuke rolled his eyes. "Don't you mean you?"

The two males began to bicker, but Sakura barely heard them. She followed Sasuke's example and took a sniff but didn't recognize the smell. There was something about it, though…

She looked up to where Naruto and Sasuke had each other's collars in their grasp. She opened her mouth, then decided against catching their attention. "I'll be going now... " she trailed off awkwardly. Neither of them appeared to notice.

She floated over his sleeping body and lay down beside him. If she moved any closer, her shoulder would go through his. She closed her eyes, and the distant ringing of Naruto and Sasuke's voices faded away into nothing until all she could hear was the boy's slow breathing. She took in a deep breath, and breathed out, slowly matching his own. Soon, the darkness of her closed eyes turned into that of nothingness.

At first glance, the world of the boy's dream appeared to be a rather pleasant place. Simply put, it appeared to be an endless flower garden. There was no edge as far as she could see, and there wasn't a hint of anything hostile. Nightmares had the strongest pull on their kind, and Sakura wondered if Naruto had purposely found a dream like this. If so, that would be impressive.

She crouched down to inspect the patch of flowers by her feet. These were real flowers. She stood up again, and glanced around, wondering where the boy was. All dreams had a borderline, no matter how endless they seemed. The boy had to be here somewhere.

She took a careful step forward, and the flowers moved with her, almost as though they were beckoning her. She inspected the flowers for a while longer, checked the direction of the soft, comforting breeze, then began walking.

Soon, she saw a figure in the far distance. Distance within this world did not work like it did in the human world. If she wished hard enough, she could bring the border of the boy's dream world to her. Within her next step, the boy, who had appeared a mere dot in the distance, was only a few steps away from her. He was sitting down in what appeared to be a sandpit right in the middle of the sea of flowers. He did not appear to notice her presence.

Sakura slowly raised her hand, and her scythe materialized in her hand. Remembering what Naruto and Sasuke had told her a while ago, she slowly raised it as not to alert the boy.

The boy paused, and she froze as he slowly turned around. The boy looked young, but she had a sudden feeling that he was probably slightly older than she had first thought. He had bags around his eyes, and he clutched a teddy bear tightly in his small arms. His eyes widened as he took her in, but he did not appear too surprised. Sakura remained rooted to her spot and the boy slowly got to her feet.

"Did father send you?" He asked.

Sakura kept her scythe in the air, but she did not swing it down. "No," she told him honestly. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

The boy glanced down and shuffled his feet. "Oh," he said softly. "Then how did you get in here?"

"I let myself in."

Sakura felt a little lost. It had been a long, long time since anyone had talked to her. Most ran when they saw her weapon, and she had no intention of starting a conversation on her own. When her victim spoke to her first though…She slowly lowered her scythe.

"Did you sneak in?" The boy asked. "Father doesn't let me have visitors."

Sakura sceptically eyed the boy, then decided that, at his age, it was reasonable for him to not be able to distinguish between dream and reality. Perhaps he thought he was still awake?

"I…" Sakura bit her lip. "I…I snuck in."

The boy's face lit up. "I see."

Sakura glanced at her scythe. "This is a very nice garden," she said honestly.

The boy smiled. "I like the playground near my house," he told her. "There were a lot of flowers. I've been there once before. Then father found out and I haven't been allowed to go since, but I always remembered the sand pit."

Sakura eyed the sand at the boy's feet. So that was what it had been. She thought about what her companions had said again. She vanished her scythe. "I’m here to kill you," she said. "And I will." She hesitated, then held out her hand. "But, before I do that, would you like to go somewhere nice?"

The boy frowned. "I'm told not to follow strangers," he said.

Sakura pursed her lips. "I’m Sakura," she said. "Am I still a stranger?"

"I guess not." The boy reached out with his own, much smaller, hand. "I'm Gaara."

Sakura nodded. "Let’s go, Gaara."

The moment their hands touched and Gaara accepted her, he had also unknowingly given her control of his world. She pictured their destination in her mind and gave a sharp, mental, pull. There was a rush, and a pull from deep within her stomach. A flash of light momentarily blinded her, and she heard Gaara give a shout of surprise. She tightened her grip reassuringly and felt him do the same, and suddenly, they were floating above Gaara's house.

The boy gasped.

This was a copy of the real world, created within Gaara's dream using Sakura's powers, so neither Naruto nor Sasuke were there. She navigated them down onto the street, and while Gaara appeared relieved at the contact with the earth, Sakura suddenly felt uncomfortable.

When was the last time she had placed her feet on the ground?

She gestured towards the entrance to the playground. "That one?" She asked.

Gaara shyly nodded, eyes still wide. He hesitantly tugged on his hand, and when Sakura let go he darted off. She followed at a much slower pace and by the time she had stepped through, the boy was already crouched in the sandpit. She recalled what she had been in Gaara's sandpit and conjured the same bucket and shovel in front of him. By now, Gaara's face looked like it would split from how wide his smile had grown. Sakura glanced around, spotting a bench, and had been about to head over towards it when Gaara darted over to her. "Do you want to play too?"

Sakura opened her mouth, ready to decline, when Naruto and Sasuke's advise flashed before her again. Nice words, grant wishes. She nodded. "Okay."

Gaara grinned and she felt her own lips twitch. As the boy ran off back to the pit ahead of her, she raised a hand to her mouth, wondering if something was wrong. She didn't consume as many dreams as she used to, but she was careful to go hunting just before she became too hungry. She hadn't been hurt in any recent fights either.

"Come on!"

Sakura looked up and saw Gaara waving her over. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts, and made her way over towards him. Gaara patted the space next to her, then handed her a bucket. "Let's make a sandcastle!"

Sakura eyed the bucket, then put it down and raised her hand. The sand began moving, and she breathed into her creation the experience of a countless number of castles and structures she had seen. Within seconds, there was a magnificent looking sand palace in front of them. Gaara gaped at it, eyes wide. "You-you're not-you're not supposed to-" He appeared unable to form complete sentences. He carefully reached out and ran his finger along the intricate designs etched into the roof. "You're supposed to build it by hand," he finished weakly.

Sakura blinked, then raised her hand again, to destroy the thing and start over, this time by hand, but Gaara hurriedly stopped her. "No! Don't destroy it!"

Sakura lowered her hand.

"It's so cool, so let's leave it like this." Gaara handed her the bucket again. "Let's build something else."

Sakura looked at the bucket, then at Gaara's eager eyes, and she nodded. "Okay."

A nudging feeling within her alerted Sakura of the coming morning. Gaara’s world was still night, but she was sure that daytime was arriving in the real world. Gaara, who had tasked her with mixing water with the sand in her bucket, paused when he noticed that her hands had stopped moving. “Are you okay?”

Sakura looked at the boy. “I have to go soon,” she told him. “And you have to go soon as well.”

Gaara’s face fell for a moment, but he squared his features with control she knew was impressive for a kid his age. “Okay,” he said. “You’re going to kill me now?”

Sakura hesitated. “It is not really killing,” she admitted. She had no idea how to explain this.

Gaara nodded. “It’s okay,” he told her. “I had fun today.”

The world around them returned to the field of flowers the moment Gaara appeared to comprehend that their time together was over.

Sakura stiffened when her scythe appeared before her because she hadn't summoned it. Gaara smiled, and she realized with a start that this boy much more control of his own dream world than she had thought. She reached out and grasped it.

Gaara watched her patiently as she slowly raised it.

“Are you sure?” She asked, remembering the words of her companions once again. “Death ends the dream. If you are happy-”

“It’s okay,” Gaara cut her off. “I read in a book that happiness is best when it’s shared with others.”

Sakura did not know how being killed was happiness, and she also did not know how it could be shared, but she did not question it.

"Will you come to see me again?" He asked.

Sakura hesitated. Kind words, grant wishes. "Okay," she said.

She didn't understand Gaara's smile as she brought down her scythe. Nor did she understand the lingering scent of flowers and the taste of the dream that brought tears to her eyes.

She did not come back. Maybe she hadn't meant her words. Maybe it was his ever-growing inability to sleep. He probably hadn't had a good night's sleep in ages.

Gaara lay awake in his bed. It had been two years since his father had been arrested for child abuse, among other things. It had been fortunate his eldest sister, Temari, was old enough to take custody over him and Kankuro, and they learned soon after that their mother had left them enough savings for them to survive on until they could support themselves. His father had been unable to access them, and that was the only reason the money had been left untouched even while the man had spent everything, he could get his hands on, on alcohol.

He sighed and rolled over. Two years, and still the nightmares from back them haunted him. He was now seventeen, a high school student, and people often told him that things could only get better. He didn't know how they knew.

Sometimes, when he bolted up in his bed after multiple futile efforts at falling asleep was rewarded by haunting nightmares of his father's raining fists and days of being locked up in the cupboard, he would remember the girl, Sakura, the girl who had appeared one day in his sleep. He had been six, young and scared and desperate for a friend. Now that he looked back, she wasn't like the friends he saw at school. She had been curt with her words despite the hesitation in them, had been detached even though she had entertained him in the sandpit.

For years, he had thought her to be another figment of his dream, something he had conjured up to ease his loneliness once his field of flowers had eased his pain.  

Then, just the other day, Temari had mentioned in passing how a pink haired girl had suddenly appeared in her dreams to chop up a humanoid monster made up of past assignment papers and he had tried to shake it off as a coincidence, because what else could it be?

His watch beeped, alerting him of the new hour. He checked the clock and noted that it was midnight. He sighed, because he had been lying down for the past hour and a half, and sleep was yet to come. His insomnia had gotten better, much better, over the years but it was still difficult for him to sleep.

He closed his eyes again and willed the darkness to take him.

Gaara didn't even realize when he had fallen asleep, until he had, and his father was grabbing him by the front of his shirt. Fear surged through him and he momentarily forgot that this man was currently in prison. He grasped at the fingers curled into his shirt, confused and scared out of his mind.

In one second, he had been staring at a broad chest, and in the next, there was the tip of something very, very sharp merely a few centimetres from his face. The grip on his shirt slacked, then vanished altogether when his father exploded, leaving him to fall to the ground.

"Are you okay?"

Gaara gasped and stumbled backward, eyes still blurry from tears. He clutched at his throat and landed heavily on his backside.

"Are you okay?"

Gaara looked up slowly, and he froze.

He knew that pink hair.

Before him stood Sakura, and she was just as he remembered her. Her eyes were as blank as he remembered, and he recognized the scythe that had torn him in half all those years ago.

"Sakura?"

The girl blinked. "Hello," she said.

Gaara gaped like a fish, mind whirling. "You-you're Sakura."

"And you’re Gaara," Sakura replied. Her scythe vanished. "You..." She eyed him. "You’ve grown."

Gaara blinked. "It's been a while," he finally got out.

"Has it?" Sakura held out a hand, and while it was a somewhat mechanic movement, he accepted it without much thought. Suddenly, there was a strong pull in his gut, and his vision exploded with light. He instinctively closed his eyes, and he opened them again when something soft briefly tickled his cheek.

Flowers.

Gaara's eyes widened and he looked around.

It was the flower field, the one he had escaped to often in his dreams. He hadn't been here often since his father had first started beating him at age eight. Before that, it had mostly been no food and being locked up in cupboards, but once the violence had started, it hadn't stopped. Since then, his sanctuary had vanished, and he had no longer been able to sleep.

It had been here when he had played in the sandpit without a care in the world. It had been here when he...he looked at Sakura. When he had made his first friend. "You didn't come back," he said, and even as the words left his mouth, he was reminded of a child throwing a tantrum.

"I couldn’t," Sakura replied easily. She looked around the flower field, but he still could not read her expression. He always remembered to be expressionless, but had she always been this…empty? "I did," she added after a second. "I tried to come back."

"I-" Gaara trailed off. This was a little ridiculous. He was talking to a pink haired girl who had split him in half in his dream using a scythe when he was a kid, a girl that had promised him she would come back, only to not because he had been the one to lose the flower field they had once met in. "I lost-I couldn't sleep."

Sakura blinked. "I know," she said.

"Oh."

There was a silence Gaara found awkward, but he had a feeling Sakura probably found nothing wrong with it. "Well, it's back?" He said.

Sakura nodded. "It is." She raised the crystal that had once been his father in nightmare form. "Give me a moment."

Gaara watched, and his eyes widened when the pinkette raised the crystal to the light, then bit into it like it was an apple. The solid looking crystal shattered like candy glass under her teeth, and she swallowed it like it was nothing. "Fear," she said. "Anger, confusion?"

Gaara blinked. "What?"

Sakura pointed at him. "That's what you felt when you saw this." She raised her hand, showing him the last specs of the crystal. She licked them clean. "Nightmares, when killed, reveal how they made the dreamer feel."

"And Dream Eaters feed on the dreams of the dreamers?"

Sakura appeared surprised, and Gaara felt a rush of pride. "Yes," she said slowly.

"I read books,” he told her. "I remembered you from all those years ago. Honestly, I thought it was stupid, that I was holding on to things from so long ago, but I read up on it."

"We appear in books?" Sakura looked genuinely intrigued, and Gaara had to hold back a laugh at the childish look of curiosity in the girl's eyes.

"Yes. There are many different versions, actually, but I have my favourite."

Sakura tilted her head. "And that is?"

Gaara thought of how the pinkette appeared to him when he was a kid, and looked her over, grasping at how she appeared to him now. She simply looked lost. “Dream Eaters eat dreams to become human."

Sakura furrowed her eyebrows. "We eat dreams as fuel," she said, and Gaara winced at the brutal destroying of his thoughts, but Sakura was not done. "But…but I have heard one of my companions say something similar once. We feel what you feel when we eat the dream; some Dream Eaters, especially the younger ones who remember their times of being human, actively hunt dreams to remember."

"You were once human?" Gaara asked. He hadn't read anything about that. Then again, the concept of Dream Eaters were myths and stories, just like that of the Greek Gods and the beings of Asgard.

Sakura nodded. "Apparently. Though I do not remember anything from my time as one. It has been a…it has been a long time.”

How long did it have to be for one to forget? Gaara watched Sakura's expression as she stared blankly into nothing for a while. "Do you want to remember?"

Sakura looked up. "I-I do not know. Fear and anger do not taste the best, but those have the strongest pull on us."

"If you kill me now, you'll taste happy." The words had left his mouth before he could even comprehend them, and he had to restrain himself from slapping a hand over his mouth.

Sakura frowned. "I was under the impression that people did not like being killed."

Gaara felt his lips curling in a smile. “Well, maybe not in real life,” he said. “But I’m dreaming right now, right? I’ll just wake up, I won’t lose anything.” He pictured Sakura’s scythe, and when it appeared seconds later, a sudden weight in his hand, he knew he remembered it correctly. He passed it to Sakura, who was staring at him with a look recognized.

Their last meeting had been years ago, how did he remember all these things?

“You...have a surprising amount of control over this world,” Sakura finally said. “People usually do not even know when they are dreaming.” She twirled her scythe and Gaara thought of how heavy the weapon had been. Did weight register differently for Dream Eaters?

“My father was abusive,” he said slowly. “Temari, my older sister, tells me that she remembers times he was actually a nice father, but that was before my mother died.” He swallowed. “Before I was born.”

Sakura did not react, and for some reason Gaara was glad. He had received enough pity and reassurance from people, people who hadn’t batted an eye about the whole situation until authorities had arrested the man that was supposed to be their father. Then again, perhaps she did not understand what he was not saying?

“My father drank a lot, and by the time night came he’d be knocked out. At night, my siblings and I had a moment of peace. I don’t know how to explain it, but every moment when our father wasn’t hitting us, or locking us up, it was like a dream. When he wasn’t there, I was free. I could do anything.”

Perhaps it wasn’t that much of a surprise if he remembered Sakura, he clearly remembered a lot of things from his childhood.

When he was seven, his father wrapped his large hands around his throat. Until then, most of the beatings had been unstable hits from a fist that hadn’t even been able to curl into a proper fist due to the sheer amount of alcohol permanently coursing through the man’s veins. He remembered Kankuro and Temari screaming, his vision blurring, and his father’s burning eyes just barely visible through his own tears. The darkness had been a nice contrast.

When he came to, his siblings were leaning over him. Kankuro had a nasty scratch on his forehead and Temari’s hair was messed up as though someone had roughly grabbed her by her locks. Their father was no longer there.

The next day, he wore a scarf to school. It had been winter, and he didn’t have any friends, so no one questioned it. Still, something had changed.

The silence had been nice. He had welcomed it. Darkness did not hurt, and while it was unlike the warmth he burrowed himself into at night to try and rest, it had been comforting.

He hadn’t wanted to leave.

Since then, the field of flowers had vanished. The control he had thought he had over his escape was gone, and he saw nothing but darkness when he slept. It became too suffocating, too smothering, too welcoming, and he soon stopped trying.

He was scared he would never be able to leave.

Sleepless nights followed. As they grew older, his siblings began to stand up to their father. The man, whose body was destroyed after years of putting it through alcohol abuse, was no match for a young teenager, especially not drunk. Their father began to stay away, with only occasional shouting when they returned from school, or inaccurately thrown bottles in their general direction. The later few years before their father’s arrest was the three of them living together, with their drunk father just there in the background.

Then one day, suddenly, police officers were knocking on their doors and hauling their father away on charges Gaara had never heard of before. They had already been planning to leave once Temari’s new job stabilized, and they didn't have much problem with starting out by themselves. The brief investigation that had come with the arrest revealed the savings their mother had left for them, and Temari had been able to enter university, something she had been forced to drop the first time around.

“Gaara?”

Gaara jumped at his name and realized that Sakura was still patiently watching him. “Sorry-” what had he been talking about?

“Perhaps your need to have control over something in your life allows you to be aware of your own dreams.”

It appeared Sakura thought his silence was due to confusion, and he decided not to correct her. “Maybe.”

Sakura looked up, and he recognized that expression as well. “Morning?” He asked.

Sakura nodded. “Are you sure?”

Gaara nodded in return. “I’m very happy I got to see you again,” he told her. “And remember? Happiness is best shared. I’ll give you some of this; I’m happy enough.” He hesitated. “Will you come back?” He asked.

Sakura stared at him. “Can I?” She asked.

Gaara nodded. “I can...I can sleep now.”

“Okay. I will.”

For the second time in his life, he was sliced open with a scythe.

Sasuke looked up when he sensed Sakura enter their dimension. He glanced over at Naruto, only to see that the blond had already made his way over to the pinkette.

“Where have you been, Sakura-chan?” Naruto asked. “You’ve been gone for like, days!”

“I was visiting someone.”

Sasuke floated over as well. He noted how Sakura’s own feet were planted firmly on the ground. “The redhead?” He asked.

Sakura nodded.

“How was the kid?”

Naruto slowly turned over, so that he was upside down and in Sakura’s face. He grinned.

“He’s no longer a kid,” she told them. “He’s grown.”

“It’s been years,” Sasuke said. “Humans grow over time.”

“Eleven,” Naruto chirped helpfully. “Honestly though, he’s seventeen right now, right? I’m a little surprised he remembers you.”

“Don’t know how long that it,” Sasuke said, shrugging. “Is it a long time?”

Naruto nodded dramatically. “It is,” he said. “Imagine eleven years stuck with you, Bastard. Wait, I don’t have to, because we’ve been together for lifetimes!” He turned towards Sakura. “Not you, Sakura-chan!” He exclaimed. “I love being with you, ‘ttebayo!”

Sasuke rolled his eyes, then turned towards her as well. “Are you done for a while?” He asked. “There a dream I’m keeping an eye on, and I-”

“I’ll be heading out again tomorrow,” Sakura interrupted him.

Sasuke froze. He glanced over at Naruto, who chose that exact moment to turn towards him as well. “Again?” He asked carefully.

Sakura nodded. “I agreed to visit Gaara again.”

“Gaara-the boy?”

Sakura nodded. “Yes.”

“Is he actually aware? That he’s dreaming?”

“He is. He told me so. He has good control over his own dream.”

Sasuke hummed, and another thought invaded his mind. “And how do you end the dream?”

Dream Eaters entered someone’s dream to consume it. They were outsiders, and if their target had incredible control over their minds or was extremely self-aware, there was a chance they could not leave the mind through the normal way. When it came to that, they had no choice but to kill the dreamer in their own mind to force them to wake up. For someone so aware like Gaara, it wouldn’t be difficult to trap Sakura in his mind. He had never heard of a Dream Eater dying in a dream, but what would happen then?

“I kill him,” came the swift reply.

Naruto laughed nervously. “I hope you did it when he wasn’t looking,” he said uneasily. “I don’t think he likes dying.”

“He was looking.” Sakura summoned her scythe and swung it around. “He offers himself to me.”

Sasuke glanced over at Naruto again. “I...see.”

Sakura nodded. “I’m going to go rest,” she said. “I’ve consumed more dreams than I have in a while.”

Sasuke nodded in understanding, and Naruto waved as Sakura curled up around her scythe mid-air. She vanished in a puff of smoke.

The moment she was gone, Naruto turned to him and grabbed him by the front of his collar. “Uhhh, what? Did you hear her? She’s been going to see him every day.”

Sasuke smacked his hand away and begrudgingly straightened his clothes. “I did,” he replied. “Do you think it’s okay?” Naruto was the one with the human experience, he would know, right?

“He doesn’t sound like a bad guy, but I want to make sure.”

“She’s seeing him tonight?”

“She said so.” Naruto did a backflip mid-air. “Why?”

Sasuke had a feeling the blond knew what he was hinting at, but he decided to entertain him anyways. “We should follow her and see this guy for ourselves.”

“That’s called stalking, ‘ttebayo,” Naruto muttered but did not reject the idea. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

Sakura did not hesitate at all as she made her way down onto the human plane. She made a beeline over to one of the houses, and by the time Naruto and Sasuke had followed her in, she was already deep in Gaara’s mind.

Naruto glanced over at Sasuke, nodded, then lay down beside them and matched their breathing to his

In an instant, he was in the boy’s dream. The flower field that spread out before him surprised him because the boy hadn’t appeared to be the flowery type. Sasuke appeared beside him seconds later, and the two of them paused for a moment before Sasuke pointed in a direction “That way.”

Naruto nodded. The raven warped the space around them to conceal their presence, and the two of them began making their way through the flower field.

“This is surprisingly big and well made,” he noted.

Sasuke nodded. “Sakura did say he had good control over it.”

Something caught his eye, and Naruto squinted through the petals. There was a bench, and he could see Sakura’s pink hair and Gaara’s red hair sitting next to each other.

“There is nowhere to hide here,” he muttered. “You sure this will hold?”

“No idea,” Sasuke admitted. “If Gaara really is good as Sakura says he is, he’d see right through it in an instant.”

The two of them stopped a distance away. “What now?” Naruto asked.

Suddenly, the redhead stood up. He said something to Sakura, then began walking over towards them.

“Do you think he sees us?” He asked.

Sasuke shrugged, and the raven summoned his scythe. “Just in case,” he murmured in reply.

Gaara stopped just before them, and Naruto just knew he knew. He raised his hand, and something appeared. He held it up towards them.

“I’ve seen that before, in a dream,” Naruto said warily. “It’s called-it’s called a-”

“A gun,” came the piercing explanation. “I know you’re there, come out.”

The area they had distorted or hide in was ripped open, and Naruto felt it as their concealment faded. “Control over his own dream all right.” He put his hands on his hips. “I know Sakura-chan said so, but I didn’t expect it to be this good.”

Sasuke narrowed his eyes, staring at the thing, the gun, Gaara was pointing at them.

“You know Sakura?” The redhead asked. He did not lower the gun.

Naruto nodded, grinning. “We do,” he said. “We’re her friends. In fact, we followed her here.”

Gaara continued to look wary. “Why?”

“Sakura doesn’t go out hunting very often,” Sasuke cut in. “We were wondering what she was doing.”

Something flashed in Gaara’s eyes. He lowered the gun. “I see.” He glanced over his shoulder, where Sakura hadn’t moved since he had stepped away. “She’s been coming to see me,” he said. “She said she wasn’t busy, so-”

“Not busy,” Naruto quickly agreed. “We were surprised, is all. Just until recently, she didn't even go out to hunt until she had to.”

“Oh.”

Naruto tried to catch Sasuke’s eye, but the raven continued to glare suspiciously at Gaara. He sighed, grabbed his friend by the arm, and grinned apologetically at the redhead. “Well, sorry about that,” he said. “I think she’s in good hands, so we’ll be leaving now.”

Sasuke opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Naruto kicked them out of the dream before he could.

Gaara’s days brightened. After their father had left their lives things could not have gotten better, but it had. Sakura visited him often, and the fear for sleeping and the nightmares he had was replaced by elation as he slipped under his sheets every night.

Sakura began to smile. It was rare and small, not the large grins the blond, Naruto, often had on his face, nor was it the teasing smiles his siblings greeted him with whenever he saw them, but it was a small, genuine thing that made his heart flutter in ways he had never felt before.

When he asked her about it, she took his hand in hers. “Your taste,” she had said. “Your happiness makes me smile and looking at you makes me remember the previous happiness you shared with me.”

He was sure his dream that night tasted especially delicious.

Soon, he graduated from high school and entered university. As he did, though, he slowly became aware that while he grew bigger and taller, Sakura remained the dainty looking thing she had always been. Actually, he had probably known, but as a child, he hadn’t understood the significance, and as a teenager, he had pretended not to notice.

But now, at an age where all his peers were finding partners and his sister was engaged, it felt all the more real.

He rejected a girl who confessed to him and was unable to explain why he had lest he was sent to a mental asylum. He told Sakura about it later that night and had to force himself not to flinch away when Sakura’s eyes saddened, because she had gotten better with her emotions over the years and he just knew she knew why he had done what he had.

She told him that death was the end of the body, but not the mind, and that she could wait for him to join her one day. He told her he would gladly spend his human life with him, then find her once he died and spend the rest of time with her.

He did not understand why she laughed and told him she would be the one to find him. He did not care who did the finding, really.  

He would dream of a future with Sakura, and force himself awake out of embarrassment when she smiled lightly because while to people his thoughts were the most secure place for him to leave something, Sakura was a being who lived there, and he could not hide anything from her. Soon he stopped trying to conceal it, and she sometimes added images to his fantasies.

Temari and her husband, Nara Shikamaru, had a child. When his sister had first announced that someone had proposed to her, Sakura had taken him on a trip to the man’s dreams. Sakura was curious, and Gaara had to know if he was good enough for the woman who had practically raised him since before she had even become a teenager. They had left satisfied, and he would later share the funny story of how confused Shikamaru had been when Gaara had treated him with a welcoming smile and friendly small talk after he initially greeted him curtly and with caution on their first introduction.

Soon, his body became heavy, but while Kankuro complained about the increasing number of things he could not do, Gaara remained satisfied, because in the world of dreams he was still eighteen and he could lift the sky. Sakura would sit and listen to his stories of the day, and she, in turn, would share what she had been up to. She ate exclusively off of him, but she often went with Naruto and Sasuke to secure dreams that they wanted to enjoy in peace. The three of them were the only Dream Eaters Gaara had ever met, but ‘Sai’, ‘Kakashi’ and ‘Yamato’ often appeared in Sakura’s tales, and she often complained about how, sometimes, other Dream Eaters would try and steal their catches.

When his body finally decided it could not keep up with his mind, he felt like he had all the time in the world as he slept through his days. Shikadai and his wife had generously taken him under their care despite his insistence that he was fine, that he had the money to support the rest of his time in a hospital, and they visited him often. He felt bad for almost never being awake, but when Sakura greeted him with a smile and they went flying over the river during the lantern festival, or popped up to the top of some tall mountain to watch the first sunrise of the year, all other thoughts vanished.

Then, one day, when Sakura appeared before him with a wider than normal smile on her face, he knew his time had come.

“You shouldn't be smiling about my death,” he said, though he was sure he was wearing was a smile of his own, and that it was possibly bigger than hers.

Sakura pursed her lips in a bad attempt to stop herself. “Sorry.”

Gaara laughed and held out his hand. Sakura took it without hesitation, and he pulled her in for a hug. “Soon,” he said.

“Soon,” Sakura agreed.

Gaara pulled back and looked down at her. “So, what do I expect?” He asked.

Sakura leaned her head on his chest. “Rare cases like Naruto remember their past, but when I say rare, I really do mean rare. You probably won’t.”

Gaara winced, but Sakura did not appear deterred. “However, here, we are our minds, and we are our souls. Even if you do not remember memories, you will remember the emotions.”

“So I’ll know?” He asked. “How long does it take for me to be...reborn, anyway?”

“Not all humans become Dream Eaters,” Sakura explained. “There’s a river, and those who are fished out, like I accidentally did with Sasuke, or those who somehow pull themselves out, like Naruto, become like this. I do not know how long it will take, nor do I know how to explain it to you in ways you will understand, but for you, it will be an instance, and to me, well, the human concept of time is still lost to me. The wait will be worth it, after all.”  

Gaara laughed and pulled her in tighter. He could feel himself getting lighter. “I think it’s time.”

Sakura nodded. “It is,” she said. “I will see you soon?”

Gaara nodded, and in the last second, he pulled her in once more and pressed his lips to hers. Sakura froze and Gaara wanted to laugh because even after all these years he had never once kissed her.

He would make up for it, he vowed, once he returned to her side.

“I’ll see you,” he replied. “I promise.”

Sakura nodded, and when she slowly let go, everything faded.

---

When he opened his eyes, the world was black. His limbs were heavy, and when he tried to move them, they didn’t respond. He glanced around, trying to see if he could recognize where he was.

Who was he, anyway?

Suddenly, something breached the endless darkness. A hand grabbed his arm, and he felt himself being yanked in a direction. Only when he broke the surface of the river did he realize that he was in a large body of water, and he gasped for breath, the air not quite filling his lungs, as whomever it was holding onto him put him down on firm land. The river water had appeared pitch black when he had been under, but when he looked over the edge of the land, he clearly saw his reflection. Red hair, green eyes.

He looked up, and the first thing he noticed was pink hair. The word that left his lips was foreign, but felt so, so right.

“Sakura?”

The girl perked and stared at him as though she was looking for something. He suddenly felt self-conscious, and he looked away.

“I don’t think he remembers,” someone said, and he looked up to see a blond hovering above them.

“Not surprised,” said another voice. The raven who revealed himself did not have the friendliest look on his face. “Not everyone’s like you, thank the gods.”

The blond looked offended, but then he turned towards him and the girl. “Let’s give them time?”

The raven sighed and rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

The two of them vanished, leaving him with the pink haired girl.

“Who am I?” He asked, then bit his lip. “I feel like I know you.” He took a deep breath, and her scent assaulted his senses. He knew her. He didn’t know how he knew her, but something deep within him, still sleeping and wanting to wake up, knew so.

The girl stared him in the eyes, and something tugged at his heart. “You’re Gaara,” she told him. “And you do know me. A long time ago, we promised ourselves to each other.”

“We did?” He, Gaara, frowned. “I don’t remember that. Why don’t I remember? Who are you?”

“Don’t worry, Gaara, we have time.”

A hand was held out to him, and Gaara felt that bubbling feeling in his chest all over again. Still, he was a little hesitant. “I’m told not to follow strangers.” The words had left his mouth even before he had registered them, but before he could even question who exactly had told him that, a smile wider than before bloomed on the girl’s face.

“I’m Sakura,” she said. “Am I still a stranger?”

“I-I guess not.” He accepted her hand and allowed Sakura to pull him. His body felt lighter and Sakura steadied him when he stumbled.

“Let’s go, Gaara,” she said softly, and his world exploded in flowers.

[fandom-imagines-stories]

He Can’t Hurt You Now

Dr. Lance Sweets x Reader

Words: 3884

Parts: 1 Promise, 2 Don’t You Dare Let Her Die

Summary: Although you’ve been released from the hospital, your recovery is just starting. Scars are a constant reminder of what you’ve been through and cause you to be very self conscious. Memories of Marty and the repair shop haunt your dreams, making it nearly impossible to sleep. Lance begins to notice your unease and does his best to help you.

Note: I know I said there would only be two parts, but I simply couldn’t resist. I really want to showcase Lance and the reader’s relationship and how they are as a couple so I hope that shows through. (Also I threw in a little reference to a later plot in the show, let me know if you catch it. This is the time period when this character is in the show, but I thought it would be cool to incorporate them as an almost introduction.)

Your over stuffed duffle bag fell to the floor with a loud thud. Lance’s apartment was dark and quiet. You were having trouble deciding if it was comforting or eery. Lance flipped the light on as he entered behind you.

“Home sweet home, right?” He said, but it wasn’t hard to see that he was uncomfortable with the situation. He kissed your cheek as he shuffled passed you, turning on the lights in the kitchen and hallway. He turned around to face you, noticing that you hadn’t moved at all. “You okay?” You blinked, fixing your gaze on him.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You lied. As you had climbed up the stairs to his apartment, you thought about the last time you were here. The feeling of the gun pressed into your neck, the sound of Booth’s shouts, the thought of never seeing Lance again. You looked down at the glittering ring on your finger to remind yourself that you were okay. You were more than okay. You were engaged to the most wonderful person you knew and you were completely in love with him. That, for now, was enough to keep yourself sane.

“Hey, are you hungry?” Your fiance called from behind to open fridge door. “I think I have some leftover pizza in here.” He pulled out a box and opened it, sniffing it’s contents before recoiling away. “Oh god nevermind!” He threw the box into the garbage and you giggled quietly.

“It’s fine. I think I just want some coffee.” You shrugged. “The hospital didn’t have the best.” He nodded in agreement.

“I know what you mean. It tasted kind of like mud didn’t it?” He started making the coffee as you walked slowly into the living room, sitting down on the sofa and checking your phone for messages. There were plenty from Booth asking if you had made it to the apartment safe, one from Dr. Brennan asking if you felt any aches and if she should come over to make sure you were alright, and one from Angela telling you to not go overboard on celebrating the engagement. You laughed and typed back. No promises.

You picked up the remote and started flipping through the channels. The first station you landed on was the news.

“It is confirmed that the notorious serial killer Martin Keller was killed in a face off with FBI Agent Seeley Booth after capturing Booth’s partner on the case newcomer Agent Y/F/N Y/L/N. Agent Y/N is in stable condition and will be returning to the bureau soon. The public can rest safely knowing that this monstrous killer is dead.” The remote left your hand and Lance turned the TV off, handing you a mug of coffee.

“Thanks.” You muttered, gripping the ceramic cup, letting it warm your hands. “I guess everyone knows what happened now.” Lance sighed, wrapping his arm around you.

“They all know that you survived a serial killer. That you have been through something awful and some may say that logically, you shouldn’t have survived. But you pulled through it.” His hand rested against your cheek, caressing your face lightly. “You are the toughest person I have ever met. You aren’t going down without a fight.”

“Have I told you how happy I am that we’re getting married?” You sighed happily, hoping to drop the subject.

“Actually, you did more than just tell me when you were really high on hospital drugs.” He snickered.

“You’re never going to let me live that down are you?” You groaned. You accidentally flash one doctor and you were marked for life.

“Nope.” He leaned towards you, but you put a finger firmly on his lips.

“I am not that easy, Dr. Sweets.”

“You didn’t say that at the hospital.” He smirked. “You were begging me to-”

“I was also in a lot of pain from being carved open like an operation game.” You sassed. “So I don’t think you should be making fun of me.” He held up his hands.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” This time you leaned in towards him until your lips locked, slipping his jacket off his shoulders. “Are you sure this is okay? Aren’t you a little, oh, I don’t know, fragile?”

“What happened to being the toughest person you know?”

“Yeah, but-”

“Just shut up.”

The room was dark except for a single light shining down on a wide table. Blood pooled around the metal legs. The body lying pale on the table was nearly unrecognizable, but somehow, you still knew who it was.

“Angela!” You screamed, as the light above her flickered off. You rushed towards it, but stumbled upon nothing but the cold air. A familiar laugh rattled through your bones, filling every corner of your mind with undeniable fear.

“Where are you, you sick son of a bitch!” You called out and to your horror another light turned on. His hands were cuffed to a chain that suspended him in the air, blood dripping down from his feet. Words were carved into his chest.

“What have you done?” Marty’s voice read and you jumped away from the feeling of hot breath on your neck. You rushed towards Booth, trying desperately to free him of the binding. He flinched away from you.

“What are you doing here, kid?” He asked, shaking his head in panic. “Run!” The chain jerked him backwards, soaring away from you.

“Booth!” You called but your voice was drowned out by someone screaming. Your heart stopped. “No…” Your heart started pounding with every running step you took. “Not him. Anyone but him.” The pained cries clawed your senses as you searched desperately for their source.

One final spotlight turned on, revealing Marty standing above Lance, who was strapped down to a table while Marty twisted a knife into his arm.

“Get away from him!” You shouted, sprinting towards them, but your ankle caught on something, yanking you to the ground. Lance continued to scream in agony. Chains slithered up your body, pulling you further away from the two men. “Lance!” You clawed at the ground, but found no hold. The chains pulled you to your feet and Marty waltzed towards you, a proud smile on his face.

“Come to admire my handywork, Agent Y/L/N?” He grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze down at Lance’s cut and trembling body. Marty’s hand wrapped around your throat, closing tightly. You gasped for breath. He sneered. “You will never be rid of me. I will always be with you, no matter where you go. You can never get rid of me.”

The warmth was such a contrast to the icy memory of your dream it was searing. Your eyes shot open, your body jerking upwards, Lance’s arm falling from around your waist to your lap. Your breathing was rapid and heavy, sweat coating your forehead. You searched the floor for the nearest piece of clothing and grabbed Lance’s shirt, buttoning it as you slowly moved his arm from around you and stood up, walking towards the kitchen.

But as you passed the mirror on the bathroom door, you paused. His dress shirt covered less than half of your thigh, leaving your abundance of new scars out in the open. The pale lines ranged from thin to thick, running up the length of your legs, separating your skin like pieces of a puzzle. You ran your hand over them, feeling every bump and crevice they created. You can never be rid of me.

You flinched, pulling your hands away from you legs and continuing to the kitchen, grabbing a coffee mug and pouring scotch in instead. You’re hands were shaking so much that the glass slipped out of your fingers, shattering on the floor.

Lance woke holding nothing but a bundle of blankets. Much like he had two weeks ago the morning you were taken. This can’t be happening. He sat up quickly, the apartment’s darkness unnerving.

“Y/N!” He called out in panic. He clawed at the blankets, crying out. “Y/N!” You rushed back to the living room, careful not to step on the broken shards. His eyes were frantically looking around the room. You put your hands on either side of his face to focus his gaze on you.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m right here. It’s okay.” He threw his arms around you, hugging you so tightly it was hard to breathe.

“When I woke up, you were gone and my mind automatically-”

“I know.” You interrupted. You ran your hand up and down his back in attempts to sooth his panic as his heart rate returned to normal. “I’m sorry. I got up to get a drink and I dropped a glass. That’s what woke you up.”

“Oh.” He looked down at your shirt. “Is- isn’t that mine?” You played with the sleeves.

“It’ was the first thing I grabbed. Why, do you want it back?” He shook his head and smirked.

“Actually it’s kind of hot.” You smirked and leaned in for a kiss but he stopped you. “But it is really late and I have to get up in the morning.” He pouted. The FBI was giving you four more days to adjust to coming home before making you come back, but Lance started working again the next day.

“I forgot about that.” You sighed, laying back down on the couch next to him, his arm returning to it’s previous spot. “Should I go pick up the glass?” You could feel him shake his head.

“I’ll get in the morning.” He whispered, holding you tightly to him, as if to keep you from ever leaving his side again. “Let’s just stay like this for a while.”

And so you did. For the rest of the night, neither of you said a word and you fell asleep to the sound of each other’s breathing. The moment’s peacefulness was a stark comparison to your lives for the past few days. Plus is was nice to get some sleep that wasn’t drug-induced.

Of course the moment had to end come morning, when Lance got dressed, cleaned up the glass in the kitchen, and kissed your forehead when he said goodbye. It took you nearly two more hours to finally make yourself get up and make yourself a cup of coffee. Afraid to turn on the TV again, you grabbed one of Lance’s books off of the shelves. Psychology; Book One of Thirteen. It was going to be a long day.

“Sweets!” Booth called after him before Sweets could close his office door. Booth gave him a pat on the back and followed him into the office. “So how is she feeling?”

“Better.” He replied with a nod. “A lot better. I think she’s glad to finally be able to come home.”

“Well tell her that it’s just chaos here without her.” Booth chuckled. He plopped down on the couch and Sweets sifted through the papers on his desk, noticing a new email on his computer. It was an audio file.

“Huh.” He hummed, hitting play.

“I am going to enjoy this…” The voice on the file started. “Nice and slow.” His words were followed by the most gut-wrenching screams Lance had ever heard. Y/N’s screams of pain completely took over his senses, becoming the only thing he could hear. She called out his name, apologizing and saying how much she loved him. The sound of a knife slicing skin added to the cries.

“Sweets!” Booth reached over him and slammed the laptop shut, silencing the sounds of Y/N’s torture. “How the hell did that get on your computer?” Lance just stared blankly at his desk, the screams still ringing through his mind. Booth waved his hand in front of Sweets’ blank eyes, welling with tears. “Hey.” Booth spun his chair around, leaning over the younger man, forcing him to look at him.

“I should have found her sooner.” Sweets whispered, his voice cracking. Booth knelt down in front of him.

“Hey, what happened wasn’t your fault.” He assured him. “And if it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have found Y/N at all. You saved her, Sweets. Don’t you dare start telling yourself differently.” He started to unplug Sweets’ laptop. “I’m going to take this down to tech to figure out how that got to you, okay?” Sweets just nodded wordlessly. Booth sighed. “I’m serious Sweets. We’re lucky that you noticed those wound patterns. You saved your fiance’s life. You saved my partner and you helped catch a man who killed four innocent woman. You’re a hero, Sweets.” With that, he left to go find the tech guys.

Lance ran his hand over his face, wiping away the tears that had fallen. He couldn’t get the haunting sounds of the tape out of his head, no matter how much he tried to focus on Booth’s words. He may have gotten to Y/N before Marty killed her, but she had still been tortured for at least a few hours. She had nearly bled out in his arms for god’s sake. How was he supposed to just forget that?

You had spent most of the day reading, avoiding anything that might bring up the news of your kidnapping or Marty’s demise. Your whole body was itching to do something, but the doctor said that you should get plenty of rest. That, and you weren’t sure if you were ready to enter back into the world just yet.

It seemed like every time you walked past your reflection, you felt the need to tug down the sleeves of your sweatshirt, or you could see the scars through your pajama pants- which you never bothered to change out of. Every time you took a shower, or wore a dress, you would be reminded of what he did to you. Part of you feared what Lance thought. Your once smooth skin was ridden with jagged, harsh lines. Would he look at you the same way?

You leaped from your spot on the sofa as the door clicked open. Lance stepped inside.

“It’s okay, it’s just me.” His exhausted expression brightened when he saw you. He crossed the room to place a firm kiss on your lips before moving to his room, taking off his suit jacket and tie. “How was your day?”

“Nothing interesting.” You shrugged. “You?”

“Nothing interesting.” He lied, memorizing the sound of your voice to replace your screams in his head. He came back into the living room and plopped down on the couch next to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. You laid your head on his chest, listening to the sound of his beating heart, focusing on it, making it the only thing in the world that mattered.

For a long time, neither of you said a word. You just sat there as the sun slowly drifted behind the horizon, the sky painting itself a symphony of oranges and pinks. After everything that had happened, you had feared that there was no beauty left in the world. But you felt the emotions stir in your chest as you longingly watched the sunset, wishing that it would remain like this forever.

“I’m scared.” You blurted, breaking the quiet. Lance pulled away to look at you. “Even though he’s dead and it’s over, I’m still scared.” You could feel the sobs slowly creeping up your throat as you spoke. You expected him to say something shrinky- to tell you that it was just the trauma and that it was going to take a while to get over. But he didn’t. Instead, with a shaking voice, he whispered.

“Me too.” He leaned back against the couch, his eyes distant and quickly filling with tears. “I lied. Something happened today.” You furrowed your brows in concern and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“What are you talking about?”

“Someone sent me…” He took a deep breath. “Someone sent me your tape.” You closed your eyes, remembering how you screamed until your throat was sore.

“Lance…” You started, unable to think of what to say.

“Y/N, I couldn’t breathe.” He cried. “It felt like I was losing you all over again.”

“It was like I couldn’t escape.” You whispered. “He was everywhere I looked. Every time I looked in the mirror, he was in these scars. I could hear his voice every time I turned on the TV and saw the news. He’s always going to be here, Lance.” You tapped your finger against your temple. “I’ll always be trying to get away from him. My own skin is just a reminder of what happened to me. ”

“Hey,” He wrapped his arms around you as you started to sob. “He can’t hurt you anymore. No one is ever going to hurt you again so long as I’m here.” He rubbed circles on your back trying to sooth you. He wanted so desperately to make everything go away. He ran his hands over your legs, pointing out every line. “These are a reminder that you survived, Y/N. You survived and Marty’s dead. He can’t hurt you now.” You breathed deeply to calm yourself down and turned the attention back to what happened to him.

“Do you know who sent you the email?” You asked and he shook his head.

“Booth thinks it’s probably a hacker, but I don’t understand how they knew about the tapes.” He had been thinking about it all day, cancelling all of his appointments so he could focus on the hacker. Whoever it was, had to have known about the tapes before hand, and had some sort of vendetta against him or the FBI.

“I can’t think of who would be sick enough to do that.” You muttered, placing a tender kiss to the side of his head. You started to feel the silence creeping up and decided to change the subject to something light as opposed to the seriousness of the one before. “Do you know what my favorite part of going back to work is going to be?” You twisted one of his curls around your finger.

“What would that be?” He hummed, glad to be able to talk about something else. You pressed your lips to his passionately, the tension of the last conversation fading away, but not disappearing completely.

“Telling everyone that I am going to become Agent Y/F/N Sweets.” You grinned, earning a bright smile from him.

“It’s so weird to think about us getting married. But somehow, it doesn’t feel weird.” He looked at you intensely. “It feels right.”

“Did you get that from one of your shrink books.” You snorted and he laughed.

“That was all me.” He shot you a goofy grin and you threw a pillow at his face. In response, he tackled you against the couch cushions trapping your body underneath his. “We’re going to get through this.” You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled his lips down to yours, moving them together with small smile. When you pulled away, the smile remained and you nodded.

“I know. And I couldn’t think of better person to go through hell and back with.” Your heart filled with love towards him and it took over your mouth before your mind had time to react. “Let’s get married.”

“I thought we were.” He snickered.

“That’s not what I mean.” You explained and his face morphed with understanding as he realized what you were suggesting. “I mean let’s get married now, Lance.”

“Y/N…” He began, trying to think of how to respond. He wanted more than anything to marry you, but he wasn’t sure if you were thinking clearly.

“Don’t think. Let’s just get in the car and go, Lance. I want this. You want this. Why wait? After everything that has happened, I don’t want to wait another minute to be together.” You stood up and tugged on his sleeves, urging him to come with you. He watched you, his eyes showing the thoughts going through his mind. But then, he smiled and nodded.

“Okay.” His smiled grew, filling you with a wonderful sense of just pure happiness. “Let’s do it. Let’s get married.”

You had both decided that you wanted your friends to be there. It was getting late, but you knew that Angela would have your head if she didn’t get to go the wedding, so she was the one you called first. You hoped that she would bring Hodgins with her.  Lance invited Booth and Dr. Brennan and you called Cam as well. Within an hour, you were all standing in front of the courthouse. Lance gave your hand a squeeze and Angela wrapped you in her arms for one of her famous bear hugs.

“I can’t believe this is happening!” She squealed, jumping up and down like a schoolgirl. From the corner of your eye you noticed Hodgins, lovingly smile at her antics. You made sure she wasn’t looking before you caught his attention.

“You’re next.” You mouthed, pointing your finger between him and Angela. His eyes went wide and you gave him a wink.

“I mean, I would have expected this from Miss Spontaneous over here,” Booth started, jutting his thumb towards you before patting Lance on the back. “But I must say, I’m surprised you agreed, Sweets.”

“Once she has her mind set to something, how am I supposed to say no?” He shrugged, leaning over to place a kiss on your cheek. “I can’t thank you guys enough for being here.”

“Are you kidding? We wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Cam gave the two of you a bright grin and you all walked up the steps of the courthouse. Your heart pounded as Booth opened the door and the crowd entered.

Lance explained everything to the woman at the desk and she was more than happy to help. She called to the justice and ushered you into the courtroom, checking both of your documents and placing them on the table. The justice entered and you took a deep breath. This was really happening.

“Oh, wait!” Angela exclaimed digging around in her purse. “I got you guys these.” She handed you a small plastic bag with two rings inside. One had the face of a penguin on it and the other had a bright, bubblegum pink unicorn. You and Lance couldn’t help but laugh.

The process wasn’t really anything elaborate. You both signed a wedding contract after the judge reviewed your papers. But you felt a childlike giddiness every time Lance looked at you. Electric sparks shot up his arm whenever your hands touched. You had requested that you have traditional vows, and the judge was more than happy to oblige. The two simple words sprung to your lips before he even had time to finish.

“I do.” Your heart lept as Lance said the same.

“I do.” You watched each other for what felt like hours when the judge said.

“I believe this is the part where you kiss the bride.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

Just another note: I have no idea what happens at an elopement, so I just wrote it in kinda vague. Sorry! (In case you didn’t catch it, the hacker was Pelant.)

[sologxlaxies]

Not About Angels | Part 4

(Un)Necessary Confrontations

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Main Masterlist

Summary: Loving him feels like the most exquisite way of self-destruction. Too close, and you’re radioactive. Too far, and your heart shatters, and the city cracks in two while debris scatters in the space between your ribs. Pining over a brooding, unstable Bucky Barnes isn’t exactly your brightest idea, especially when you’re just as damaged as he is, and he doesn’t seem to love you half as much as you love him.

Warnings: Swearing, hospitals & needles, angst

Word count: 2597

“Where the fuck were you?”

As soon as he steps through the compound doors—half of his armor still attached to his body—Tony is greeted by a fuming Bucky Barnes. Granted, it's not the first time he sees the supersoldier in angry state of mind, but there is a certain urgency to his tone that has Stark on edge the minute he lays his eyes on the man currently pacing around the room, clad in only a pair of sweatpants, and it has everything to do with the fact that he received an urgent message from Natasha asking him and Bruce to come back.

“What happened?” Asks Tony as the remaining pieces of armour fly off his body, his tone more concerned than usual.

“What happened… Are you serious Stark?” Bucky clenches his fists, pulling to a stop in front of Tony and making full use of his towering height to look as intimidating as possible. “S.H.I.E.L.D.S’ little paranoia-sponsored experiment and your blatant negligence almost got someone killed. That's what happened.”

“What do you-”

“Tony!” Nat’s voice is a little out of breath as she rushes towards both men “We need you on the med bay. Banner is already there but you have to go now. it’s Y/N.” she says, her agitated tone prompting both tony and Bucky to rush to the medical bay of the compound. The sight is enough to kick the air out of Tony’s lugs.

The hospital bed you’re lying on is surrounded by all kinds of tubes and machines. There’s a heart monitor  and a leg sling that maintains your feet and calves elevated, as well as an oxygen mask attached to your nose and mouth, and a large IV tube sprouting from one of your hands. A respirator rests in one corner of the room, ready to be used. What’s more haunting is the sight of you, strapped to the bed with your fingernails partially broken and bloody and fresh tear stains still fresh on your cheeks. You’re still wearing the clothes you had for the gym, but Barnes’ shirt is now safely slung over your head.

“is she..” Tony mumbles, taking a step back in shock.

“She suffered from a severe anaphylactic attack. She was rather shaken, but she’s stable now, thanks to Barnes.” says Bruce, emerging from the other side of the hospital bed where he’d been calibrating the IV bag. His hair is still ruffled from the mission, gear strewn on the entrance to the room, but he’s entirely focused now, as he pulls out several flasks and needles. “if he hadn’t gotten to her when he did, the story would be completely different.” he states solemnly.

“Anafilaxia? I thought there weren’t any allergies on her medical file.” Tony blinks several times, frowning in confusion as he begins pacing around the room.

“There aren’t” answers Bruce “there’s no record of her ever having an allergic reaction to anything-”

“Until you decided to inject her with some weird shit and she collapsed on the elevator:” says Bucky, effectively interrupting Bruce and shooting Tony a death glare.

“Stop right there Soldier. I didn’t inject her with...” His hesitation is enough to stop Tony dead on his tracks, and he immediately rushes to your right side, tugging at your wrist to take a good look at the empty vial on the bracelet. The skin surrounding it is hot to the touch and lightly dusted with small welts. “Shit.”

It doesn’t take longer than three seconds for Bruce to jump into action with Antihistamine injections at the ready and for Nat to run into the room, effectively restraining an angry supersoldier ready to strike at Stark.

“Barnes-” she chokes out, most of her strength invested in keeping a struggling, fuming Bucky away from Tony, “Stop fighting and help her.” she says, pointing towards your stirring figure.

“What-” you stammer, eyelids fluttering open as your heart rate spikes -”What’s happening? Bruce-” Your voice is muffled by the oxygen mask, and you start stirring on the bed, but doctor Banner rushes to your side immediately.

“Shhhhh I’m right here sweetheart, but I’ll need to to stay still for me okay? Can you do that?” He asks, and you nod in response, eyes darting wildly around the room. “Good. Someone help me administer an injection please.”

Bucky takes a step forward, grabbing a long, thick needle and a flask from the doctor’s hand. “How much and where?” he asks, uncapping the syringe.

“Between five and eight milligrams on her thigh. I can take care of the rest.”

He obliges, his entire body moving as if caught in a daze. After he administers the injection, he does nothing but watch as Bruce takes over. Three other needles are plunged into your skin, making him flinch, and he takes a few steps back until he’s standing behind the large glass panel that separates your room, his eyes never leaving Bruce or Tony as they work to remove and refill the bracelet. He only steps away once the welding equipment comes in, and you have to be sedated in order to seal the bracelet shut once again. But even then he doesn’t really leave the medical ward, opting to pull up a chair against one of the walls that looks out to the yard.

“They shouldn’t tie her up.” he says without bothering to glance to the figure stepping next to him.

“We don’t know how she’ll react… the restraints are just a precaution.” Natasha sounds surprisingly apologetic, hesitant even, and it takes Bucky a moment to remember that she has a reason to be averted to those.

“You don’t understand Nat,” he huffs “When I tried to help her she… she pushed me away, didn’t want to touch me. She was ready to claw her way out of the elevator for fucks sake!”

“Barnes…” she’s turned to look at him now, her eyes trained on the whirring plates of his metal arm. “You know she can be dangerous-”

“Aren’t we all? Isn’t that why we’re all here?” he sighs “I know what she can do but… that girl was willing to die rather than accidentally poisoning me. She was alone and scared and she fucking sobbed when I hugged her Nat. That’s not dangerous, that’s human.”

He knows, if he was talking to anyone else other than Natasha, that he would never have said that, but he trusts the spider, perhaps almost as much as he trusts Steve, and there’s a deeper layer of understanding between the both of them; a silent connection that makes it easy for him to confide in the former spy, even when she raises an eyebrow at him after his little confession. So when he looks at Y/N’s unconscious form and remembers her hands, those cold, clammy hands pushing him away even as she struggled to breathe, he finds himself vouching for her.

Nat sighs, a long, breathy sigh followed by a few seconds of silence, pretending to mull the question over even when she’s already made up her mind. “I’ll see what I can do,“ she says, “but I can’t make any promises.”

And that is more than enough for him.

Four days later

“Is that…” Clint’s voice sounds almost as confused as his face looks “Am I hallucinating or is there a giant chocolate cake in the middle of our breakfast table?”

“Oh you are hallucinating,” quips Nat “that giant chocolate cake is sitting right on Barnes’ plate. Definitely not the middle of the table, Clint.”

All eyes suddenly turn to gaze at him, and Bucky finds himself—perhaps for the first time since he came back from Wakanda—at a loss for words because there is, in fact, a four tiered, slightly frosted, glorious looking chocolate cake sitting daintily on the place where he usually sits at the table, and he doesn't have the remotest idea of where it came from.

Another thing that apparently appears out of nowhere is his smile. He can feel his lips pulling up on a genuine grin that soon stretches into a full smile, and he doesn’t mind it that in that moment his mouth seems to have a mind of its own, because the warm feeling deep in his chest is one he hasn’t felt in a very long time.

As soon as he bites into the cake though, when the spongy cake dissolves on his tongue leaving a faint taste of coffee behind, he swears he’s in heaven because it's perfect. It's gooey and sweet, and it takes him back to a small apartment in Brooklyn where, for the briefest of moments, he can picture a smiling Sarah Rogers with a bowl of dough in her hands.

And his eyes flutter shut, body leaning back on the chair. It is the best he's ever felt in ages.

He eats half the cake all on his own—calories be damned—before the day is even over. And he’s so wrapped up in the sheer enjoyment of it, eating bite after delicious bite of the sweet, fluffy, chocolate goodness that he misses Natasha’s sly smile the minute you enter the dining room.

“You made him the cake.”

If you said you weren’t surprised to hear your Captain’s voice all of a sudden you’d be lying. You’d come to the roof on purpose, looking for a secluded place to have some fresh air but still, there’s a tiny part of you, the one that refuses to let him go completely, that welcomes his presence as you shift from the spot you’re perched in at the very edge of the roof, feet dangling from the concrete and the cool night breeze sweeping over you.

“How did you find me Steve?” the question comes out way harsher than what you intended, but not harsh enough for you to try and take it back.

Steve sighs, coming closer to you. “You shouldn’t be smoking Y/N,” he says, pointing at the cigarette you’re carefully nursing between your middle and index finger. You can almost feel his disapproving expression that’s so characteristically his, but at this point, after what transpired five days ago, it’s not enough for you to really care.

“They help calm me down,” you retort “and you still haven’t answered my question. How did you find me?”

“I remember you liked going to the roof back at the tower.” he shrugs “After Nat filled me in on what happened, I figured you’d go somewhere quiet. Coming here was worth a try, and it was either this place or the Quinjet.”

Silence stretches between the both of you after that, the only sound on the already quiet compound being the soft chirping of crickets in the surrounding forest grounds. It’s not an uncomfortable silence by any means, and yet you still feel the urge to break it.

“He deserved it.”

“What?”

“The cake,” you explain, looking up at the towering figure that is Steve “I know I only ever made that for you once, but… he saved my life.”

“I’m guessing Bruce told you that.” and after a long pause “Do you like him? Bucky, I mean.”

“No.” is your immediate answer, and you know you’ve made the mistake of answering too quickly when Steve’s eyebrows practically fly up to his hairline. “Alright, yes… maybe. I don’t know Rogers, you’re the one who told me all those stories about him so don’t look at me like that.”

Taking a long drag from your cigarette, you watch as the smoke drifts upwards and out into the night, feel the slight tang of the menthol filling up your throat and your lungs, savor the taste of the smoke escaping in a thick cloud as you exhale.

“Listen, you did help paint a rather pretty picture of him in my head but I barely even know the man, Steve.” you sigh.

“Yes, but do you want to know him?” Asks Steve “I mean, you baked him the cake Y/N.  For god’s sake!”

“Fucking hell Rogers, are you jealous?” you ask him, half amused-half angry, standing up in what you recognize as your body’s defensive stance. “So what if I baked him a cake?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” He states, clearly pissed off at you judging by the tick in his jaw.

“You haven’t answered mine either.” You retort.

“Well shit Y/N, it must feel terrible when the people you trust and care about don’t tell you the fucking truth!” Steve yells, taking you completely aback because it’s the very first time that you see him lose his temper like this, the first time that he’s yelled at you, and his words sting more than you’re probably willing to admit. “Two years. We knew each other for two years and even dated for more than one before I had to find out you were HYDRA because of an accident?”

You wait for his anger to subside, remaining quiet until his raging breaths have leveled out again before you give him any kind of answer. You’re afraid that if you do, the words might start spilling out of you. “Are you done?” Your arms are crossed over your chest protectively, and you’ve taken a few steps away from him, trying to put a little distance between the both of you, all in an effort to hide the pain that comes from his words and that’s blossoming in your chest.

“You want the truth Steve? Fine.” You spit, angry and hurt, and fully aware that this isn’t the best moment to talk but you’re too far-gone to care. “The truth is that I tried my best to do something I thought was good, but I messed up. I did horrible things in the name of someone I loved because I thought I could save her, and even knowing what I did, Barnes saved my life. He hates, me as far as I’m concerned, and I really don’t mind but that morning he actually took care of me. The truth is that in the span of a few hours, he treated me better than you and the rest of the team have treated me in months, so yeah; I baked him my sister’s chocolate cake to thank him. Forgive me for doing something nice for the first person who’s actually treated me like a regular human being since I came back. Not that you’d understand; us monsters have our own code.”

If Steve is touched in the slightest by what you just said in your sudden outburst, he doesn’t show it. He’s frozen to the spot with his brows still furrowed and his lips shut, but the moment you try and reach out for him he takes a step back.

“Y/N-”

“No, it’s alright. You don’t trust me either, I get that now.” you hiss “Look, I’m tired and I came here to have a smoke in peace without having everyone display their blatant hatred towards me. So you can either stay quiet and keep me company, or you can go.”You hate the way your voice breaks at the very end of the sentence, but you try to cover it up with a sniffle.

“For what it’s worth,” he says “That night at the party, the night of the accident… I should’ve been there for you. We all should’ve.”

His sentence leaves you to try and and wipe the stray tears that fall from your eyes the second Steve closes the door behind him, leaving you alone on the rooftop once again just as the embers of your cigarette begin to fade out.

Next Part ->

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[qqueenofhades]

Okay, I know I've sent way too many of these, but if you are at all inspired to share missing Flint/Miranda/Sam scenes from TDH or write anything Flint/Miranda/Sam in general, I would probably cry a lot (in a mostly good way but also a feelsy way)

Happy Bi Visibility Day! Or, I rediscovered this prompt buried in my inbox and, in honor of everyone’s favorite bisexual pirate prince, am posting it for you today. This takes place at the end of chapter 33/during chapter 34 of The Dark Horizon, after Sam rescued Liam, Regina, Lord Archibald, and Miranda after their escape from Jamaica. Sam/Miranda and Sam/Flint feels ahoy. Decidedly rated M.

Miranda just managesto make it into the cabin before her legs start to give out. She leans againstthe wall as the Whydah rocks gentlybeneath her, even that motion nearly too much to cope with after several daysadrift in a tiny rowboat. She is shaking from head to toe, a fine, constantvibration that she can’t seem to stop, as she raises her hands before her faceand stares at them. She is not entirely convinced that she is not dreaming,that this is not the sort of hallucination said to grip men at the mercy of sunand salt and thirst. Sam Bellamy can’t be here, this can’t be real, they can’tbe safe – but nearly more than she has prayed for anything in years, for mostof her life, Miranda Barlow begs the Almighty that he is.

After a moment, shegets hold of herself, and crosses the cabin to sit on the davenport, oddlytimid about presuming to the bed. Sam kissed her when she threw herself intohis arms, but she does not know what happened in Antigua, or since then, andout here by himself, without James or Killian in consort – a brief, unspeakableterror seizes her insides, and she can scarcely breathe. Then she remindsherself that no matter what, Sam would not leave them behind if they were indanger. Not when they did not leave him.

She sits there for alittle while, listening to the sounds outside the door, supposes that Sam isfinding somewhere to put Liam, Regina, and Lord Archibald, tending to hisguests, being a captain. Miranda does not want him to wait on her, so she getsup, goes to the desk, and pours a cup of water from the pottery jug. She drinksit down, suddenly aware that she is parched as a desert, and then another. Shedrinks nearly the entire jug before she stops, gasping. She is nowaware of another acute discomfort: she has not taken off her corset, or any ofher clothes, in days, and after being doused in salt, dried, doused again, andbaked in sun, she half-wonders if the bones have grown into her own.

Miranda has had causeto remark before that much of women’s clothing is designed on the assumptionthat you will have someone around to get you into it – even common women intheir working stays have a sister or a daughter or a husband to pull the lacesfor them – but living alone on Nassau, she has either made do herself, ortailored them to go up the front, rather than the back. Of course, she is notwearing such a helpful garment now, and once she’s rid herself of thesun-bleached, salt-stained tatters of her dress, the laces of her bodice arehopelessly snarled in a salt-crusted knot. She expels a breath of frustration,takes a dagger off the pile of several on Sam’s desk (he looks to have had anextremely successful run of raiding recently) and awkwardly saws through them, barelymanaging to avoid cutting herself. Finally, however, the corset loosens for thefirst time in a fortnight, and Miranda gulps with agonizing relief, whimperingunder her breath as she eases it off her abraded torso. It looks as if she’sbeen horsewhipped. Fashion is a damned stupid sacrifice.

She is now onlywearing her shift and stockings, and she pulls off the latter as well, crumpledand half-rotted. Her feet are cracked and sore, and the sensation of the woodenfloor makes her hiss. She sinks onto the davenport again, hair comingdown in thick brown curls from its pins. Closes her eyes, but the sight ofHenry Jennings jumping into the boat after them swirls up, leering. She canfeel the weight of the oar in her hands, the crack of bladed wood against bone,sees the spray of blood as he topples, and her eyes jerk open again, her breathcrumpled like paper against her sternum. The old bullet wound in her side, theone that nearly killed her on Nassau, aches like fire. He’s dead, she tells herself, even as she has already admitted toLiam that she does not think it was enough. He’sdead, and even if not, he can’t find you here. But he will, he will, he –

“Miranda?”

She jerks around,startled for another reason, as the cabin door shuts behind Sam. He is watchingher in confusion and concern, and she sits upright fast enough to make theworld reel. He crosses the boards to her in about half a stride, kneels beforeher, and takes in the damage, the bruises, the sunburns, the corset welts, the cutsand scrapes and the hollowness of her face. “Jesus Christ,” he says quietly.“Look at you.”

“I’m quite all right,”Miranda says, her usual well-bred reflex, even as it is reasonably plain thatshe has been far better, and feels about as substantial as a bit of dandelionfluff in the wind. She caresses his cheek with the back of her hand, as he toolooks thin and dark and gaunt and haunted, a heavy, unshaven black scruffclinging to the clean lines of jawbone and cheek. His hair is half-loose fromits ponytail, but the light in his eyes, however weary, remains Sam. “Whatabout you? What are you doing out here? The others – James and Killian, whereare – we had to go to Jamaica, the pardon for Emma – we – Jennings, he caughtus, we barely escaped from the Bathsheba withour lives, and then the storm – ”

Sam cuts herflustered, half-coherent explanation off by leaning forward, cradling her headin his large, callused hands, and kissing her. Miranda is caught by surprisefor a moment, but then slides off the davenport, and into his arms, onto thefloor. She clings to him almost desperately, running her fingers through hishair, tilting his mouth to bring it closer to hers, as he gets a better grip onher with one arm and cups her head with the other. They barely bother to stopfor a proper breath, quiet and fierce and disbelieving, until they finally moveapart just enough to rest their foreheads. Miranda’s eyes are half-closed, hernose pressed into the hollow beside his, his hand still petting and stroking inthe tangles of hair at the nape of her neck. She lies on his chest, listeningto the steady, deep thump of his heart, and can feel herself starting to shakeagain. “Samuel…”

“Shh.” He gets to hisfeet, and pulls her up with him; her legs have thoroughly turned to liquid bynow, and she holds tightly to his forearms, fearing to fall. He sweeps her up acrosshis chest without an effort and carries her to the bed, shifting aside thecovers to deposit her on the mattress, then pulls them over her. He starts tolet go, clearly intending to let her sleep, but she claws out convulsively,catching his wrist. She does not, she cannot, want to lose sight of him again.Not just now.

Sam pauses, then kicksoff his shoes, pulling the leather bandolier with his pistols over his head,shucking his much-worn black velvet coat, the gold lace looking tattered anddirty. He drapes it on a chair, stripping down to shirt and breeches, and thenslides in beside her, spooning her, arm settling around her waist as he burieshis nose in her hair. Miranda reaches up with her other hand to take hold ofhis, snuggling against him as closely as she can, still half-afraid that one orboth of them will suddenly turn to dust. She thinks of sleeping here withJames, that night that the two of them and Sam finally came to each other inthe dark. Sam was too wounded, and then she was, for it to be everything forall of them, but they have shared more than enough, intimacy and flesh andspirit. Soul, who knows.

Sam pulls his arm up,and runs his hand over the side of her thigh, caressing the tensed lines of themuscle until they ease. They remain there for who knows how long, until he stirsfrom their shared reverie. “Have you had anything to drink?”

“Aye,” Mirandamurmurs, floating in the ether. “Most of your water.”

“You need more,” Samsays decisively, rolling away from her – Miranda reaches for him with a smallsound of deprivation – and retrieving the empty pitcher. “I’ll be right back.”

Miranda lies curled upin the bed, watching the last of the daylight recede down the timbers and thetwilight advance, until he returns, having evidently made a trip to thefreshwater casks in the Whydah’s hold.He pours her several more cups, and sits watching until she’s drunk them, withan air like a stern but concerned father that makes her laugh weakly. “There,”she says, polishing off the last swallow. “Is that better, Doctor Bellamy?”

“Not nearly.” Sam getsup, goes to his trunk, and removes a few pottery vials, gadrooned bronze pots, abrown glass bottle, and something that smells evil when he uncorks it. Then hereturns to her and begins to tend her various injuries. He rubs soothingointment into the scrapes and burns, dabs tallow onto her cracked lips, andcleans the cuts with a few drops of the evil stuff – which, to judge from theway it stings, is four parts straight alcohol of five. The brown bottle provesto be poppy syrup, good for pain, but Miranda doesn’t want any. Poppy can sometimesproduce detailed and vivid hallucinations, and she does not want to wake in thenight and think that Jennings is there again. She might accidentally hurt Sam,fearing it was him. She would prefer to suffer.

Sam urges her to takesome anyway, but puts it aside when she refuses once more. He removes a bottleof some fine rosemary-scented oil, then an ivory-backed brush, and sits Mirandabetween his legs, so she can rest her arms on his knees, as he begins to workat the snarled mess of her hair. He is gentle and deft, never pulling, andMiranda closes her eyes, barely feeling real. “Where did you learn to do that?”she murmurs. “Your sisters?”

“Aye. I did this forthem often. And Mariah a time or two, as well.”

Miranda knows solittle about his family, his past, the lover on Cape Cod he still presumably plansto return for some day – the Puritan girl, with a strict father who regardsvery dimly the idea of his daughter running away to sea with a pirate, nomatter (and especially because of) how dashing. She and Sam have both left anentire life behind in England, and she wonders if he ever mourns it. “You havefour, don’t you? Sisters.”

“Aye. Elizabeth, Mary,Anne, and Jane.” She can hear a faint smile in Sam’s voice. “I never knew mybrother Stephen – he was the eldest child, he died before I was born. I neverknew my mother, either. She died three weeks after my birth, lived scarcelylong enough to see me baptized. My father remarried to my stepmother, a fewyears later. She was barely older than us, and my father, I think, wanted amother for the children and someone to cook and clean and keep the house forhim, but not so much a wife. He was never cruel to her, but he missed my mothertoo much, and he did not know how to move past that. She was sweet, she triedhard, but it was… difficult. I realize that more now. I often found hercrying.”

Miranda tries toimagine Sam’s childhood, growing up on a poor farm in rural Devonshire, so farfrom the glittering balls and society suppers of her wealthy London birdcage.“So you left,” she says quietly. “To go to sea, and make your fortune for themall.”

“So I did. It was theleast I could do, for how they cared for me. I never knew we were poor exceptwhen other men told us so, when the landlord came to extort and terrorize. Idid not want to see them subject to it any more.” Sam works carefully at atangle. “And yet, it would be too dangerous to send a letter, or return forthem – now that I have made myself such a known man. I fear often that someonehas found out who they are. That they have been made to suffer for theirassociation for me. So tell me, is that helping?”

Miranda winces at thebitterness in his voice. “You’ve done the best you could.”

Sam doesn’t answer, thoughhis fingers tremble as he takes up another lock of hair. The silence returns,sitting on the davenport with them like a quiet old hound, until – half notwanting to know and reprimanding herself for it, reminding herself that she hasno right to jealousy or threat – Miranda says, “Tell me about Mariah.”

“Oh?” Sam soundssurprised.

“Aye. I want to knowabout her. You love her, and I… I’m curious.”

“Ah. Well.” Sam seemsto be considering how to start. “We met when I arrived in Cape Cod the first time,fresh off leaving the Windsor inBoston and meaning to make my own name in the world. Penniless and ragged-arseand angry and naïve, but a fetching lad for all that, I suppose. She was a fewyears younger than me, and… well, to be quite honest, I don’t recall we didmuch talking, at least at first. She’s brave, Mariah. It’s not easy to grow upin that world, with everything they tell you about how a woman is supposed tobe and to act and believe, and challenge it, in even the smallest degree.”

“No, it isn’t.”Miranda has never been nearly that strict in her own observance of Puritanism –the attraction of it for her is the right to read Holy Scripture for oneself,to be the arbiter of one’s own salvation and the moral judgments thereof,rather than have it filtered through the corrupt and creakingly archaicCatholic Church – but she knows everything that goes with it. “But her fatherdid not think you suitable.”

“Not at all.” Samsounds wry. “And Mariah refused to leave without his blessing. I thought somemoney would change his mind, but when I returned there last summer, when Ifound Emma in Eastham, I discovered that instead of objecting to my penury, henow objected to my piracy. No pleasing the old bastard, so…” He blows out abreath. “I’ve been generous to the village, I’ve tended their problems, I’veprotected them from the exactions of the Royal Navy. Still it is thus. I wonderperhaps if Mariah likes the idea of me, the thought that I periodically returnfrom some exotic adventure abroad with tales and gifts and a night to spendtogether, and then vanish into the horizon again. That it is easier to have mefor a little while, and then to know I will go, rather than risk me staying forgood.”

“Do you wish it wasotherwise?”

“I do want her to – Iwish I could make her see that she shouldn’t have to stay there, in that place,with those people.” A faint edge of frustration is audible in Sam’s voice, buthe keeps it level. “I cannot take her from her own home without her consent,and against the wishes of her father – since those are also, for the moment,her wishes. If it was a matter of him keeping her prisoner against her will, ofcourse I’d free her. But if she still intends to stay, then stay she must.Perhaps we both hope the other will change. As yet, we have not.”

Miranda wonders if sheshould not have brought up the topic. She looks down at the ring on her finger,the ring that James proposed to her with on Sam’s instigation, the one that hesaid was meant for Mariah, one day, if she would ever take it. “Is she kind?”

“Very kind.” Sampauses to put more rosemary oil on the brush. “It is what I first admired abouther – well, nearly the first. I was a lad of barely twenty when we met, andother attractions were more apparent. But she is the sort who carefully carriesan insect out of the house rather than kill it, who gives her few pence fromthe market to some hungry child or ragged beggar. She always likes to listen tomy stories, to marvel at where I have been or what I have done. We’ve knowneach other long enough for it to be comfortable, easy, a safe port in a storm.But for all those years, we’ve only ever passed a few days together.”

Miranda looks down atthe ointment glistening on her ankles, the bandages on her arms. She is notsure what to think of this. Mariah Hallett’s reasons for staying on Cape Codwith her family are her own, and no woman can be eager to spend months and monthson a warship with a hundred and fifty men, in a dangerous and uncertain (andless than clean) life always barely ahead of the law. But Miranda, who hasloved pirates a long time and become accustomed to their ways, also thinks thatif this were on offer to her, this devotion from this man, she would take it.Fathers’ blessings are well and good (her own was already dead when she marriedThomas, and she wonders still what he would have thought of it), but if thatwas the only thing stopping Mariah… it does not seem so, and Miranda has nodesire to pass judgment on the other woman, not when they have never even met.She knows, after all, how insidious the grasp is, how you can kneel in churchof a Sunday and hear the preacher rail and rant, how even if it is somethingyou want with your whole heart, something else insists to you that you aredamned if you take it. Miranda knows that too well. Thinks of Pastor Lambertback on Nassau, and his earnest determination to save her soul. And yet, he only ever saw me as a witch.Beautiful, desirable, but a snare of Satan sent to challenge him, and which hemust, in his turn, cast down.

She tenses, and Samcan sense it. “What?” he asks. “Miranda, are you all right?”

Miranda supposes thatanother man might have asked if she was jealous, prodded to see what effectthis discussion of another lover was having on her, even if she was the one toraise the subject. But of course, Sam Bellamy does not. “I just…” She has no ideahow to even enumerate the things that are not right, numberless as stars in thesky. “Sam, I’m tired.”

“Aye.” He pauses, thenfinishes his brushing, carding through her now-silken hair with his fingers,and doing it up into a long plait. “Come to bed, love.”

Miranda does not needto be asked twice. She turns around and lets him take her in his arms, pullingher against his chest as they settle under the quilts. She still has morequestions, she wants to know what happened on Antigua, with Gold, with Hume –if she feels entitled to call so many of his ghosts to account. But not now.She wants to lie here with him, in the dark, and keep them quiet a littlelonger, and to sleep.

The next few days aresomething of a blur. Sam has assigned Liam and Lord Archibald to quarters withthe rest of the crew (which takes aback Lord Archibald, who was clearlyexpecting preferential treatment) and, being the gentleman that he is, offeredRegina the davenport in his cabin. Miranda does not want to dispossess her, asthey have, after all, been through the same ordeal. But nonetheless, she findsherself not in the least guilty when Regina – who can clearly see that theywant to be alone together – opts to spend most nights below with Liam anyway.

At the end of theweek, they chase and capture a ship, a Dutch merchanter out of Sint Maarten,the De Vries. Miranda sits in thecabin and watches through the window, until Sam comes in later with a present:a cameo on a velvet ribbon, which he fastens it around her neck. “There,” he says. “The cargo was mostly tulip bulbs, but thosethings are worth more than their weight in gold. I’ll find some taker for themlater. And there were a few chests of the usual sort, so I’d say we did quitewell.”

“Of course.” Miranda glances at the lookingglass once more, then back at him. “So you – have been pirating, then? SinceAntigua?”

Sam goes tense, the word hanging in the airas if etched in fire. After a moment, he says, “Aye. James and Killian wantedto return to the Maroons’ island – Emma is near her time, you know – but I… Iwanted to be who I am, for a while. I didn’t want to leave you, any of you. Ijust… needed to be away.”

“Of course,” Miranda says again, softly.Comes to him, rests her hands on his chest, as he takes her by the waist andthey stand there, listening to the raucous talk and laughter of the Whydah’s crew dividing up the spoils.“Sam, what – ”

He smiles, with that bitter, far-off lookin his eye, then bends to kiss her forehead. “James killed Hume,” he says,abruptly and unexpectedly. “They nearly hanged me and Robin Locksley, but Jamesand Killian arrived in the nick of time. Saved us, cut us down, and then Humekilled Locksley. I nearly – Jesus, I… somehow, after everything he did to me,that was when I hated him the most. I don’t know what I would have done, but Jamesshot him. Then we got the fuck out of there and had to put a leash on Vane andBlackbeard before they sacked the place. Which we did, but Jesus. I don’t think I would have troubled myself at all, not losta single wink of sleep, if the godforsaken lot of it burned.”

Miranda flinches. This is so unlike the manshe’s come to know, the chivalrous, temperate, dashing, generous captain, whonever allows his crew to kill except in justified self-defense and even now didnot spill a drop of blood in taking the DeVries, that it frightens her. Not of him, for she could never be afraid ofhim, but for what darkness is still trying to take root, even in a soul asstrong as his. She brushes a long black lock of hair out of his eyes. “Sam.”

“It’s all right.” He takes hold of herhand, brings it to his lips and kisses it. “I… thanked James later. Hume isdead, which is all that truly matters. But you can perhaps understand why goingto pirate holds a certain appeal.”

“Aye.” Miranda is well aware what sort ofthanks he means, and the image of it – James’ red head and Sam’s dark one, thetwo of them entwined together, fighting and fucking at once, tender and roughand raw – makes her shiver with both terrible desire and terrible grief. Sheloves them – God, she does, hasalways known and loved James more than anyone, but what she feels for Sam istoo strong and sad and sweet for any other name – she loves them both, and ithurts her heart. That James, who has not been with a man since Thomas, stillsees Thomas’ shadow whenever he turns to Sam. Of course he does, of course hecould do no differently – she does not want to let go of Thomas either, sheknows why he remains to haunt their life and their home and their bed – and yetjust then, selfishly, impossibly, Miranda Barlow longs for ease. For ease, andpeace, and Sam.

Perhaps he senses this, again, as he pullsher closer, and she stands on her tiptoes as he bends to kiss her properly. Sheopens her mouth for his tongue, and he explores lightly, as gentle as if she ismade of spun glass, even as she fists her hands in his half-open shirt andjerks him against her. They kiss until they’re breathless, lips wet and bruisedand marked with teeth, and she walks him back to the bed, pushing him down ontoit. She climbs atop him, hitching her skirt up to straddle him. Reaches tounlace his breeches, draws him out hard in her hand, and utters a whimper asshe sinks down onto him, taking him inside her with a sweet stretch and burn, ashe steadies himself with a hand on her hip. “Miranda, love – ”

“Shh,” she whispers, as he did to her. “Please.”

Sam hesitates, then takes her other hip,adjusting the fit with a brief sharp breath from both of them, as her knees braceon either side of his thighs. He looks up at her, letting her ride him,responding in small thrusts or strokes to match the pace she sets. She closesher eyes, mouth open, letting it shudder through her to her core. He fills hersolidly and steadily, simply and generously, never looking away. She bendsforward on all fours, hands and knees, pressing closer still, needing the raspand friction, the heat, as she ruts her hips up against his, to the place theirbodies are joined. “Sam,” she breathes, and it is more than half a prayer. “Sam.”

It’s not a shattering pleasure of climax somuch as a sense of indescribable relief, of milk and honey flowing through herfrom head to toe. She lets herself fall fully onto his chest, head on hisshoulder, as his hand comes up to rest on her back, fingers splayed on herspine, tracing circles. They’re still nearly fully dressed, and after a longmoment, she slides back on her knees, letting him slip out of her. Rolls overand lies next to him, staring at the ceiling. The echoes of his flesh continueto pulse in hers, until he finally sits up, pulls his breeches over his leanhips, and laces them again. “I’m going back out for supper with the men. You’rewelcome, of course, if you’re hungry.”

“Not just yet.” Miranda manages a smile.“Go out and celebrate with them. It was a most impressive capture, after all.”

Sam kisses her once more and strides out,as she watches his tall figure in the falling evening. He is so indisputablythe captain, the fearless leader, though some of these men are older and moreseasoned sailors than him – he is only twenty-eight. Miranda is not quite oldenough to be his mother, but as she is marking her forty-first year in May, sheis closer to it than not. She wonders if Sam would be happier with Killian andEmma than with her and James. They are his peers in age, and have so much lessdamage, so fewer impulses to hold back everything that he deserves to be given.Not to say that they are immaculate, or forever forthcoming, or without flaw,as no one is in this world – but perhaps. Perhaps. Yet in either case, theyneed to get that pardon back to Emma, or this all will have been for nothing.

Regina sleeps on the davenport that night,understandably not wanting to be around a bunch of rowdy men just in case,though Miranda feels that any man of Sam’s who laid an unwanted hand on a womanwould be relieved of it faster than their head could spin. So they merely sleepas well, and in the morning, after Regina has dressed and left, she asks himabout sailing back to the Maroons’ island. They were due to return a while ago,and if James and Killian returned and found them gone – would they come afterthem? She does not know. But Emma is just about to give birth, and with all ofthis – they have to.

Sam considers, then nods. He vows that theywill get the pardon to Emma, Miranda has his word on that, and perhaps heshould speak to Liam as well. He does not seem either to like or dislike theelder Jones brother, treating him with cool, correct civility, mindful ofLiam’s status as a guest on his ship, under his protection, but still too awareof Liam’s judgment to let down his guard. In another world, perhaps, they mighthave been friends, but this one, as ever, remains too fractured.

They capture another ship that day, aBritish trader from Portsmouth, the Georgiana,full of righteous indignation at their temerity; the captain informs them thatthe Royal Navy will hang them straightway. Sam only smiles dangerously andremarks that he does not think so, as Miranda sees the captain’s eyes flick toher and wonder if she is a helpless Englishwoman taken prisoner by thisbarbarous lot. James, as it happens, is from Portsmouth, born the only son ofCaptain Adam McGraw of HMS Venture, trainedand groomed for a career in the Navy from his first steps. If this captain hadbeen taken by his fellow citizen, he could expect much worse than what Sam hasoffered, and Miranda takes a few steps closer to him. The man can think her thepirate’s wife, or his whore, or his witch. It is no role she has not playedbefore, after all.

After the Georgiana is stripped and sent on her way, with one of the Whydah’s men sentenced to lose his sharefor shooting a sailor unprovoked, Miranda can feel Lord Archibald’s gazefollowing her as she walks to the rail with Sam. Doubtless he feels that shehas sullied the honor of the Hamilton family name enough, and does not evenhave the decency to refrain from her liaison with a pirate before his veryeyes. As if he has any moral authority to talk, as the one who hired Jenningsin the first place and being willing to finance privateer activities moregenerally, but they have called agreat deal of trouble on his head. As the alternative is death, at eitherJennings’ hands or Gold’s, Miranda is of the opinion that Hamilton has gottenthe best of a bad bargain. He is welcome to watch all he pleases, as she reachesup and brushes Sam’s heavily stubbled cheek. “You’re getting quitewild-looking. You should let me attend to this.”

“If you want.” Sam grins, looking more likehimself than he has yet. “I think it makes me rather fearsome, don’t you?Though it’s true, there’s already one Blackbeard.”

“No lighting explosives on your person, if you don’t mind,” Miranda says. “Comeon.”

Sam cocks an eyebrow, but follows herobligingly into the cabin. It’s a fine, fair day, and they open the windowsover the stern as he takes off his shirt and sits in the carved armchair, andMiranda removes the shaving kit from the trunk. On the one hand, she supposesshe should drape a sheet around his neck; on the other, she is rather enjoyingthe view. She whisks the soap to a thick white froth and spreads it on his chinand cheeks, strops and whets the razor, and carefully begins to scrape. Hewatches her with gentle affection, not talking (unlike James, who always seemsto become the bloody Oracle at Delphi whenever she does this for him) as sheworks. She takes the cloth, buffs him clean, and gives him a quick rinse, thenpats a bit of the ointment onto the small spot where she nicked him. “There.You look altogether more civilized, I’d say.”

“Ah?” Sam smiles devilishly. “No chance ofscratching you if I should kiss between your legs, you mean?”

Miranda blushes, despite herself. “Samuel Bellamy.”

“If you were going to scold me properly,you should know my full Christian name,” he remarks, as he gets out of thechair, but only to go to his knees in front of her, running his hands down herskirt and lifting the hem of it away. “It’s Joshua. Samuel Joshua Bellamy.”

“How very prophetical of you,” Mirandamanages, slightly breathlessly due to the fact that Sam’s fingers are slidingfarther up her inner thigh, then still farther, teasing at her wetness. “Soundthe trumpets of Jericho too, did you?”

He looks up at her, eyes dark with lust.“Why, did you want a demonstration of the sorts of things I can do with mymouth, Mrs. Barlow?”

Miranda starts to answer, but forgetsaltogether, breath driven out of her in a rush, as he licks at her, grasping herfirmly by both thighs, making sure she reaps the full benefits of his newly barberedfacial landscape. She utters a choked gasp as he nips her with a light sting ofteeth, playing her nub in slow, considered strokes, and braces her foot on thechair, hiking her knee up to allow him better access. He muses and mouths andtastes her, working lower, sliding his tongue into her with a few quick ghostsof thrusts. Then he moves to kiss her stomach, the jut of her hipbones, thesoft rasp of her mound, the slickness of her folds. Still preoccupied with hiswork, he murmurs, “You really should marry James, you know.”

Miranda blinks. Much as matters might beunorthodox between the three of them, this is nonetheless a surprising topic ofconversation when between a woman’s legs. Then again, she asked him aboutMariah earlier, so she can hardly cast stones. “If we’re ever – ” She graspsfor the desk to steady herself. “If we’re ever in the same place again – ”

“You will be.” Sam pulls back to look up ather. “I promise you that, love. The two of you need each other. And you have been engaged for quite some time.”

“Only if – ” Miranda bites a gasp as hemoves back in. “Only if you perform the ceremony.”

She feels himsmile softly, against her secret skin. “I suppose that can be arranged.”

That night, as Miranda sleeps in his armsand the world becomes the strange, eternal, echoing place that it does in thedarkness, where it is only him and his unquiet thoughts and the great black seahis mind sails so much as his body, Sam thinks again, for the first time sinceit happened, of Antigua. Both of it, and what came after.

He doesn’t remember consciously deciding togo to Flint. He made him a promise, to be sure, and he certainly intended tokeep it. But calling off Vane and Blackbeard, and escaping into the Atlanticahead of any pursuit (he thinks again of the Scarborough burning in the harbor, how he only wished to have setthe flame himself, and how he sometimes still wishes to burn the Windsor, David Nolan’s ship or no, toscour the very memory of it away, leave no trace) was chore enough. Nor did heintend to go to Flint on the Walrus; itwould be difficult to achieve the necessary level of privacy, and the lastfucking thing he wanted was for John Silver to pop up after, with those knowingeyes and glib ripostes. But after they reunited with the Whydah and headed for St. Ursula and the Virgins, once they wereagain a proper pirate cohort with a spot of pillaging on the mind… then it’sthat night beneath the Caribbean stars again, and he is standing on the deck,and hears a rowboat pull softly across the water. Hears it clatter against theside, and the hoists creak. Until a dark shadow materializes, unpins the turbanwrapped over his face, and regards him with glittering green eyes. “Goodevening, Captain Bellamy.”

It's spoken with that spurious courtesythat Flint does so well, nearly enough to sound genuine, but edged with the icethat keeps you at arm’s length. It’s clear that Flint feels he shouldn’t havehad to be the one to initiate this conversation. There is a considerablyawkward silence as they stare at each other, both waiting for the other to dosomething. It’s Sam who breaks the spell. “Can I help you, Captain Flint?”

He doesn’t feel that it’s explicit thanksthat Flint wants, and would think less of him if so, if he felt that hisservice in killing Josiah Hume deserves payment in kind. They circle eachother, almost unconsciously, drawn as if to similar points on a lodestone. ThenSam, with a glance at the dim, anchored silhouette of the Jolie Rouge a few hundred feet away, thus to ensure Killian isstill safely occupied on his own vessel, beckons Flint after him with a brusquejerk of his head. Across the boards, and into his cabin.

It’s decently sized as such things go –though it’s smaller than it used to be, as he’s modified the ship to fit moreguns – but once the door shuts and it’s just the two of them, it feels absurdlytiny. The thick tropical air turns still thicker, weighing on them, as Flintunravels the rest of the turban and sets it aside. His ginger hair is darkenedto russet with sweat, which glints in a sheen on his cheekbones. The silencehas become nearly enough to set off a barrel of gunpowder without call for a spark,by the time Sam speaks again, in a low, level, almost expressionless voice.“You had no right to do that.”

James Flint, a man not in the leastaccustomed to asking anyone’s permission before he does anything, especially killinghis enemies, arches an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“No.” Sam takes a step; he’s several inchestaller than Flint, an advantage he now uses to look coolly down his nose at theolder man. “Hume was my monster. Would you agree without turning a hair ifsomeone stepped in to kill yours for you? Even meaning it well?”

Flint’s tongue touches his lips. There’s anunderlying goad in his voice when he speaks – that, and something else. “That’snot what you said before.”

Sam comes close to punching him, just for amoment. Instead, he reaches out and pushes Flint in the chest, hard, whichmakes him rock on his heels, but not actually give any ground. This man doesnot back down, one can say that for him, and he clearly dislikes having to tilthis head to continue meeting Sam’s eyes. They’re standing close enough by nowthat most of the space between them has unaccountably vanished. Very softly,Flint says, “I’m not sorry.”

Sam did not expect him to be. Did not wanthim to be, not really. But as he struggles so hard to keep his head abovewater, to remember who he is and wants to be, he is so damned close to givinginto the darkness anyway, and if he does, it seems absolutely unbearable thathe didn’t even get to murder his tormentor himself. Instead, somehow, this iseven worse. Have Flint do the dirty work for him, trying to save his soul, andyet not be strong enough to hold off the plunge anyway. Sam Bellamy has spent agreat deal of time assuring everyone else that it is no weakness to do so, nolasting stain or defect on their character. And yet, when he comes to theprospect himself, standing on the edge of the abyss, all he can do is fear thefall with more-than-mortal terror. He can’t go down there, he thinks. He can’tgo down there and survive.

Flint seems to sense his struggle. Raises ahand to his cheek, in the closest thing to a gentle gesture that Sam has everseen from him. The backs of his fingers ghost without quite touching, both ofthem aware that they can’t actually make contact without breaking a dam, andbeing unable to control what they unloose. “Sam,” James says, in a gravellywhisper. “Sam, don’t.”

Sam has no idea what he means – don’t fallto the darkness, don’t feel guilty about the prospect, don’t be afraid, don’tstop yourself, don’t bleed like this before me, don’t take this on yourself,don’t, don’t? It could be any or all or none of them. He closes his eyes, forhalf a haunted instant, since he can’t bear to keep looking. Hears only thesoft creak of the Whydah’s timbers,the susurrus of sand in the great hourglass on his desk, and the catch and gulpof their increasingly strained breathing. If they’re not planning for anythinguntoward to happen, Flint should go. Really should.

He doesn’t. Instead he takes another step,until there is nothing but fractions, whispers, slivers of space between them,if that, and his hand is so close to Sam’s face that Sam can feel it burning.Flint curves his fingers, ever so slightly, and that brings them into contactwith Sam’s cheekbone. Just a bit, the barest brush. And yet, just as promised,as feared, as perhaps so terribly hungered for, they both snap.

Sam’s hands come up, seizing Flint by theshirt, shoving him backwards against the wall, and almost lifting him off his feet.It’s a rush of uncoiled ferocity halfway between a push and a lunge, as hedrives into Flint with all his weight and strength and his fists jerk againstFlint’s shoulders. Then before either of them know what the fuck they’re doing,they’re kissing – if kissing isremotely the word for this savage, starving, gulping, biting communion. Theyturn their heads, twisting and tugging and pulling closer again, Sam tastingblood in his mouth where Flint has bitten his lip – inadvertently, he thinks,but he honestly isn’t sure. Their hands grope and grapple, catching hold ofeach other, letting go to claw hold into the other’s upper arms, at theirheads. They don’t stop kissing long enough to decide.

There’s a slight shove and scuffle, andFlint turns it around on Sam – or at least tries, that insatiable, eternal needto always be in control attempting to reassert itself. But Sam plants his feetand doesn’t let Flint change their places, or alter their position at all. “Ohno,” he whispers. “You came to my ship, didn’t you? I’m the captain here. This is mine.”

He can feel Flint’s mouth twitch in somethinglike a sardonic smile, acknowledging the point. Their hands grip each other’sheads, and the renewed kiss is gentler, if only somewhat, but still an unspokenand unrelenting clash of lips and tongue and teeth, their hair coming loose,their bodies straining. “Fuck you,” Sam whispers. “Fuck you.”

“Now that.”Flint’s amusement is grim as granite, cold as ice. “That is what you said before.”

And with that, whatever insubstantial wispof self-control they had left, any idea that they were going to be able to pullapart and walk out of here with nothing more than bruised mouths and breathlessclutches, vanishes in the gloaming. Flint makes a noise that is half a laughand half a snarl, and so does Sam, and the next instant they’re ransacking eachother’s clothing as brutally and intently as any prize they’ve taken on theseas. Flint’s shirt tears as Sam hauls it over his head, and Flint’s fingersshake as they do away with Sam’s, and there’s a soft slap and clink as theyundo their belts at almost the same moment. They shuck down their breeches andkick them away on the floor, and then it’s only them, bare in their skin.

Sam’s hand cups Flint’s head, tangled inhis hair, in order to press their mouths closer, as Flint’s hands run down thelean column of his back and help themselves to a healthy proportion of hisarse. Flint utters a choked grunt in the back of his throat as Sam thrustsagainst him, grinding their erections together as they walk (or stumble) towardthe bed. Tumble on it in a tangle of limbs, Flint on top as he settles betweenSam’s legs, bracing his weight on his elbows. He looks down with a flash of whiteteeth in the dimness; he really is an absurdly ginger tomcat, freckled acrossarms and chest and doubtless elsewhere, eyes two slivers of emerald. He is likelyabout to say something cynical and clever, but Sam grabs his head and kisseshim instead.

They do so again for several wet, thoroughmoments, with more of those low, growling noises, until Flint pulls back, nipsSam under the jaw, and slides slowly down the length of his body, until hishead settles between his legs. Kisses and bites in the cut of Sam’s groin, thenwith a brief, economical movement, takes him in his mouth.

Sam jerks, but Flint has prepared for thisand uses one hand to hold his hip down, preventing him from thrusting too farand hitting the back of his throat. He is efficient and merciless at his task,and grips Sam by both thighs with strong, callused sailor’s hands, working athim with consummate dexterity just this side of roughness. His head rises andfalls in time to his movements, he licks a slow stripe, and then pulls away – leavingSam flushed and quivering but not entirely satisfied, as he groans and makes agrab for him, but Flint bats his hand away. He slides up on Sam, mounting him,with a brief, dry rut between his legs – clearly indicating that this will be,as the saying goes, tit for tat.

Fine, then. Bloody fine. Sam sits uphalfway, reaches for the drawers beneath the bed, and pulls out a small vial ofoil. He has had enough experience to know that spit is in no way an actuallubricant, and besides, the last thing he wants just now is any ghost of Hume.He holds it out to Flint, a silent challenge, and sees a brief surprise, almostuncertainty, in Flint’s eyes. Not from any lack of wanting, but this – still.This is something.

Just as the words flit to Sam’s lips towhisper, to wonder if the great and terrible Captain Flint is frightened, Flinttakes it from him, flips it open with a deft one-handed twist, and spills someinto his palm, slicking them both to a good thorough sheen. His slipperyfingers twist in Sam’s tumbled black hair, their entangled bodies reflecting inthe low light of the candles like carved marble, sprung from the chisel ofMichelangelo or some other Renaissance master (and, Sam thinks, Michelangelowould have no objection to the context of the comparison). Then Flint pulls himaround, back to chest, and wraps an arm around his stomach. His fingers strokeover Sam’s thigh, as he hitches himself up. For the first time since this hasbegun, he speaks. “Well?” he whispers. “Is that what you want from me, Sam?”

Sam’s breath is rasping raw in his throatand he feels as if every nerve is on fire, as if he needs Flint’s ferocityalmost more than his gentleness, but he can still appreciate the fact thatFlint is just as aware of Hume’s vengeful ghost, and will not venture furtherwithout explicit permission. There is silence filled only with the sound oftheir heavy breathing, as Flint bends to set his teeth into the muscle of Sam’sshoulder, hand remaining low on his stomach but not any lower. Then Sambreathes, “Yes.”

Flint remains frozen for a moment longer,then moves. Nudges at Sam very slowly and carefully, gripping hard on histhigh, as they kneel in the middle of the bed. Slips inside a bit, and then abit more, never too hard or too far, with astounding restraint in the face oftheir heated, brutal tryst thus far. His oil-slick hand drifts lower, gets Samin a firm grip, and he strokes with his thumb, half-dreaming. Sam thrusts intohis fingers, writhing, as finally, what feels like forever after they started,he feels Flint’s hard, muscled thighs press against the back of his own, feelshim seat himself all the way in, beating like a heart. Sam is made of glass,and a touch will shatter him.

Flint remains where he is, chin on Sam’sshoulder, hand on his cock, both of them breathing as if they have been runningfor their lives (and perhaps, after all, they have). Then Flint begins to move,slowly at first, muted and shallow, little butterfly flutters. His other handcomes up to grip at Sam’s hip, curling into the bone hard enough to bruise, ashe whispers something – a name – that doesn’t quite sound like his. Is thereand gone too fast to be sure, but nonetheless, Sam would wager good money thatit was Thomas.

Something flashes through him then, halfwayto jealousy, bitter as a burning draught, as he shoves back on Flint, hard, andfeels the jolt of visceral, grinding, gasping pleasure deep inside him,punching a gasp out of him like a blow to the chest. Flint’s hand on him movesfaster, as Sam arches his back and the two of them engage in a protracted,wordless duel. As Flint presses against him with absolutely insolentthoroughness, stomach and hips and cock and thighs, muscles tensed andquivering in brief, punching bursts, as Sam bends over almost on all fours, andFlint’s fists clench over his on the sheets, clawing and jerking in time totheir strokes. “Fuck,” one of them breathes; Sam is genuinely not sure which. “Fuck. Fuck.”

It’s not much longer until they both comeundone completely, hissing and trembling and swearing, as Flint pushes Sam flaton the bed and bites at his shoulder again, hard enough to leave a red crescentin the flesh, the heat and salt and whiteness coursing through both of them.Perhaps it is a blessing that they cannot meet each other’s eyes, for Sam isnot entirely certain that they could stand it, would not blow apart on theinstant like flawed glass, scattered and sparking. They lie there like felledgiants, still entangled, as Flint’s gasps sound halfway to sobbing. His fistsremain locked around Sam’s. They are vast, they contain multitudes, and yetthey are nothing at all, are less than the smallest speck in the great expanseof time and space and grief. Ashes toashes, Sam thinks. Dust to dust.

After an endless moment, Flint withdrawsfrom him, as carefully and incrementally as he came, and they lie side by sidein the tangled quilts, not looking at each other or speaking. Sam feels as ifhis bones have turned to liquid, to molten stone perhaps. He counts hisbreaths, can feel them travel from head to toe, raw and scraping and stingingin his veins. He wants to sleep, very badly, and wake in a hundred years to thetaste of a prince’s kiss.

Finally, Flint sits up, slow and dazed anddrunk. His voice sounds almost absurdly matter-of-fact in the dimness. “Ishould be getting back.”

Aye, Sam supposes, he should. It’s not forhim to ask Flint to stay, and he likewise is not altogether sure he could bearit if he did. Sits up as well and watches as Flint searches in the dark cabinfor his clothes, pulls them back on. His shirt is still torn; Sam attempts tofeel guilty about it, and can’t. He remains where he is, watching Flint dress,sensing the pendulum of the world trying to shift back to wherever the fuck itwas before, and having no idea. They seem entirely alone in an orb of dark ink,floating on an endless sea beneath a never-ending sky, the weird and wildwaters of world’s end. Unmanifest, unmade, the nothingness before creation. And the earth was without form, and void;and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved uponthe face of the waters.

Does it? Does He? Samuel Bellamy has notbelieved in God for a very long time – or rather he does, in a fractured,piecemeal, unavoidably inherited sort of way, but his opinion of the worldlychurch, and its sanctimonious, hypocritical, power-grubbing clergy, is about aslow as it can get. It’s possible, though Sam does not remember, that Hume tookthat from him too. As if any god that could look remotely and pitilessly uponthat sin in the darkness of the Windsor’sorlop deck, and raise no fingernor turn no hair at all, was one that might exist, might hold the fabric of theworld together even so, but not one that Sam could ever countenance worshiping.

(He misses it, almost. Misses trusting thatsomething, Someone, other than him could take a hand, and hold him close. Lethim lay his head, and sleep.)

Flint finishes dressing, and glances backone more time. Seems about to speak, and doesn’t. Nods instead, stiffly anduncertainly, as formally as if taking his leave of the court. Crosses thecabin, turns to shadow, and the door opens and shuts. Sam can hear the hoistsagain, the boat lowering. Can imagine Flint rowing back across the dark waterto the Walrus, and whatever reckoningawaits him there, in his own lonely bed. By morning, no doubt, this will all begone. It is best that it is. For both of them, for this, for everything.

Sam closes his eyes, feeling the echoes oftheir coupling resounding in him, like a great drum has been struck and held,resonating on the edge of hearing. It is foolish, perhaps, but there are worsethings in the world than being a fool. Lies still, then, and begins to countsheep.

[minwoo-ia]

추억들이 쏟아져 내려 - {self}

Memories spill down Welling up in my heart And falling down as tears Your star that’s engraved in me still shines in me I’m still looking at you In front of your memories that faintly come I become numb, I’m breaking down I tried so hard to hold onto you But you’re fading away, you’re disappearing

It has been a few months now. This is the first time I can write about it. I have to write it down. I have to put into words what has happened.

If not for me then for mom, for dad. For everyone who has eyed me questioningly. 

For everyone who has helped or was involved. 

For @leejieun-ia who has been such a soft and warm person in my life that I do not deserve. For @eternal-youngmin who I have lost once again but is still there. For @prince-beinion who might be somewhere else in mind and body but who was the living proof that sometimes it better to lose someone all together than to have them return. For @jaejoong-ia who will probably disagree with me. For the fairy with the heart of crystal, who still haunts me in my dreams. For @taexmin-ia, @dokyungsoo-ia and @jamie-ia who have helped me find the pieces I couldn’t find alone.  For Zachary, the first one in a long list of people that would die after I gave them my heart.

For @kimjonghyun-ia who I haven’t seen for weeks now. Who I once thought would walk this road with me, instead of have taken a different road. 

This, my friends, ex lovers and all those that read this, is the story of how I found my sister & lost her again. 

The saying, time is medicine, became a habit It’s about accepting everything that happens But I can’t sleep and you keep coming to me What do I do? I miss you

It probably is best to start at the beginning. When I was young, I had a sister, she was way prettier than me and I never liked it. She was a rare demon, a time demon. My parents who are quite common kinds of demons were surprised when she was born and even moreso when I came along, another demon of a rare kind. I never thought much of it, I was just pissed I couldn’t summon fire like my dad or had large energy swords like my mom. My sister, Eunbin, was soft and kind and never seemed to mind she had no obvious powers. Her powers came in later, she could stop time, manipulate the pure existence of mankind with the blink of an eye. She was magnificent.

One day.

She was no more.

My sister never was found, no one knew where she was, my parents were devastated and if I look back; that is when the fighting started. My father blamed my mother, my mother my father but they loved each other so much that I always assumed it would make them stay together forever. Forever, in demontongue, is an actual forever. Not the forever of humans or other mortals, no the forever of a demon is an actual endless thing; as long as you don’t get beheaded by a hunter or accidentally trip into a volcano. Forever is pretty permanent. 

They searched for years and as I grew up, my mother made a grave without a body, planted a single rosebush on her grave. As I grew up, the grave turned into a garden and there were roses everywhere. I think that was my mother’s way of dealing with the loss. My father just set things aflame. 

At one point, long after I moved out to the academy, I met an angel who showed me the heavens, it was around that time that I followed a vision where I saw her; my star. My sister. It is ironic that what I needed was heavenly intervention to find her; she showed me places and memories. I thought I was going insane; I went to a fortune teller, a sight seeker, a tarot master and a warlock. They all gave me the same answer; to follow the vision. So I did. I found the first shard in a vision, just at the street. I knew then, that my sister wasn’t dead, she was scattered in time and space.

You turn into longing and come to me My darkened spaces get bright with you Don’t go far away, I must have you When I walk, I still look around me To check if that person who resembles you, is you

In between my fiance died, I went to hell and back, got a dog, cheated on my zombie of a husband, had a friend become a God, had another friend become a star creature that lost his marbles and offered to kill a friend to end his suffering. You see, this whole situation could have been resolved a lot easier if it wasn’t for my whole life falling apart underneath me. It took me years to find all the locations and get to the shards themselves. Some were lost in actual outer space, others under water, then one was buried in the darkest memory I had, in the bloody snow where my fiance died. 

The last shard was hardest to find; I spend months on figuring out what I had seen. A dark room with books and a muffy smell. It took me a while until I could figure out who it was I had seen in the vision; so I went to him and asked access to the place I had seen. The place where the last shard had been. 

It did not make sense though. All the places had been metaphors or actual places that had been significant to my sister. Even the one in outer space had made sense because she had been obsessed with stars and planets. It was only logical that a part of her soul would be there, but the filthy, old and abandoned basement? 

When I was there, I wasn’t in a basement. I was in a murder cage. There was demon blood everywhere and books on experiments on demonic kin. It was the workplace of a warlock; one we have heard of in children tales designed to keep us inside at night. A warlock that experimented with the immortality of demons. One that could manipulate the core of what we are in a sick envy of our power. This was what my sister had been trying to tell me, this was not only the last part of her soul but also the puzzle. 

This was what had hurt her. 

When I got back home, I went to a secret place within academy walls. I put the shard with the others, and she was whole again. My sister, oh my dearest star, she appeared in front of my eyes. With her long raven hair ending in silver and golden skin. Her dark eyes framed by lashes as long as a deer and soft lips that had the color of peaches. 

But don’t show me your brightness Because it shows the scars in my heart You shine a bright light into my dark heart, star

This is where writing becomes hard- this is where my memories are crystal clear but my pen wavers. This is where I hesitate to continue. But I have to- She was there, laying on the ground, shivering before I fell down to the ground with a cry and tears streamed over my cheeks as I held your cold body. You weren’t well, you were in pain. You had been ripped into pieces for such a long time, scattered across two dimensions that your body couldn’t go on. You couldn’t even open your eyes as you stammered and wheezed in pain. I couldn’t let you suffer. Your frail hand grasped mine as you whispered your last wishes. You had seen everything, you had always been there, always watching over me, us, always worrying and always, always, in endless pain. 

Endless pain. 

I knew it there and then, that forever was endless in a demon’s tongue. That it was truly without an ending, that what had been done to you, had been done long before you took your first breath. It had been a design by a sick creature, something that no one could have stopped except perhaps you, yourself. 

Forever in pain, was not what you deserved. ‘

You wished to die. 

And thus, I granted you your wish. There in the sacred chamber, where no one will be allowed to come, ever again. It was easy to stop your beating heart, it was so weak already. It was easy to unwrap your fingers from mine and lower you on the cold floor as I laid my head on your shoulder and cried until I had no more tears left. 

That was when I picked you up, with one shoulder red with tears. Your head against my chest and your hand hanging off your body, lifeless as the soft fingertips would never feel a warm skin again. I could hear your voice but I knew it was my mind playing tricks on me as I summoned a portal and brought you to the garden. 

You turn into longing and come to me My darkened spaces get bright with you Don’t go far away, I must have you When I walk, I still look around me To check if that person who resembles you, is you You’re like a lost piece You’re my star, my star

It was easy, so easy to dig a hole as my mom screamed behind my and fell down to her knees hysterically holding your body as I stood in the pit I was digging. My father appeared and I heard him scream behind me, I heard him rage and run off, disappearing. He always dealt with pain in a way to react in anger. By the time I was done digging the grave I climbed out. Covered in dirt as I stammered out and took your body from the claws of my hysterical mother. A mother who gave up after a few minutes and let me take you to your place. 

Surrounded by roses.

Near the home you grew up in. 

I pushed the locks of hair out of your face one last time. I kissed the tip of your nose once more before I climbed out and walked away before I lost my step and fell down. Curled up in a ball and cried, not the soft crying that you do at a funeral. But the loud and hysterical crying that comes from realizing how unfair life is, how fucked up destiny is and how cruel fate can be. And I wished, I wished that I laid next to her, in that hole in the ground because where else could I be?

But I heard you laugh, one last time. And your fingers seemed to touch my cheek, one more time. 

And I knew that I had finally done what you had wanted, what you had longed for all this.time.

And that, to whom it may concern, is the story of how I found my sister & lost her again.

Memories spill down Welling up in my heart And falling down as tears Your star that’s engraved in me still shines in me I’m still looking at you

[unhookingstarswithoutpermission]

once upon a dream 

Sometimes there are faded images slipping into their dreams, like really old photos, memories from another time. Even though they have a painter's eyes, they aren't able to distinguish lines from silhouettes from people. They do catch some bits of this nebulous picture, though. At times, it's splattered red against the frame; then it's gold, glistening against the rising light; then it's oil, or powder, or wood, and then it's black, like the nightmares that used to haunt them when they were a child.

Sometimes, in dreams, they can almost feel a phantom pain near their lungs, like the air has been punched out of them, like there's fire scorching the way to their guts. It's a feeling so similar to the one alcohol gives them, yet so different: alcohol works on them like fire and snow in succession, burning then cooling. Instead, this fire just keeps on burning, hurting, like its one purpose is to consume everything that's in its path.

What they can remember once they wake, they try to capture in paint. Mostly, they fail: dreams are slippery things made of shapes that don't quite make sense and noises that can't quite be heard. They're just human, they can't fight it.

Sometimes – somehow – he paints in streaks, red and blue and white, or red and gold, or black and gray. There seems to be no place for other colours in his mind.

Usually, he doesn't do sleep. It's just not his thing: the world isn't waiting for him, no, the world is running and he has to chase it if he doesn't want to see it tumble down at his feet.

(Usually, Combeferre retrieves him from their living room and forces him to bed and says, “The world won't fall over night”. Which is just an assumption, really, but Combeferre is also really strong and resilient and not to be messed up with if he hasn't had a full night of sleep out of worrying over his best friend.)

When he sleeps, though, he's so tired that he just collapses on his bed and falls into a coma-like state until Courfeyrac barges into his room and opens the shutters and starts singing at the top of his lungs.

Enjolras should really move out soon.

There are nights when he's particularly tired – after a successful meeting, or when he's gone out dancing and drinking with the whole squad – and he falls into bed and somehow gets a full eight hours of sleep. Those are the very few nights he gets dreams, and he's not sure if he loves them or hates them.

Some nights, he dreams of them all. He dreams of being with them, chatting or shouting, leading them in riots. When he doesn't dream that, he imagines his parents being proud of him, his younger sister smiling at him from the other end of the table.

There are also times when he dreams the end of a gun, the smell of blood, the weight of an hand in his, the sound of a gunshot. It's quick, frustratingly so, yet so, so very bright. It feels so real that he wakes in a pool of sweat, clutching the sheets in his hands, his ears ringing from the noise, and he doesn't manage to sleep any more.

Talking comes natural to Grantaire, especially after they've had a few glasses of whatever Jehan orders for all of them – “yes, it means you have to drink too, Marius” – which somehow always ends up being very alcoholic.

They are not a reserved person by nature, but they still feel that something so weird should only be said to people who won't judge them. That's how they end up narrating their dream to the whole table, which means Joly, Bossuet, Musichetta, 'Ponine and Jehan. They are all religiously silent while they paint a picture they can't really capture but with their words.

Grantaire still knows how to put walls up: that's why they talk only when they're all various levels of hynebriated, and that's how they end up being left alone with Jehan, since the others seem to think that Grantaire must have daydreamed all of it.

Jehan approaches them carefully until they end up sitting on their lap even though there are so many vacant sits because hey, they crave contact and them and Grantaire are close enough that this isn't awkward.

“You know”, they whisper, which makes them nearly inaudible over the crowd, “I have dreams like that too. Dreams I can't quite catch, no matter how hard I try. I hear gunshots, mostly.”

They shrug and leave Grantaire there.

Enjolras isn't much of a talker, really. If he gets very passionate he can talk quite a lot, of course; but when it comes to personal matters, he's as closed off and guarded as can be.

When the nightmares begin, he doesn't even give them enough attention to be worried. When the nightmares get worse, he tells himself he'll just have to suck it up and plan out his sleeping schedule. Combeferre is the only one who knows, since he's a very light sleeper and he has found Enjolras wondering through their apartment at 5 am way too many times for it to be a coincidence, but he's sworn never to tell a soul.

When he looks at himself in the mirror in the mornings, he pulls his hair back and spends minutes studying his ever growing eyebags. They aren't so noticeable, but they are there: he can see a difference, even if sometimes he wonders if he's just tricked himself into seeing it, since so many of his friend don't notice. Maybe that has to do with the fact he doesn't act any different when he hasn't slept, but there's no way to really be sure.

The thing is: maybe no one notices, or maybe no one says anything because they all know how prickly he can get at times.

The thing is: maybe no one notices, but Grantaire does. They are so very close but not kissing yet, and Enjolras is just basking in the feeling of being loved and shivering from their fingers tracing the lines of his face. Then Grantaire's fingertips catch on the dark bags under his eyes and they don't have to talk, because somehow Enjolras knows.

With time, it's like the dreams start to make sense. It's like finally everything adds up: there was red because there was blood, and there was golden because there was hair, and there was powder because there were guns. Grantaire can't still catch up with it enough to turn it into an image, and they've been chasing it long enough that they get kinda bored and kinda hopeless, until they stop. It's not like they dream of that still memory so often anyway, and even if they did, they still find it a bit creepy, a bit fascinating but still very much a dream.

They haven't told anyone but Jehan, because somehow the description they had given while sober catches up with some of it. Yes, Jehan dreams of blood and guns, dreams of flags and flower. They don't dream of golden locks, but they do picture tall piles of wood. “Almost like barricades”, they say, but then they shake their head. “But it's just a dream.”

There's a moment Grantaire believes them. They overlook the coincidences, they overlook the nagging feeling that there's something they are forgetting or ignoring. But then Jehan, receptive as only they can be, asks in a whisper, “Is it?”.

Grantaire decides to ignore the matter as long as they'll lack a better answer.

Now, when Enjolras dreams, voices haunt him. They're murmurs; sometimes, he can't even understand what they're saying; yet, he knows the voices. He hears them every morning when he wakes and every night when he goes to sleep, and they are just as lovely as they are sad, so very sad that he feels he's going to go crazy just from hearing them.

When he first hears the voices of his friend in the background of his dreams he wakes up frozen, almost like his nightmares have gained the faculty to stretch out into reality. He doesn't understand the words, but he understands the suffering; deep down he knows – he's certain of it as he's certain that the sun rises in the east – that it's him who has caused it. He just wants it all to stop, yet it seems to be everlasting, stretching into an unending echo.

He doesn't remember the first time he's woke up screaming: he just knows he's glad that no one seems to hear him, not even Combeferre, and that he has the presence of mind to muffle his voice in his pillow. This doesn't work, though, when he first sleeps at Grantaire's. In his dream, it's them who appear in front of him and accuse him of killing them, and Enjolras feels so useless, because their corpse is lying just at his feet and even though he wasn't the one who pulled the trigger, guilt claws at his chest.

He wakes screaming for them, and they are quickly coaxing his trembling body into a hug. He gives no other explanation than, “I had a nightmare”, and Grantaire presses their lips against his shoulders and doesn't reply.

Painting is fairly useless and inconclusive, but at least it's therapeutic. Grantaire's hands ache for their brush as soon as they wake up at 3 in the morning and realise they aren't going back to sleep any time soon. If there's something they hate it's lying in bed, struggling with insomnia, and if they were alone they would already be up and working.

There's a beautiful, deeply asleep Enjolras using their arm as a pillow though, and Grantaire's heart breaks at the thought alone of waking him up accidentally when he's sleeping so peacefully that he almost looks like an angel. But there's also an itch in their limbs and they know too damn well that they'll get restless if they stay still any longer, so they rise from the bed as softly as they can and pad their way to the living room.

An half-finished canvas stares back at them from a corner of the room, but they aren't feeling like ruining what could be an almost acceptable portrait. They retrieve their sketchbook and sit cross-legged under the only lit lamp.

They don't know how long it's been when Enjolras sits in front of him, but it's still dark and he hasn't even turned on the light, and that's what gives them the courage to put away their work and search for Enjolras's body. Enjolras moves willingly until he's sat between the v of their legs, and doesn't stop until he's resting his head on their chest, almost like he's searching for their heartbeat.

“Bed was cold”, Enjolras says. Grantaire's heart bursts; they don't know if he feels it, and a voice in the back of their head suggests that of course the bed was cold, they're like a damn heather, but maybe Enjolras didn't mean it that way and that maybe makes their insides flutter.

“Why are you awake?”, they ask, tired and yet so content to have this moment.

Enjolras's face is still hidden, but Grantaire can feel him press closer to their chest. “Nightmare”, he mumbles.

“You want to tell me?”

And Enjolras is silent, so still Grantaire fears they've fucked up or he's fallen asleep. They don't break the silence, though; and it's minutes before Enjolras musters the courage to talk.

Once he starts, there's no stopping him. He tells of guns and he tells of bodies, of corpses and of ghosts, of flags and of bayonets, of devils and of hell and of everything he's guilty of.

And there's something, like a light, flashing brightly on Grantaire's memories. Enjolras, his warm body and his frail voice, they're familiar like they've never been before. Suddenly, Grantaire remembers another body and yet the same voice, but they don't understand; then they feel the taste of absinthe burning their throat, and unyielding lips rough against theirs, and the arms holding them turn broader and stronger, yet so soft.

They don't know what Enjolras remember, of if he remembers anything at all; maybe he had all figured it out before, and he didn't tell them because they would have thought him insane. For the briefest moment, Grantaire fears rejection once again. They think they will be miserable because they knew no other way to be, and they know they will be alone because that scorching loneliness is still buried deep in their body.

And that's when Enjolras probably hears their worries because of how loud they're thinking, and he collects them in his arms and kisses them in the gentlest of ways. Grantaire might not remember everything – of course they don't, they still feel like most of the memories don't make sense, aren't they lucky – but they know, deep down, that them and Enjolras never had this. They can almost sense how scared Enjolras is of losing this, even if they haven't yet agreed on what this exactly is, but the words to define it are always been there, since they first laid eyes on him.

This world isn't kind; it's still the world that killed them, both of them, along with all their friends – and if Grantaire wasn't crying before, they sure are now – but they hadn't this, then, if not in the last moments. Maybe this is why they get a second chance, or maybe it's just because their fight isn't over. Maybe it's just because; the world doesn't have to make sense.

In the morning, there will be a lot of questions; there will be a careful collecting of puzzle pieces and a dangerous stitching them together. But the sun isn't risen yet, and Enjolras might be crying just a bit – he has hidden his face in their chest again.

Grantaire loves him even more than they had loved him before, so they take it upon themselves to cradle him and kiss away the doubt and the fear and the blood.